The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.

This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was STAR WARS.

We’ve got stories by:

• John
• Tura Brezoianu
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Lizzie
• Tom
• Serendipity
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Chelsea
• Spate
• Norval Joe
• Julie
• Dionysis Clowes
• Danny
• Singh
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of LODGE.

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

Star Wars, by John Musico

Every so often, the stars go to war. They and their comrades of their own galaxy travel in a group. They clash with another galaxy. The larger army, using gravity as their weapon, absorb stars from their opponent’s galaxy and become an even larger army.
On closer inspection you will see two individual stars chasing each other round and round while the larger foe steals bits of flesh from the smaller.
These wars last eons followed by periods of peace.
Our own Milky Way galaxy is currently wrestling with a smaller galaxy. It is expected our larger forces shall prevail.

TURA

Star Wars
——–
“Why don’t we film ‘War And Peace’?” I said to my partner in crime.

“It’s too bloody long, that’s why!” he said.

“No, listen,” I went on, “it’s about war, right? Which we’d do in CGI, no actors or film crews needed. And peace, which is tranquil countryside and lovers gazing at each other.”

He considered this. “The plot will need cutting. Let’s say Napoleon’s a provincial rival to the throne. Set it a thousand years ago…”

“You mean, a long time ago in a country far, far away?”

“Exactly!” he said. “And we’d call it…?”

We chorused, “Tsar Wars!”

JEFFREY

War Stars
by Jeffrey Fischer

Just as Hollywood has its stars, and the sports world has its luminaries, so the military has its important figures. Lee and Grant. Pershing. MacArthur. Eisenhower. Under orders from political leaders, they use cunning, strategy, manpower, technology, and, yes, luck to protect the interests of the nations they serve. Failure often has devastating consequences. They do it all for a modest salary. Yet it’s the sports stars and the movie actors who win the big contracts, the endorsements, the public acclaim, while the old soldiers merely fade away.

We live in a strange land.

Star Wars
by Jeffrey Fischer

In 1977, I convinced my mother to see Star Wars, despite her lifelong indifference to science fiction. She patiently sat through two hours of previews, battle scenes, light sabers, political conniving, and awkward romance.

Afterward, as the boys in the audience chattered excitedly about Tie Fighters and the Death Star, I asked my mother her opinion of the film.

“Meh,” she replied. “This science-y fiction, it’s not my style. The whole show was not what I expected.”

“Ma, how could you not know this was a sci-fi epic?”

“It says it’s ‘Star Wars.’ You know, like Battle of the Network Stars. I kept waiting for Nipsy Russel or Paul Lynde, but nothing!”

I saw The Empire Strikes Back by myself.

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story – Part 55: May the force be with you

Gripped with a new resolve, George’s mind once again turned to his favourite films for inspiration: the strains of the ‘Star Wars’ theme played in his head – ‘I feel the force!’ he proclaimed, to no-one in particular, then drew himself up to his full five feet six, and – with a look of intense determination on his face – threw open the door.

The vast bulk of Rasputin loomed – wookie-like, only with less hair – over him.

“And where do you think you’re going, little man?”

“Umm, I was wondering if there was any chance of another cup of tea?”, he murmured.

#2 – Star Wars

Never was a fan of arcade games – whilst my friends were wasting their hard-earned pocket money on Space Invaders, Pac Man and Phoenix, I stayed home, reading books and building models.

Until one fateful summer holiday, when I discovered Star Wars – for pretty much the whole fortnight I was immersed in a wire-frame world; the voice of Obi Wan, resonating in my ears… “Feel the force, Luke!”

To this day, I remember the thrill of barrelling down that narrow gorge in my X-wing, lasers blasting, to finally score a direct hit on that exhaust port.

Bye bye, Deathstar!

LIZZIE

“I’m dying here,” wailed Peter, an aspiring actor.

“Join the club,” the director replied.

“Star wars?!” Peter insisted.

“That’s where the money is.”

“Insidious and entrapping,” crackled the actor.

The director sneered. “Go on, now. The others are waiting.”

Peter always wanted to be a star, but he had obviously misunderstood the ad looking for actors to feature in a reality show.

“You must choose your battles right, my dear,” snapped the director. “Now, be a darling and move along.”

An axe in hand, the actor dragged his feet towards the helicopter that would take them to a remote island.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 46

“Captain we are receiving conflicting reading from the planet.” “Computer
take Mr. Spock’s data extrapolate postulations.” “Surface source is a pure
energy field or a raspberry banana split.” “Uhura open communication
channel to the banana spit.” “Captian,” said Spock “Is it not more likely
we are making first contact with a yet undiscovered life force then a 50
foot sundae? “Point taken. Mr. Chekov photon torpedoes.” “Jim I’m a
doctor, not a lawyer, we can’t go all guns a blazing. “Right Bones. Scott
beam that thing to bridge.” When the swish-woo-woo sound stoped the
captain lock eyes with the Duke.

To Boldly Go

I was 12 when Star Trek was first broadcast. Same year as Lost in Space.
It was great to have non kiddie Sci – Fi, stories with deep social impact.
Both shows started out as pretty good works of drama, but by year three
the writing and production was pretty dreadful. At the time despite the
week arrival of pure energy that had never been encounter before, I
remained a diehard fan. That was until the week of What Are Little Girls
Made Of. The female aliens in cris-crossing strap costumes barely covering
their chests, mom pull the plug on that.

SERENDIPITY

‘A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away…’

It was a great start, but would the movie really live up to the hype?

It certainly promised a great deal: a scantily-clad, white-robed princess, rescued from a horrible fate by dashing young heroes. Fantastic sets, amazing weapons, bizarre characters and a classic plot – it had everything!

All held together by an old man in a dirty brown cloak, possessing unique skills; and a brooding, evil, masked figure, dressed entirely in black.

A huge budget too, for a porno film – we had very high hopes for ‘Star Whores’!

MUNSI

Vader’s Fist

By Christopher Munroe

The 501st legion descended on Calgary last weekend.

Stormtroopers everywhere you looked, inescapable, swarming every part of Calgary Expo.

They’re an organization here in town, the 501st, and they come every year to enjoy the convention and fundraise for charity.

They wound up raising close to $7000 over the course of the weekend, from what I hear.

The money’s for the Make a Wish Foundation. No clue how they’ll use it, but it’ll involve a budget in the thousands and dozens of imperial stormtroopers.

This story is completely true.

And, for one young Star Wars fan, it will be amazing…

ZACKMANN

“Boy, four billion dollars just doesn’t buy what it used to. I’m not sure it was a good business decision to spend that much and not get the rights to put the original theatrical versions of the original Star Wars movies in theaters and on blu ray.” said Zack

“They might have made their money back doing that.” Dylan agreed.

“Maybe I can’t replace my VHS Star Wars movies with blu ray or DVD but at least I can buy Hot Waffles singing George Lucas Raped Our Childhood on audio CD.”
“Just don’t sing it in the toy store again.”

CHELSEA

Train ride

It happened this time every year. Sitting on the train heading through down town you would see them.

A storm trouper sitting a few rows down chatting with a Jedi knight. Splinter and all four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles laughing together. Many Doctors and a variety of their companions, even a TARDIS or two.

I love it! Everyone comes out to show their support for the fandom of their choice and the chance to talk to others who love the same things and the chance to meet a personal hero or two.

What could be better than Calgary Comic Expo!

SPATE

Hash – Part 4

The sound was designed to provoke fear. Boots. Double-time. Hard shelled
armor clacking.

The extraction team, those freaking Star Wars storm troopers, helmets and
face shields in place, burst into Davidson’s cell, led by the screw they
called Hercules; the biggest bad ass motherfucker in the system.

He threw Davidson flat to the floor like a slice of baloney.

“No marks. Remember.” one bull interjected.

“I ain’t going to hurt him.”

Hercules leaned over and proceeded to urinate on Davidson.

He shook and zipped, grunting, “Put your damned clothes on!”
Then they left.

“Seven and a wake up,” sighed Davidson.

NORVAL JOE

This was probably the worst day of Fraiser Torquespindle’s life.
Warm swamp water slowly filled the cockpit of his x-wing fighter.
Central Command was going to be warped. This is the second fighter and the fourth R4 Unit he’d lost in the past two weeks.
Alien insects bearing alien diseases danced about him, seaking access to his skin.
A little man with pointed ears poked his head from a hole in the ground and said, “May the force be with you.”
Swamp water inside the cockpit was to his hips as he aimed his blaster at the creature’s wrinkled head.

JULIE

Noroton Bay

The stars are not out tonight.

The tide low, black mud clots,

And the egrets cry for mercy

To the pink clouds—

There is a war no one sees.

It shows,

In my eyes

And the sky

Is purple and red, punctuated

With city lights on the horizon.

Bruised.

I should call a friend,

Join a freaking bowling league.

There is nothing–

But the sea, the sky

And me

At the end of this pier at sunset,

Wishing, wanting, worrying

That hell is real.

DIONYSIS

There’s No I in Star Wars #1

Listen.

Leia just needed to get by Dad. She’d spent the day perfecting her “double rockin’ rolls,” which were absolutely perfect for the Battle of the Bands!

“Hey!” His high pitched whine annoyed her most of all!

“Daddy!”

Mom’s teenage crush was Darth and the Ringtones, and Dad always used that against them: “What is a ringtone anyway?”

“It’s what’s happening, dear!” said Mom.

“I say that sitar music came from a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away! Why do they all wear black? Rebels … ”

Leia slipped out. She didn’t need another sitar war, tonight of all nights!

That’s how it all began.

There’s No I in Star Wars #2

Leia set her alarm for 4:30 am sharp! No way she was going to let that evil old — and besides, she was doing him a favor, with that asthma, or whatever.

The wars for the stair master had started long ago, when Leia swore to get the buns she wanted! But the strange old man laid claim to the good stair master! All far away ….

Leia rolled over and sat upright. 7:30! Sprinting inside she saw a small crowd around the machine. Her nemesis on the floor, ghastly pale. Their eyes met. In that instant he seemed to mutter “father,” and then died.

At last, she thought.

DANNY

It’s official. with the unofficial Star Wars holiday fast approaching, Mark Hamill has just given the thumbs up for the new cast of the Star Wars film, stating he believes the direction the Star Wars saga is going in is in good hands. Don’t give up hope, JJ Abrams only picked the main cast, there are still plenty of bit part to be had if you really desire to be in the new film. I want to be the hologram singer of the Catina band. If I get the part, technically, I don’t even need to show up on set.

SINGH

32.12

In this instalment the bus pilgrimage has taken Yogi and his friend Amrik Singh to their first stope in the foothills of the Himalayas beside the mighty Yamuna River. Here they stop at a place called Paonta Sahib the sight of an historical Sikh temple known as a Gurdwara, established by Guru Gobind Singh, the 10th Master of the Sikh philosophy in 1685. Here at Paonta, meaning ‘foothold’ Yogi hears more about the history and culture of Sikhism.

At Paonta Sahib
the bus wove
tight streets
blaring horns
vans cars rickshaws then
through
the gate of peace
white edifice carved ice palace
the dome a dairy whip cone pink and gold lined
loudspeakers kirtan the word lives
inside outside the marble house of song

“Its a beautiful temple,” Yogi said to Amrik
as they went in. “‘Gurdwara’ we say,
Guru-dwara meaning ‘doorway to the Guru.’”

foot traffic pilgrims river of turbans
beside fast Yamuna foot hill Himalayas
the river roaring upstream downstream
but below the Gurdwara just a trickle of silence

“How can that be?” Yogi asked.

32.13
Amrik told — how the sixteen year old Gobind,
scholar of Persian, Arabic and Sanskrit,
and great devotional poet in Braj Basha
sponsored fifty two others from Benares.
Sanskrit scholars, they translated classics:
the Bhagavatam, Shiv Puran, the Mahabharat
into common parlance. Guru Gobind staged
the first Kavi Darbar –– a poetry gathering
under the full moon. He listened to each
until they shook their poet heads and stopped.
The Yamuna was drowning out their words.
Amrik added, “The Guru listened to their
grievance; the river below the Gurdwara
has been ever silent since that day
and no scientist can explain just why.”

32.14
Since Chandigarh, Yogi had been left alone.
Now Amrik was the diligent tour guide,
strolling the marble precinct of Paonta Sahib.
The air was clean with sweeping clouds of birds.
Striped squirrels ran up trunks of pines.
There was some shift in the Singh. He spoke with purpose,
as if he had an agenda to introduce
this foreigner to the struggles of his people.
“When Guru Sahib reached here on his horse
it halted, and so he stepped down solidly,
planting his foot. Paonta means ‘firm landing.’

“It’s very kind you sharing this,” said Yogi.

Amrik curtly nodded and then went on.

32.15
“Medini Prakash, the Raja of Simour
invited him to stay. This would lead to wars
with other vassal rajahs of Himachal,
jealous of the Guru’s entourage
and seeking favours from the ruling Moghul.
“You see, our Fifth Guru and our Ninth
were martyred by those tyrants. Guru Arjan
was roasted on a big chapatti hot-plate
and died singing one of his sweetest shabads:
My Guru is with me, ever close at hand.
Teg Bahadur was beheaded in old Delhi
while speaking up for five hundred Brahmins,
told to choose — either death or Islam.
These men of peace were fathers to Gobind
who sat down here and wrote his massive book
as big as our own Siri Guru Granth Sahib.”

32.15
By this time, they had found the small museum.
Paintings portrayed the Guru as a rajah
with a plumed turban, and a fine silk dress coat.
“Amrik, why did he not wear holy clothes?
Surely a politician brings on his own storms.”

“Good point, Yogi. It is like this: you see
we Sikhs aren’t beggar monks. We have been told
to live and work and give. Good deeds are all.
I know you have been reading Mahabharat.
It’s the same. The Pandavas were princes
who did their karma following the Dharma.
We are those royal shatriyas who kept
warrior locks and beards as a mark of rank.
Our Guru opened that door to all the castes
and made us in the image of great kings.”

32.16
After seeing the Guru’s worn out kalams,
two nibbed reeds for writing poetry
inside a mounted cabinet, they came
upon another painting in the jungle:
a tiger stealthily leaping from behind
to grip the Guru’s neck. He turns. The tiger’s
head is cleaved with a slash of the Guru’s sword.

“Sher-garh Gurdwara is the place that happened.”

The next painting’s English caption read:
Bangaani, The Battle, 1686.
The hill rajahs’ thirty thousand troops,
plus mercenaries from Afghanistan
fought against four thousand well-drilled Sikhs.
Amrik quoted lines from Guru Gobind
about the conflict, translating in English:

“I lined up my aim at one Khan discharging an arrow.
It pierced him as if a cobra had suddenly stung him.

And each Guru arrow held half an ounce
of gold for the burial of the foe.”

Where did this all happen?” Yogi asked.

“Just fourteen kilometres from here.”

32.17
Finally Amrik brought him to the weapons
antique steel behind prophylactic glass.
Yogi reacted. “But how can these be here
in a holy place, all these blades of death?”

Amrik laughed. “Without the sword, we
wouldn’t have survived. When a tyrant comes
will you lay down, or stand your ground and fight?”

“But what about Gandhi’s non-resistance?”
He’d seen the movie, read the autobiography.

“Satyagraha was guilt strategy.
It worked too well because it shamed the nobler
sentiments of the British; but most forget
eighty percent of those exiled, gaoled or martyred
during Independence were Punjabis.”

As Yogi listened, his flimsy pacifism
seemed hard to justify to history.

Amrik added: “You know, Guru ji then wrote
to Aurangzeb, after the tyrant let his general
brick alive the Guru’s sons, aged seven and nine:

“When every approach has been tried, yet fails,
then the sword must speak for righteousness.

I told this tale the day you came to my shop.”

32.18
By now Amrik Singh was speaking loudly
of Shastra Vidya, the artful science of weapons.
This was the ancient Indian fighting form
practised by rishis, kings and commoners.
“We keep it alive and we call it gatka.”

Yogi scanned the wall as Amrik listed:

“this is khanda, old straight sword of India,
this is talwar, import Persian scimitar,
this is Aaman, nine-layered composite bow,
this is teer, arrow tipped with ironhead,
this is barcha, spear held, javelin hurled,
this is gurj, ball and chain skull-crusher,
this is aara, bendable long snake strip-sword,
this is khatar, hand-thrust chain-mail piercer,
this is bandook, rustic matchlock rifle,
this is chakra, sharp-edged whirling disc,
this is chakri, rotary of chains and balls,
these are dhals, shields steel-made or of leather,
this is bakh nakh, iron leopard’s claw for hands,
this is latti, staff of head-crack ironwood,
this is trishul, trident spikes for the turban,
this is kirpan, last dagger of defence.”

32.19
At the Dastaar Astaan, boys were winding turbans
of every kind of colour and social style.
It was a competition to see how fast
and formed they wound around a long tradition,
dating from Guru Gobind.

“Dastaar means turban,”
Amrik said. “A Persian term. The troops
would have to tie it fast without a mirror
before they rushed to battle.”
“I don’t mean
to be rude, but is it important? Why not go
breezy and bare-headed?” Long-haired Yogi
had to justify.
Amrik was glad,
but did not tell that long flowing kesh
was evidence of bedraggled discipline,
whereas kesh tied neatly in a bun
was a modest way to hide your rishi knot. These were cultural matters that foreigners
couldn’t know. But his audience was captive.

“First, the Guru told us to. For us
that is enough, but there’s other reasons.
We can wind the folds recalling everyday
ten Sikh masters; it is role-modelling.
And the dastaar is the crown of royalty,
authority and power. Is it not regal?
Exchanging turbans is a solemn bond
from State to State, family head to head.
Daily, it restrains our uncut hairs,
most crucial in a knotty spot, a battle;
and before long beards, our extra turban height
the enemy becomes a flock of lambs.
It doubles as towel, or rope, or sheet, and keeps
away mosquitoes and is our dust bandana

while ploughing in the fields. There are so many
applications of the dastaar, as long
as the Silk Road goes on. But finally
it is our sign of being Singhs, our shaan.
That also calls responsibility —
to stand up for the crushed against the tyrant.
A true Sikh must rise tall inside a crowd.

32.20

Ranjit Nagaara, the war drum being beaten
called them to an outside gathering.
“We’re lucky, ” Amrik said, “the old Nihangs
are going to perform some gatka for the people.
“Who are nihangs?” Yogi had to ask.

“They were once the crack troops of the Guru,
following the ideal of a soldier-saint.
Bands of them still roam the countryside,
though many think they are scandalous
anachronisms — medieval, indulgent,
riding their horses and bartering old glory.”

They came in dark-blue, high-wound, heavy dastaars
and matching calf-length chola cotton tunics
tied with orange sashes. Slung with weapons,
they whirled in slashing sweeps with no fear
or hesitation, clashing swords on shields
in rapid-fire blows, then peeled away
like a row of leaping lords, ready to switch
to another weapon – swirling a chakri,
or flashing talwars with both flexible wrists,
crashing their hand-swung gurj–– the ball and chain
and doing bendable feats with javelins,
forcing the tip against the throat’s soft hollow,
then smashing bricks with swords across the stomach.
One blindfolded, carved up watermelons
each between a turbaned head on the ground;
and then, a final coconut on a forehead
was cleaved in half and offered to the crowd.
Yogi thought: the Mahabharata was fought
with like skill. These martial arts endure
as storms of shakti, Indian Shaolin.
At least nihangs have kept the old sword sharp.

32.21
They heard the hunting horn blast from the bus.
Time to board. All took their elephant time
and newcomers climbed — three men in blue
dastaars and white pajamas, looking priest-like.
“Who are they?” enquired Yogi in a whisper.

“A dhaadi jatha. They sing ballads, vars
of the Guru’s lives and our historic struggles.
They must be coming with us to Hemkund Sahib.
Maybe they will sing along the way.
It’s how they earn their roti — from donations
offered at religious gatherings.”
Duty done, Amrik pressed his face
against the pane and did an Indian trick –
snoozing in some weird, bus-yoga posture.

Now they wound back through the skinny streets
until they found the highway signpost turn.
Along the roadside, women in flimsy saris
were crushing rockfall with their big sledgehammers
and carting it off on basket-balanced heads,
an unsung feat, extraordinary endurance.
One struggled to carry her pregnancy as well.
Millions of women had no spare change or time
to take a luxury tour to the Himalayas.

As the pneumatic coach sped on its tyres
negotiating hills and valley bends,
Amrik had not observed the car
trailing like a snake since Chandigarh.

PLANET Z

They announced the primary cast members of the next Star Wars movie, and there’s no sign of Billy Dee Williams.

Sure, he’s old, creepy-looking, and slow. He’s got back problems, too. Looked like he needed a walker on Dancing With The Stars.

But he’s Lando Calrissian. Lando Fucking Calrissian.

How can you have Star Wars without Lando Calrissian?

Are they going to have that Andy Serkis creep pantomime up a digital Lando Calrissian or something?

When it came to signing the contracts, I guess Billy Dee Williams wasn’t part of the deal.

I pray that they don’t alter it further.

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.

This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was RUN.

We’ve got stories by:

• Norval Joe
• John
• Jeffrey
• Jeff
• Richard
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Munsi
• Chelsea
• Serendipity
• Julie
• Dionysis Clowes
• Zackmann
• Lizzie
• Tom
• Tura Brezoianu
• Blue Myanamotu
• Spate
• Singh
• Danny
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of STAR WARS (May the Fours be with you!)

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

NORVAL JOE

To become a truly well rounded snob, most of the self-professed initiates agree, the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain is essential. Attending the Metropolitan opera, claiming relationship to a signer of the Declaration of Independence or to the owner of a 1920’s Speak Easy are also good.
Riding a BMW motorcycle, eating only foods with names unpronounceable in English, and reading LGBTQ romances written in Chinese by Tibetan Monks will work in a pinch.
If you can’t get to Spain to run with the bulls, an acceptable substitute is to run with the wiener dogs in Burbank, California.

Suggested prompt…………..Brownies.

JOHN MUSICO

“Run”
by John Musico

Seems like every expression using the word “run” makes no sense-
“Run an errand”. “Running late”. “Run its course”…
When you run an errand- who says you’re rushing? Further, typically you’re driving; you’re not even on foot.
“Running late”. If you really were running- you wouldn’t be late at all.
“Run its course”. This means to be patient for a sickness that seems endless. Implicitly the pace is not fast. So, the pace is far from running here as well. Not that I’ve done so rapidly but; I’ve been “running off at the mouth”. Gotta run (but I’ll be walkin).

JEFFREY

Experience
by Jeffrey Fischer

Bob worked his way up the corporate ladder for 30 years, until he finally got his shot to run the bank. Those were the happiest five years of his life, before he ran the bank into the ground. The government orchestrated an orderly liquidation of the remaining assets and Bob became unemployed.

The business world being what it is, a second bank hired Bob as its CEO, and, sure enough, he ran that one into bankruptcy as well.

When the third bank hired Bob, the Board defended its decision on the grounds that Bob had experience.

Bygone Days
by Jeffrey Fischer

The neighborhood was seedy, even a little scary, during daylight hours. Run-down porches on run-down houses provided shade for unemployed men to sit and drink beer. Narrow alleyways provided cover for violence and the drug trade after dark.

Sam walked the streets nervously, looking for his father, who had gone missing from the nursing home. Years ago, when his father lived here with his young family, the houses were well-kept, the men were employed, and crime was rare. This bygone age was what his father, now frail and suffering from dementia, remembered as his neighborhood, his house.

Sam hoped he found his father before darkness fell.

JEFF

A Gargantuan Stubbornness

By Jeff Hema

She likes chick flicks and I didn’t want a run-of-the-mill movie, so we had to do a toss-up. We finally settled on ‘Avengers’, a collection of super heroes who are going to save the planet Earth from an alien outbreak.

I could feel her bad vibes. I let her choose the day and the time, and kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want her to blow up at me.

We got there on Thursday an hour earlier. Why that early? Because she was afraid of a long line.

If only she could listen to me once in a while!

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 54 – On the run

Emily had a point – nothing about his experiences so far suggested in any way that the world had succumbed to a zombie apocalypse.

He pondered recent events, allowing them to run through his mind, one after the other, realising that – apart from the strange and inexplicable catastrophe that seemed to have crippled society – there was little else he’d experienced that couldn’t be accounted for by fear or desperation.

The realisation hit him that he’d been on the run, but for no apparent reason, and from no apparent threat.

It was high time to get a grip, and to stop running!

#2 – Winner!

I’ve never been the sporty kind – hardly surprising considering the affliction I’ve had to cope with all my life.

As a school kid, my teachers went to great lengths to be ‘inclusive’, but I was always hopeless at most ‘proper’ sports – it was never going to work out… except for once a year, on school sports day.

As expected, I was too uncoordinated to win the egg and spoon and far too awkward to do well in the sack race, but when it came to the three-legged race, I’d win every time.

And I didn’t even need a partner!

#3 – Curtain Call

Jealousy is a terrible thing.

‘Norman Franklin’s King Lear is a triumph!’, critics proclaimed; ‘This production will run, and run!’

Good news for the show, and Franklin, but not so great for me. It’s a pretty rotten job being an understudy anyway, but living in the shadow of one of theatre’s greats, it can be unbearable.

All that hard work and dedication, only to see somebody else receive the applause.

I deserved a break!

Last night’s death scene was majestic – Franklin slumped theatrically over Cordelia’s body, as the curtain fell.

Only this time, it was me taking the final bow!

#4 – Three Blind Mice

Nursery rhymes are often sanitised versions of horrifying facts – take ‘Ring a ring o’ roses’, for example – a commentary on the ‘Black Death’.

Few people know that ‘Three blind mice: see how they run’, is a fanciful rendition of a rather appalling lab experiment.

There were other candidates, but you can’t dress up ‘three cancer-ridden beagles: see how they cough’ as anything more palatable, and ‘three lobotomised chimps: see how they gibber’, doesn’t scan well.

As for the farmer’s wife cutting off their tails with a carving knife…

That was Doreen, the lab technician, and it was a scalpel.

CLIFF

I was sitting in a diner eavesdropping on some tough young braggarts. My favorite was the mullet topped fellow who brawled to preserve a bottle of whiskey.
“This guy tried to take it, but I’m a man. I told him I’d kick his ass,” he bragged.
An elderly man sitting at a nearby table couldn’t resist.
“Did you win?”
“Nah, he beat me up.”
“Did you at least get to keep the whiskey?”
“No, he took it.”
“Then you a damn fool, boy. A good run beats a bad fight every time.”
I nearly fell out of my seat laughing.

“Listen, you’ve had a good run. People really loved you at first but these things have a limited lifespan.”
“But I’m having so much fun,” he said. “This is the best gig I’ve ever had.”
“Don’t worry. Relax for a few years and we’ll get you a spot on a sitcom.”
“I guess. But playing a politician has been the best, even if it was pretty unrealistic.”
I sent him home with the script for his final performance, the resignation. I just hope he never realizes that he was a real U.S. congressman for all those seasons… I mean terms.

MUNSI

You Can’t Run From Your Problems

By Christopher Munroe

Run as hard as you want, you’ll never escape your problems.

Unless we’re talking health problems, in which case chardio would do you good, and I heartily recommend you do take up running. You’ll lose weight, feel better, and have more energy going into your day.

But other than that, your problems can’t be escaped, and there’s no use running away.

Unless your problem is an angry dude with a knife, or a pack of hungry wolves, in which case, run.

In retrospect, “you can’t run from your problems” is pretty terrible advice, now that I think about it.

Huh…

CHELSEA

Run.

There are some things in life that you run from. A terrible job, you stupid ex, and your thesis advisor when you’re way behind.

There are things you should never run from. Wild animals and rabid dogs. Back away slowly and keep eye contact.

And then there are the things that you should run towards. A child’s outstretched arms, the hand of a long lost friend, the waiting embrace of a lover.

Life’s full of all kinds of running, for my money, run towards the good things and forget about the rest. You’ll live a longer happier life for it.

SERENDIPITY

“Don’t play with your food!”

Every mealtime, my mother uttered that phrase – it’s a phase most of us grow out of, eventually.

Everyone, except me.

You see, I still play with my food, even as an adult. It’s not as much fun if I treat it seriously, and although others might find it offensive, strange or childish, I take no notice of them.

I still play with my food – always will.

After all, it’s not about the eating; it’s all about the thrill of the chase.

And I do like to see my victims run, before I tear into them!

JULIE

Earth Day

For Holly Maddox, 1947-1977

From ashes I came–

And to the earth,

I did not return.

You beat the life from me–

Stuffed me

In a steamer trunk,

Left me to rot

In your sun porch.

I tried to run, tried to leave–

But you were quicker,

With that ceramic lamp.

They still plant trees and sing peace chants.

Earth Day.

My sulfur stench alarmed our neighbors,

Worse than any exhaust fumes.

The police find me,

Plaid flannel shirt, my mummified hand,

Reaching–

For a butterfly,

For the freedom, almost in my grasp.

My last, and only shot back at you.

Charlatan.

Hypocrite.

Beast.

DIONYSIS

Stillness

since one must be perfectly still, with a stillness only I, perhaps, since the moment I stopped and put down my feet in the snow on this shelf of ice, alone these centuries (if it is centuries, time has very little meaning to one with my millennial stillness) have been able — no, I’m sure I am the only one, in which case how could you possibly grasp what — to grasp is to recollect, and to recollect is to hope, and — hope suggests time, which is the point as you must have grasped, unlike myself in this river of ice that goes on flowing despite everything who hoped to stop

Still Running

we are right under the ridge, me and Crazy Davy, you remember that song, except you wouldn’t say Davy is here at the moment, since a part of him is running down the slope that brought us here, he’s not conscious anyway, so there’s that, never will be, while I am, but my mind isn’t sitting here either, I’m not, running like that part of him to a terminal where people are staring at a beer, waiting, already running to catch that time when it was, though even I’m only running there now sitting now when I saw this girl

ZACKMANN

“I’m looking for the race organizers.” said the reporter.

The hotel attendant answered “Oh that would be that horses hind end over there.”

“We are not a horse.” refuted Charlie. “John and I are the Centaur of Attention.”

John said “This the Other Half Marathon Pun Run so named because we’re tired of people asking when we run the other half of half Marathons .”

Charlie added “We have worked hard to make the Pun Run a fun run.”

“Isn’t two person centaur Cosplay hard to run in?” asked the reporter.
“If John can place, I can really show” replied Charlie.

LIZZIE

He spent his whole life running away, from school colleagues, from girlfriends, even from his wife. However, nothing compared to that night when he woke up in a strange bedroom. The evening had been amazing, and filled with good conversation and plenty of alcohol. He met a few people from the old days, back when he listened to that song incessantly. Running Wild? Well, the bizarre fire, burning the curtains and the furniture did make him run fast. They could never explain what happened, but the time he spent in jail sure cured him of that unflinching need to run.

TOM

When the Fix Was In

Benny had had a pretty good run. Ten years as Boss of the Addison Street
Grifters. He never dreamed in a million years the city would actually hire
him to run the scam right out of the Department of Parks and Monuments.
That had been a pretty good run too. The perks of respectability lulled
Benny into a fat happy complacence. The money rolled in, until the reform
party took city hall. Ben swiftly took flight down to Miami. His golden
years would have been gold if he had just let the scam go. His luck
finally ran out.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 46

By the time the Reverends reached the Doctor he’d quickly made his case to
Mrs. Parsons, who in turn laid it out to the women of the gear guild. Soon
the plan as it stood ran like wildfire through the community. The plan
produced pistol packing practitioners. Getting a fourth handed account of
said plan the Senator, Banister, and Sparky gravitated to the porch. “Dino
get your butt over here. Looks like we’re going to have to get our OK
Corral on.” “Where’s Timmy?” asked mother. Running as if he’d seen a
ghost breathless Timmy said, “I got a plan.”

Grammatically Correct

I never met a run on sentence I didn’t like, in spite of the corporal
punishment of the good Sisters of Mercy, I loved the flow and meandering
of a string of words running gently across bleached college ruled loose
leaf paper. Les Misérables has one that’s 824 words. Hunk Finn logs in at
236. My friend states a long sentence is a contrite condition unless it
unfolds as natural speech. I believe this to be true as contrapositive, in
a word, I am striving for the unnatural, something to cause the brain
itself to take a long internal breath.

Huffing

The last time I ran it took six weeks for my shoulder to regain 80 percent
functionality. This pain brought a stinging prospective to my life. As a
child I started out running, then biking, then decades of driving. Time in
cars vastly outnumbered the time running. My life is now run by a giant
academic clock. I stand lecturing, review mountains of paper, meetings
pile on meetings. I remember running so hard my heart beat like a Robert
Palmer drum kit. Now a trip up the driveway will produces the same effect.
I hear a distance voice calling, “RUN.”

TURA

“Well,” he said, “that’s a, erm, very interesting question, and, and, I need to take a bit of a, a run-up to it if you don’t mind, a, yes, a long run-up, and, because the context, that’s so important, don’t you think? It’s so complicated, and, well, it could be very misleading if you, ah, one might run to all sorts of conclusions, and, ha, a conclusion is the place you stopped thinking, as someone said, but actually I’d have to say that in this case it’s exactly what it looks like, I’m running off with your wife,” he said.

BLUE

Double Crossed
by Blue Myanamotu (a.k.a. Vang Yen)

Nyx shook her pretty kitty paw and splashed blood all over the white curtains. She licked it clean and purred, quite pleased at the copper aftertaste.

“You know,” she said, “The guy didn’t even have a chance.”

“Nonsense,” I replied, as I pulled my dagger from the base of the dead man’s skull. Together, we searched his body and retrieved the lost artifact from his pocket.

“I told him to run.” I said to Nyx when she collapsed. She looked deathly pale and was struggling to breath.

“I didn’t tell you, however, that I had poisoned his blood.”

SPATE

Hash – Part 3

Chaplain’s eyes were running all around the cell just to avoid looking at
the man with no clothes that was beating the crap out of him in poker.

Davidson unselfconsciously scratched his testicles. “Chaplain, do you really
think that with only nine days left God gives a damn if I’m wearing any
clothes? He’s seen me naked before.”

Chaplain turned cardinal red realizing he was about to be had again.

Davidson farted and laid down his cards: full boat; ladies over deuces.
Another three cigarettes won from the unlucky Chaplain.

Davidson slyly smirked, “it’s been one hell of a run!”

SINGH

Ch 32.1

They joined the bus on time. It kept on revving

overlong for India’s perennial latecomers —

men well-turbaned — beards dyed, pressed and primped,

and women in salwar kamiz, timelessly-chosen.

Amrik’s beard was still just half an artwork,

stuck with fixer and squeezed in a sling of cotton,

compressing the chin and jowls till whiskers dried.

In this bandana he might have been an outlaw

in a well-cut suit about to rob a bank.

There were others like him also running on time,

sporting the chin bandana with one more strip

across top lip to glue a twirled moustache.

Ch 32.2

They entered two-by-two and in groups.

None came sadhu-solo like roaming Yogi.

Grisht ashram, household life and their ideal

followed Guru Nanak. He had two sons.

The Founder said: get married, to nine more Nanaks.

Amrik chuckled, “Fire and ashes, Yogi?

“Family is the toughest yoga school.”

Amrik further elaborated how

among the Vedic sages – rishis wed

and munis were only married to themselves.

“Guru ji said: “Stay home. Make your ashram.

You are the temple, you are priest of it.”

Yogi remembered the paper in his pocket.

“Can we stop? I need to post a letter.”

Ch 32.3

They stopped at Industrial Area Phase 2.

While Yogi debouched, others went for snacks.

Amrik send a boy to bring a paper

and soon was reading between The Tribune’s lines.

Yogi was ever a source for staring eyes—

a white, a gaura, a foreigner in white chola

with his rakish rishi locks and ragged beard.

They rarely saw outsiders in Punjab,

except at the Golden Temple, hours north-west.

Perhaps one day he’d also go to visit.

Soon the Hemkund Travel Tours coach

was skirting the edge of Chandigarh and charging

three hours or so away to Paonta Sahib.

Ch 32.4

Amrik was done, so Yogi flicked through the paper:

Waist-high in wheat on Page 1, Surdev Singh’s hands are praising the monsoon;

Election Feature Page 5: see the double V-for-Victory fingers — the Opposition BJP;

the ad below: Government Congress Party symbol – a palmistry hand or Buddha’s fronting the Indian flag;

and tucked Corner Right: Mohan Singh Khalistani is slain today, a police encounter.

On Page 11, Punjabi Tourism bhangra dancers goat-skip with photo smiles;

Ravi Shankar plays to standing ovation at the Tagore Theatre last night;

Bridal Highlights have been Brought to You by Mehndi Fashions;

and a model shows off earrings, chin soft as faun, propped on her palm.

Chapatti mothers are cooking dough rounds in the Ludhiana Regional Section;

and singing women throw up wheat chaff to dispatch the Evil Eye;

Lakhsman Singh, home from England wears Manchester United tee-shirt to milk his childhood buffalo;

while a Big Red Mahindra Tractor is shifting gears into New Era Punjab agriculture – full page advertorial.

After the Classifieds, thin labourers from Bihar are still weeding padi in Amritsar,

a Dalit woman steadies on her head a fertiliser sack with dermatitis hands;

a farmer with cancer, hides head in palms as tube well sucks up uranium and mercury;

and Sachin Tendulkar, double-century cricket god on the Back Page, waves bat like Durga’s victory sword.

Ch 32.5

The bus moved fast heading across farmlands

through Zirakpur, Naraingarh to Kala Amb

meaning “Black Mango,” a village on the slopes.

In these Shivalik Hills just on past Nahaan

the bus began to pull hard up the road

winding python-esque through the terrain.

“Look there! Quick!” Yogi pointed to Amrik.

It was a spotted deer and wet-nosed faun.

They’d stopped to nibble grass outside the tree-line

and blinked a timeless moment at the bus

until it shifted through its clunk of gears

the fleet-footed two evaporated back

into the soul-shadows of a Never Was.

32.6
The bus took dare-devil chances on the down-bends
to test Punjabi courage. No one flinched.
Yogi gripped his armrests, forcing a smile
each time they switched direction on the slalom.
Then, bhangra pop attacked through the loudspeakers.
A family with teens said: Ballé! Ballé!*
pointing exuberant digits to the ceiling
as swaying bodies squeaked on vinyl seats.
Finally, one grave Sardar with flowing beard
across the aisle, asked for Shabad Kirtan*.
“This is a yatra, Brother,” he ratonalised
the toff-like Londoner. An N.R.I.*, thought Yogi.
“Teek hai,* Uncle,” yelled the turbaned driver.

The kids kept quiet. An elder can’t be challenged.

––––––
Notes:
*Bhangra – popular folk music/dance of Punjab
*Ballé! Ballé! energetic call during folk dance and song
* Sardar – Honouric title for a Sikh i.e. Mr, Sir
*Shabad Kirtan – Sikh devotional singing
*N.R.I. Non Resident Indian
*Teek Hai – multi-purpose phrase meaning – okay or alright with innumerable inflected meanings – positive and negative.

32.7
Mellifluous voices climbed the raga ladder,
matching sound with sense. London Singh
kept beating time. Yogi tried to follow
as if drinking rare liqueur in the darkness.
Heart had quaffed; intellect needed to join
molecules of meaning: words bring ownership.
As Amrik dozed, he leaned across the aisle.
“Hi, I’m from Australia. Could you translate?”

He sniffed the hippy sadhu up and down.
London Singh was no longer from here.

A math professor he’d done well abroad
and deigned to teach the straggly foreigner.

Yogi jotted the translation in his journal,
then shaped them into verse, passing the time:

You read with your mouth, not with your mind,
Ram hasn’t set up home in there.
You tell the people: “Be firm, have faith!”
But come on, be honest, do you Practise?

Hey pundit, it’s time – dive into the Vedas*,
busy yourself – house-clean your anger.

You’ve put down the stone god in front,
but your mind wanders in ten directions;
you put the tilak* paste on his forehead,
then bow and scrape at the idol’s feet.

You try to fool the people, but are blind,
giving lectures on the Six Systems*,
spreading out your cute white cloth
wearing a dhoti, colour of a lion-skin.

In rich houses, you are always busy
reciting scriptures, telling your beads,
then asking for your fee. Wake up friend!
You can’t save yourself, or save another.

A real scholar? He takes up the Shabad*:
then the Three Gunas* can leave the building.
Nanak looks for the sanctuary of the One,
inside whose Name the Vedas still reside.

–––––––––––––
Notes
Ram – generic name for the Divine Being, not Rama the Vishnu avatar
Vedas – ancient scriptures of India
tilak – Hindu forehead symbol
dhoti – Indian male sarong worn by Brahmin priests
Six Systems: of Indian philosophy: Nyāya, Vaiśeṣika, Sāṅkhya, Yoga, Pūrvamīmāṃsā and Vedānta.
Shabad – Divine Text or Word,
3 Gunas: 3 tendencies of nature – associated with creation (sattva), preservation (rajas), and destruction/transformation (tamas)

32.8

His version was new moss greening the stone.
Not bad, thought Yogi, passing it over the aisle
for Prof’s approval.
He read. “Yes, very good.”

but it can hardly match how Guru sang it.
Gurbani* is a piece of the Formlessness,
a hummingbird shard split off from the Truth.
It was cognised through the Guru’s pen,
not expounded by some follower.
Sounding his Word turns lead minds to gold.
We recite and listen daily to Become.
Your’s isn’t bad. You have caught some basics.”

There was praise here, but the praise was faint.

___________
Note
*Gurbani – poems of Guru Nanak (lineage of 10) taking the non-de-plume of Nanak the founder Guru.

32.9
Yogi let the Professor attend his wife
and hunted about the bus with dingo eyes.
More Sikhs from Canada, Singapore and Malaysia
were chattering in the patois of diasporas.
Citified, they looked down on the rustics.
Half wore turbans; others were shorn goats
with beards shaved-off, avoiding the Guru’s code.
Most men were Western-dressed like Amrik Singh;
farmers wore cotton kurta pajamas
virtuous for old age, or the born again.
Families, picnic-packed, with rowdy kids
proved the Indian tolerance for whiners.
A Sikh masala — the middle-aged and zealous
were clubbed in groups, pining for mild adventure.

32.10
Amrik woke up. “Sant ji. How are you?”
There was a hidden sarcasm in his tone
using that name. It’d been there all along,
but naivety had kept the Yogi blinkered.
The Sikhs that he had met were serious men.
Their Mahabharata was the daily battle
for bread, remembering Guru, doing some good.
Ideas were dead on the vine. They needed land.
The more he saw, they seemed volatile
ready to bhangra now, or to be stern.
clearly measuring others by their works.
Flowing hair and joblessness? Just weakness.

Yes, holy men in robes were mostly bogus.
“I’m fine,” he said. So why had Amrik brought him?
Yogi felt cornered. A battle was beginning.

32.11
To see the jobs just close your eyes
and shrug off paths you didn’t take.
So many ways to fall, not rise.

He’d thought the office jobs unwise.
Boredom feared some big mistake.
To classifieds, he’d closed his eyes.

He thought investment paths were lies.
The cycle of earn to eat more cake
was a dead-man route to fall, not rise.

Having no debts, you have no ties.
Avoid the shackles, avoid what’s fake.
He’d hit the road, but shut both eyes.

He’d learned to drift and improvise.
Her love for him forced him awake,
but she had to let him fall to rise.

The promise of insight was the prize
like trekking to the snowy lake.
Would glacial glare now blind the eyes?
His way ahead might fall, or rise.

DANNY

“Hey, AJ, I hear your going to run for Congress.” “That’s right, Fred.” AJ replied. “Just got back from my meeting with Sheldon Adelson in Vegas last week. All I have to do is make a public apology for calling Clive Bundy a freeloading racist, and Adelson will give me a $5,000,000.00 campaign contribution.” Fred, in shock, responded. “But Clive Bundy clearly is a racist, he stated an entire segment of people would be better off as slaves.” ““I know, but if I want to get elected in our district, I must run as a Republican, and that’s who we cater to.”

PLANET Z

Madness when the season is coming to a close. November rivalries, conference championships, bowl games.

Dumping the Gatorade on the head coach and the team hoisting the quarterback on their shoulders is cliche. Where’s the spirit in that?

Look across the field. The mascara on the cheerleaders’ faces runs down their cheeks. No sleeves to wipe it away, so the trainer brings them towels.

Or the star player, sitting alone, exhausted and defeated for all the scouts to see. He won’t even be a third-rounder now.

The goalposts come down, and someone will have to put them back up again.