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 TURKEY.

We’ve got stories by:

• Mick Bordet
• Munsi
• Jeffrey
• Julie
• Tom
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Lizzie
• Richard
• Singh
• Serendipity
• Tura Brezoianu
• Explorer
• Kristine
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Justin
• Planet Z

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

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

MICK

The Lesson by Mick Bordet
(a Coffee Legacy spin-off)

Dorde sat on a cushion, gazing out across the city of Istanbul, aware of the raised voices behind, but knowing his friend was in no danger.

Franz appeared presently bearing a small coffee pot and a look of disgust.

“They just won’t listen, Dorde! They can’t imagine water without added cardomom and I swear they are trying to grind the beans into dust. To top it all, they keep it boiling, even once the coffee has been added!”

“Have you actually tried it, yet?”

Franz shook his head and took a sip.

“Wow! Apparently, I can learn from them, too.”

MUNSI

Aftermath

By Christopher Munroe

Every part of your life will be leftover turkey from this moment on.

Your breakfast tomorrow? Turkey Omelet.

Lunch? Turkey Sandwiches.

Dinner will be Turkey and tomorrow it all begins anew.

There’s nothing you can do to prevent this, no aspect of your life you can keep separate, Turkey will consume you, and yes, you will consume Turkey.

Watching Gili on Netflix? Turkey Time, gobble-gobble.

Planning a vacation to the Ottoman Empire? It’s Turkey now.

Yes, going forward your life will be a hellish, leftover turkey filled nightmare…

Wait, that sounds delicious.

Well good for you, then! And happy Thanksgiving!!!

JEFFREY

Midnight Show
By Jeffrey Fischer

The play was an utter flop, panned by critics and shunned by the public. It closed within a week, costing investors millions. The laser show, fancy costumes, and hydraulic equipment controlling the rotating and elevating stage set, despite the expense, failed to distract audiences from the banal plot, stilted dialogue, and bad acting.

The play’s afterlife as a cult classic was a surprise to everyone, not least the playwright. Much like The Rocky Horror Picture Show, young people apparently liked going to midnight shows, dressing up as the characters, shouting corny lines, and imitating the set with cheap effects. The fact that beer was often sold at these venues didn’t hurt.

And the playwright earned royalties on every “performance”. As plays go, he thought, this turkey turned out to be a plump, juicy bird.

The Assignment
By Jeffrey Fischer

The bartender caught the customer’s eye. “What’ll it be?”

“Shot of Wild Turkey. Neat.” They were the only people in the place. The bartender poured and slid the glass across the bar. The customer downed the amber liquid and signaled for a refill.

As he poured, the bartender said, “Take it from someone who’s been there, drinking away the afternoon isn’t going to solve your problems. Maybe a bar isn’t where you need to be just now.”

The customer smiled. “Depends on the problem.” He pulled a gun from his coat pocket and shot the bartender between the eyes. “If your job is to kill a cheating husband who tends bar, why, this is just the place to be.” He reached across the bar, grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey, and poured.

A Noble Bird
By Jeffrey Fischer

Ben Franklin supposedly preferred the turkey over the eagle as the national symbol of the fledgling United States of America. Now, Ben was a smart guy, but I’m not sure he thought through this idea.

First of all, we’d have all sorts of Federal regulations regarding the turkey, and rescue crews would be forever extricating injured turkeys from awkward spots.

Worse, though, we’d be eating tough, chewy eagle for Thanksgiving. Children would fight to avoid the drumstick. Moms would make more Brussels sprouts to stretch the available food. And the lack of tryptophan would mean no one naps through the afternoon football games, so every year we’ll have to listen again to Uncle Ernie’s war stories.

JULIE

I am sorry I cannot make you Thanksgiving dinner this year.

I have to get on this plane,

On Wednesday

And go home to Poland.

Your Babcia died,

and well, I need to be there.

I talked to her on Sunday.

I am glad I saw her last summer.

She was ill, and I got the next-door lady to help her.

Still, I’ve got to go.

For twenty two years

I’ve been sad somehow here

Even more so now

That you kids are grown,

And on your own.

So, there will be no Turkey this year.

TOM

Mating Season

As I write this they are gathering on the lawn. A good 16 to 20 of them.
Some say they came from Texas. Long way to walk. Though they do fly. Spend
the nights hiding in the crowns of the blue oak. Darting across the hill
in lazy rig-zags, one or two at a time will fan their feathers. Regal as
samurai armor, the display increases their bulk three folded. The cackling
rises and falls as talons rip at chests and necks. The whole warrior thing
would have been pretty impressive, too bad about the stupid double
dangling turkey feathers.

Dharma is the Age of Kali

The Padava prince saw the banners of Bhisma and Dorna furrowing in the
azure sky. On his command a thousand arrows would fly. But he himself had
come to a moment of deep dismay. He turned to Krishna telegraphing his
uncertainty. The charioteer wheeled his steeds to the very edge of the
battlefield and dismounted. If you’ve read the Bhagavad Gita you might
think you know the story, but that text is a fourth century hack job, this
is what really happened. Krishna said “Your not even a pussy, your just a
turkey.” Arjuna fires, Krsihna dodges, the battle begins.

Three Strikes

It was well passed the golden age of bowling. Of course that didn’t stop
me from total immersion. Great game, can’t really call it a sport, though
some may argue the point. No jumping, run, weaving, hitting, didn’t even
have to own the ball or the shoes. No fields, grass or outdooriness.
Limited team work, no coaches. The perfect game, except for the scoring.
Never really got the hang of compounded summations. But that wasn’t fun of
bowling. Banging heaves object against other objects. Sure your skills
could land you in the gutter, but with care you could turkey out.

A Well Defined Relationship 25

“Banister Now” said the doctor. Just as the high priest regained awareness
the coachman swung the airship over Wynn Casino. “We’re going to get
charged for this,” said Dino. “Mrs Parsons please note that in the
ledger.” Sparky hit the release button and the Pastafarite rolled into a
perfect three point Louganis. “Smith you think thous Yahoos bought Timmy’s
dog and pony show?” “Hard to say, best course of action is get our
collective asses out of Dodge.” “Mrs Parson have you ever cooked a Wille
Bird?” “100 pounder best baked 200 pounder thermal inverter.” “You known
your turkeys madam.”

ZACKMANN

“Hey hey good looking what’s cooking.”

“Pizza”

“but didn’t I buy a bird for thanksgiving?”

“No, Dearest.”

“I am possive I put it in the freezer.”

“Yes dearest but you and I both know you purchased it because turkey was the loss leader at fifty nine cents a pound which made it about half the price of chicken.”

“So what you’re saying is neither of us remembered to thaw the turkey in time and now we can save it for Christmas?”

That and your cousin our one guest worked several years in a fowl processing plant and really hates turkey.

SPATE

My fellow Americans, I propose that we amend the second amendment.

Let’s make bearing arms mandatory. Let’s make it law that every citizen must carry a loaded military grade assault rifle.

This proposal is unrelated to the irrational fear based self-protection the NRA peddles to increase gun sales. Its aim has a more realistic benefit to our society: common courtesy.

For example, if I had been carrying today, that old bird at the grocery store would have thought twice before blocking the aisle with her shopping cart while she read every freaking word on the label of that frozen turkey.

LIZZIE

Carving the turkey is a fine art, my friend.” John moved the sharp knife up and down with great proficiency, stripping the bird to the bare bone. The thin slices of meat piled up on the edge of the tray, invitingly. The interplanetary exchange student observed silently. He dared not utter a single word, although he fervently wanted to. “See.” The guest did see. Suddenly, the horror, right next to the slices of meat was one of John’s fingers. I saw that coming, thought the guest, this is a strange art. I am glad we don’t have this type of thing in my planet.

RICHARD

#1 – Scuppered

After a fair bit of floundering, they hauled themselves aboard one of the boats moored on the bank side. Shivering and wet, they huddled down in the hull.

“We should think about getting this thing moving”, muttered Emily.

George nodded, easing his way over to the controls.

Until now, his only experience of boats had been a mini-cruise on holiday in Turkey – no help to him now.

“I’ve no idea how to get this started”, he apologised.

Sighing, Emily reached for the mooring rope and untied it.

The current caught them, and they drifted silently off into the night.

#2 – Christmas Fare

“What’s for lunch?”, asked Santa, already knowing what the answer would be.

“Turkey dinner”

Santa groaned: “Can’t we have something different, just for a change?”

Mrs Claus frowned at him: “Well, there’s turkey curry, turkey salad, turkey pie or turkey bolognese…. Look love, there’s nothing I can do about it – it just comes with the territory, I’m afraid. It’s turkey, or nothing – unless you have any better ideas?”

She was right of course. Santa sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable, but then his eyes twinkled and a broad smile split his face.

“I hear that reindeer is very tasty!”

#3 – Ice-breaker

It was yet another one of those pointless team bonding sessions – universally loathed and compulsory for all employees.

As always, it was led by one of those ridiculous ‘business consultants’ – fatuous, over-enthusiastic and overpaid, and we were completely underwhelmed.

It started with the inevitable ice-breaker: ‘If you were an animal, what would you be?’

I chose ‘turkey’.

“That’s very interesting”, said the flashy business consultant, “And, why exactly did you pick turkey as your animal of choice?”

I looked him straight in the eye, and replied: “You’re the know-it-all business consultant, how about you tell me?”

SERENDIPITY

The Lesser-crested West African Bush Turkey was the most awesome of birds. Standing nine feet tall, it was a true wonder of nature, and vast flocks roamed the African plains in their millions.

In 1863, the Lesser-crested West African Bush Turkey was declared extinct and not a single specimen has been seen since.

What caused their demise? Natural disaster, climate change, the introduction of a foreign predator, or a fault in their genetic makeup?

No, it was none of these things – the loss of the Bush Turkey can be summed up in three simple words:

‘It was delicious’!

SINGH

20.10

The epic credits rolled through drums of war,

a reverb Voice informed the Milky Way,

the Wheel of Dharma turned with cosmic law

as people bowed before the teleplay.

Chariot-driver Krishna drove Arjuna,

discharging arrows at his loved grandsire.

Neither could Bhishma find a clear lacuna,

trading shots with Arjuna’s rapid fire.

Lame effects make drama hard to swallow

and the next scene in a tent, an enemy squabble
was lost on Yogi. He could not follow.

Hindi was equal to Greek, or turkey gobble.

No one thought to translate. He looked around,

then turned down mentally the TV’s sound.

20.11

Closing eyes he listened to his heart rate

recalling a childhood glued to the TV,
hidden behind the lounge till very late

when the hand of Dad stung like a killer bee

sending him to bed. He felt the blows

again; and then the Mahabharat war

was back, more volleys of rapid arrows,

elephants, fake swordplay, tomato gore.

Among Indian grown-ups, was he the dunce?
This popular program was their hour of power,

a tragi-comedy all at once,

philosophy turned into cartoon hour.

Now Krishna was telling Arjun — be a man:

just kill your Grandad and fulfill my plan.

20.12

Grandfather Bhishma was fatally bound to black

deeds through blood duty; but the evil side

made accusations. Yogi, dubbed his soundtrack

from versions he had read, more bone fide,

giving speech to actors on the screen,

while Hindi sat enthralled below the fan

tearful, angry, righteous, stunned, serene.

Bitter Bishma cursed his Kaurava Clancy

telling that Duryodhana, the ruling prince,

“Give up the kingdom to the Pandava.
You can’t beat them. How can I convince?
You’ll lose because they have the Lord, who’s Krishna.

Yet, fire among dry trees of summer, I

will be tomorrow. Yes, I’m still your fall guy.”

20. 13

Knowing the tale, Yogi recast old gold

in his own way to keep himself inside

the poem’s fold. As in a wrestler’s hold

the storyline had long back kept him tied

also to Margot, met that summer night

in Klopper’s quarry through dramatic art.

Just a car drive from the burial site

he wondered then, if one chariot cart

had been his own in some past time,

how otherwise had he landed here?

Next day’s battle heat began to climb

as massive Bhima and his charioteer

clubbed with his gold mace and grunted breath

a dozen Kaurav cousins to the death.

20.14

As Bhima felled opponents, one by one

the sound effect of each gold hammer blow

reminded Yogi of High Striker fun,

hitting a bell with a puck at a country show.

He was no Bhima built to crack and crush,

nor an Arjuna with an archer’s eye,

nor Yudhisthira, king of the royal flush
nor Nakula, nor Sahadeva born from the sky.

A soldier? Spear thrower, a charioteer?

Yogi speculated scene by scene.

Meanwhile, the Kauravs fell like hunted deer,

while in the palace, parent king and queen

grieved for slain sons. Here, end credits flowed

closing sadly this week’s episode.

20.15

Women were tearful, moved by child death

and men moved quickly for the squat latrine

just down the hall. Barhai rose to switch

the TV off. Its picture tube fizzed blank

and at that moment up the stairs Chauhaan

emerged with loud and proud announcement:
“Yogi ji, here is your Yogi Mrs.”
All heads turned to see the western woman

in her Punjabi suit, red-striped with gold,

her head covered, trained by local custom.

She then saw Yogi, and could not get to him

so reached across, passing his guitar.

All was falling well together. Barhai smiled

announcing Yogi would now lead a bhajan.

20.16

to speed date god inside the krishna lila

body neck tune head-tone to krishna

bhajan fusion english off the cuff

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

one hand clapping two hands clapping krishna

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

glass lady bangles tinkle bells of krishna

krishna wheel krishna wields chakra

plastic pail upturn my soul percussion

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

Persian wheel scoops up wet cups of krishna

on each hair a thousand flutes of krishna

thumb the strum strum light strings of krishna

krishna krishna krishna krishna krishna

finish with a slow last dance with krishna

20.16

The success of Yogi was the joy of Barhai.

“Can you come home Saturday, Yogi ji?”

“We also want your darshan,” asked another.

Barhai took the bookings, mentally.
They hemmed his star, so Barhai closed the queue.
“Respect our guests. Tomorrow we talk, please.”

Margot saw the wheel of competition,

an endless turning, one household to another.

How much of him would still be left for her?

Yet, she would go along and make her place.

School was due to break. Big monsoon wet

the farmers said would bog down village roads.

So she did nothing and sat apart and watched.

TURA

1.

The journey ended, then began, at Osmaneli.

Nina and I were taking the sleeper from Ankara to Istanbul, but in the early morning, it had shaken violently, and drawn to a stop, between Eskisehir and Bözüyük. Defective track? A landslide?

At last the train moved cautiously on, stopping at every small town for an oncoming train to pass. Karaköy, Küplü, Bilecik. The line between Turkey’s two most important cities is single track.

Rumours, passed on from the attendant’s radio.

We see a few collapsed outbuildings, fallen plasterwork.

At Osmaneli the train stops and it will not go further.

What now?

—-

2.

At Osmaneli the passengers charter dolmuses– local minibuses– either to return to Ankara or press on to Istanbul. Nina and I tag along with the Istanbul contingent.

The fare for us both is 70 million Turkish lira, about £100. (Half of that will go on petrol.) The driver’s boss asks him where he’s going. “Istanbul,” he says, and we leave.

Normally, he would have driven among the local villages for 200,000 lira fares, or the price of two loaves of bread.

Those millions of Turkish lira are the old lira, of course, before they chopped six zeroes off the end.

—-

3.

The main road is busy, soon packed, then jammed. As a tourist, I have a map of Turkey, so I pass it forward and let those who know the country figure out the best way. But in a mountainous country, the main road is the only road.

We come to a large flyover. There are six-inch cracks in the tarmac on the approach. We wedge lumps of tarmac into the gaps and inch the minibus over them.

Will the bridge collapse? But it has been full of traffic for hours. It will probably not collapse while we are on it.

—-

4.

Here a family are camping outside their farmhouse. It stands, but the walls are cracked, and it might collapse at any moment.

And then, the apartment blocks. I’ve seen some of these under construction during our holiday, concrete-framed and unbeautiful. They have been found wanting in the time of trial. Shoddily built with stolen, salty, beach sand, and rusted reinforcing bars, they have collapsed like houses of cards. I see neat stacks of floors and ceilings with no walls, and know that I am looking at dead people.

There are standards, but in a poor country, who can enforce them?

—-

5.

The driver is concerned about petrol. There is not enough to reach Istanbul. Even if we find a garage, it needs electricity to pump the petrol, and the electricity was automatically cut over half the country when the earthquake struck.

At mid-afternoon, we stop at a roadside cafe for a break. Still no electricity, but the cafe can give us bananas and apple tea. We move on and shortly find a petrol station with working pumps. Either the electricity is back or it has its own generator. No matter, we will not be spending the night on the road now.

—-

6.

The mosques are better constructed. We see only one fallen minaret, dramatically draped over the adjacent dome.

Across the bay, a plume of smoke. If it were night, we would see the fire also. The oil refinery at Yalova.

At last, İzmit, the epicentre. Only one thing is happening here: dealing with the earthquake.

The traffic is moving more freely now. We reach Istanbul at nine in the evening and take the ferry across the Bosphorus.

Our flight home is long gone, but the first hotel we try has cracks and fallen plaster everywhere. We press on to the airport.

—-

7.

Every inch of green space in Istanbul is filled with people camping out. We are tourists; we will just leave.

At the airport I book seats on the first flight home the next day. We are tourists with money; we can pay what it takes to leave.

In Istanbul we find a solidly built hotel, but in the morning we notice hairline cracks in the granite, clearly new.

Our plane roars down the runway and the wheels leave the ground. For us, it is over.

Afterwards, before the news drops off the front pages, the death toll reaches ten thousand.

EXPLORER

Twas night before Thanksgivukkah, and all through the house, children where

screaming, Dreidel’s where spinning. A turkey was basting all on it’s own, and

then a loud thud from up above.

Everyone froze, who could this be; it’s Moshe Rabbeinu, Amen. We heard a

muffled “Oy gevalt, Oy vey iz mir today is only Wednesday, “I thought today

was Thanksgiving.”

Who is that speaking, with wonderment we ran to the stairs and froze? To our

dismay we saw a glowing, spinning, bright light.

We saw a team of eight menurkey’s, and heard Ho Ho Ho, Happy

Thanksgivukkah, shouted Hanukkah Harry.

KRISTINE

Ladies are gathering along the fence, buying sad leftover pumpkins and discussing creative ways to combine green beans and mushroom soup. Kids shuffle through the corn maze, unaware it’s been deemed a fire hazard. White feathers float around, easily mistaken for the fake snow that will jack up the prices of lopsided spruces that will be standing here soon. The men spit-shine their axe heads, silently choosing their victims. They say the more the bird fights, the tastier it is. The sounds and dust clouds rising from the dirt arena suggest that this year’s dinner is going to be delicious.

CLIFF

Benjamin Franklin thought that the turkey was the perfect animal to represent our nation. After all, it was native, it was quite brave, and it was known to attack British soldiers on sight, something that no eagle, bald or otherwise, was ever known to do. Several times during the Revolutionary war, the redcoats attempted to catch the Colonial troops unaware only to have their movements betrayed by the turkeys used as sentries by the Americans. Unfortunately, turkeys proved to be ineffective in combat. Many a turkey met its end while desperately trying to load a musket using beak and wings.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle watched his countdown timer pass the ten minute mark.
“Crap,” he said and inched his way up the drive to the carport. He knew the Widow Finklestien well and he knew she kept a spare door key in the dryer’s lint catch. Cradling the shotgun in one arm, he pulled out the lint drawer and searched the fine layer of lint for the key.
He slid the key into the lock, soundlessly, and eased open the door.
From behind him he heard, “Who is this turkey?”
He had to think fast or he would lose the element of surprise.

JUSTIN

The Sumo walked up to the line and hurled the bowling ball, but forgot to let go and slid all the way down the lane and got a strike. Sort of.

Melody swung the Wii remote wildly to try and throw the ball down the lane on the TV. All she managed to do was give her brother a black eye. OK, that didn’t happen, but it almost did, could have.

The best part of bowling ball shoes is they are so thin and light so when you drop a bowling ball on your foot, it provides no protection whatsoever.

PLANET Z

The company gives out smoked turkeys for Thanksgiving and smoked hams for Christmas.

I’ve been tempted to carve off a bit early, but I figure I’ll be eating plenty of it when the time comes.

“It’s for the cats,” I say, but I can’t convince myself. It would really be for me.

“No. Not yet.” And I close the refrigerator door.

Whew.

Then, I found myself picking up a packet of smoked turkey at the grocery store.

“Not yet,” I say. And I put it back.

If the cats want turkey early, they can go out and catch one themselves.

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 BURNING.

We’ve got stories by:

• Maggy
• Munsi
• Jeffrey
• Tom
• Julie
• Richard
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Zackmann
• Serendipity
• Dr. Fran
• Spate
• Lizzie
• Katharina
• Sevi, Redgoddess, and Bonchance
• Norval Joe
• Danny
• Justin
• Tura Brezoianu
• Singh
• Planet Z

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

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

MAGGY – NO RECORDING

Her heart was burning with longing as the cold wind
swept her hair. It was his voice. It had to
be. The rain pelted towards her like an iron sheet
pushing her back. The more she ran the more it
crashed against her. Her frozen feet were burning as she
determined to reach him. He would be waiting, she knew.
There was a roaring, louder and louder. Closer, closer it
came. Silence. Squeek of breaks. The train stopped with a
jolt.

He looked down at the lifeless body on the tracks.
‘My darling,’ he murmured, and jumped down from the engine.

MUNSI

Celebration

By Christopher Munroe

Welcome! Glad you could make it!

Come in, you’re the first to arrive, but I’m sure everyone will be here soon enough.

Have a seat.

We have a great evening planned, there’ll be games later, Mitch over there is a tremendous bartender and, while you haven’t met most of the people who’ll be here yet, once you do I’m sure you’ll love them.

And, at the stroke of midnight, we’re burning the Wicker Man.

No word yet as to who will be inside the Wicker Man. I’ll keep you posted as that’s worked out. In the meantime, have a drink…

JEFFREY

Dangerous Liaisons
by Jeffrey Fischer

Rob felt a burning sensation in his nether regions. Although he ignored it, hoping the feeling would go away, it persisted. Finally, he saw a doctor, who identified the problem as a case of the clap, prescribed antibiotics, and sent Rob on his way.

When his girlfriend, Monica, had a similar burning sensation, she was puzzled until one Sunday morning, looking for two aspirin and some Pepto, she encountered Rob’s antibiotics and put two and two together.

Monica broke up with Rob that morning. He didn’t notice for several weeks that she had taken apart his remaining pills, flushed the antibiotics down the toilet, and put the pills back together again. For Rob, it was a real head-scratcher.

Both Ends
by Jeffrey Fischer

The expression “burning a candle at both ends” never made sense to Phil, who decided to conduct an experiment. He took a standard household candle into his dorm room. He used a lighter to melt the other end, jammed a wick into the soft wax, and lit both ends, then took the candle in his hands and watched it burn.

As the candle dwindled, Phil wondered how he could put it down to avoid being burned. He ended up throwing the candle into a corner, where a stack of magazines caught fire. The entire dorm burned down – at both ends, you might say.

TOM

1 Dancing on the Bubble

It was the 90’s the last wave of unbridled money was flowing through the
streets of Silicon Valley. Jack was surfing in the middle of a prefect
storm. A gaming company wanted a video portal on their website. The
company was 30 days old, astonishingly over capitalized. The Kids had no
idea that a generation before the VC were the bad guys. Jack had and they
still were. Knee deep in ashes, the burn rate had reached golden time.
Jack managed to get out the door before the padlock. The gravy days of
tech writing were gone with the wind.

2 A Well Defined Relationship Part 24

Doc Proctor cut through the crowd like a knife. “Hell of a way to answer
an advertisement, Mrs. Parsons!” “Sorry Sir.” “Smith you coming with?”
“Seem so sir.” “NICE WORK TIMMY. How long before the reconstitution?” “Six
minutes.” “Who’s flying that thing?” Sparky nodded. The doc motioned him
to get behind the altar and pull the FSM with him. The entire company
followed suit. Doc Proctor drove his fist into the altar. A brilliant
flame rose. It burnt so bright the Pastafarites backed away. Banister
pulled The Voyage over the Tiber. “What about the priest?” “Drop him in
Wynn’s pool.”

3 A God Damn Forest Gump Life

In the late 70’s I worked for a bakery that delivered barked goods to San
Francisco shops. Got to know some of the folk in the art scene. One of
thous folk said “you got to check out the show at Baker Beach. At the time
it had all the trapping of any Santa Cruz beach party too much beer,
smoke, fire, and Dead, so I went just once. Same friend asked me to come
with when they took the party out to Black Rock. I told him I wasn’t going
to drive 120 miles to watch a burning man.

4 Loud

My music tastes have always been on the eclectic side. If a singer’s vocal
presentation was 5 degrees off center their record went into my
collection. In my 45 days a title of unmeasurable joy was produced by the
oddest name band I had ever heard The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. The Who
was loud, Arthur Brown was louder. Fire was released in 1968 and surely as
a times they were a changing it went to number two on Billboard. Parents
hated it kids loved it. Beginning with “I am the god of hellfire” end
with “You’re Gonna Burn!!”

JULIE

I was full of pulchritude and lacked punctuality.

It was all staged, of course.

They sewed me in my naked dress,

Trotted me out,

The trollop offering.

My cotton-candy hair,

Even the white ermine was fake.

Peter Lawford had a few before we took the stage.

I had a few too.

He asked for a blowjob.

That limey skank.

I knew what was up.

I went through the motions and gestures,

Sang my silly words off key—

Ignored the crowd.

Don’t judge me.

For all the things you’ve done,

To me,

I thank you so much.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

RICHARD

#1 – Escape in the night

Keeping to the shadows, George and Emily fled towards the river. Suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the camp, the concussion throwing them to the ground. A huge fireball erupted behind them and George felt his hair singe.

Fort Hope was ablaze, burning fiercely, the flames already reaching towards them.

“Run!”, shouted George, and they took off as if all the hounds of hell were following.

Then, without warning, they were falling – George braced himself for the impact, but instead experienced the sudden shock of ice-cold water.

Spluttering and gasping, his head broke the surface… they had found the river.

#2 – Roma Invicta!

We sat on the hillside and watched the city burning in the valley below; men, women and children surrounded us, shocked and sobbing… senators, priests, common folk and gladiators – all of us equal in our loss.

Rufus Dramaticus, one of my most loyal and trusted legionaries, made his way slowly through the crowd, saluted and knelt before me:

“Ceasar… the people are lost – they look to their emperor for succour?”

“Are they?”, I replied, “But what on earth can I do?”

Then I spotted my fiddle…

“How about I lead everyone in a nice rousing singalong? That’ll revive the spirits!”

#3 – Burning Man

My tickets for burning man arrived this morning – yep, that’s right, I’m going to be spending a week in the Nevada desert, communing with nature, soaking up the atmosphere and generally escaping the rat race and everything it means.

Mainly though, I’ll be going for the art – there’s nothing like self-expression, be it through sculpture, handicrafts or performance, to show just how creative we humans can be.

Actually, if I’m honest, that’s not the real reason I’m going…

I’m really going because I want to see all those girls wandering round, wearing body paint, and not a lot else!

CLIFF

Doctor Perkins had a cancellation so I was able to get in with only a few hours notice. The receptionist asked me what my problem was, but I wouldn’t tell her. Since Perkins was a urologist, I’m sure she was used to men being shy about sharing. Soon, the doctor and I were alone in the exam room.
“What brings you to see me today?”
“Well, doc, I’m kind of embarrassed.”
“No reason to be. I’m a professional. You can tell me.”
“Ok. You’ve been sleeping with my wife.”
They caught me burning the office down with Perkins body inside.

Their ships were tiny, a mere ten feet across. They were still the most feared armada in the galaxy. They had weapons that could level cities. They had a star drive that could take them across a light year in a heartbeat and across the galaxy faster than you could get through airport security. They had ravaged a thousand worlds and Earth was next. However, a slight miscalculation by the Chief Navigator brought the fleet out too close to our world. Before they could change course, they plummeted through our atmosphere, burning as they fell. Damn pretty meteor shower though.

ZACKMANN

Father, Miss Cheerilee said “A robot doesn’t actually know it’s a robot. They’re programed to respond the same way we do. Upon learning the truth about itself it would would probably go into a violent existential rampage through the town.”

“Honey, if our guest says something that sounds odd like prOject instead of project or Initiate sequence one, it is because he grew up in a different country but he’s definitely not a robot.”

“Dearest, no fireplace tonight because illegal to have fire on cold days.”
“Oh, Spare the Air Day and not because fire might melt our human guest.”

SERENDIPITY

Can you smell burning?

That wasn’t the deal!

I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I wanted the ducking stool – the point being, it’s pretty easy to fake drowning, and then I can just sneak away when nobody’s looking.

Hold my breath. Play dead. Escape with my life.

But burning at the stake is another matter entirely!

How the heck am I supposed to escape from this? Unless you have a secret plan to get me out of this fix, I’m toast… quite literally!

You’ve let me down badly – you’re far, far worse than a witch: you’re a complete bitch!

DR FRAN

What makes a visionary?

Philip Rosedale, clad in plastic bag cape, and sporting beads, looked up from his laptop at the playa in Burning Man, and saw a user-created world. He thought: Hmmmm, I can do something with that.

Thus was born Second Life™, the great virtual world experiment that still appeals to a niche of about a million people. Yes, the losers, the folks on the autistic spectrum, the odd, and the unloved are there. Philip is not.

Randy Nomeind looked up from his bong at the playa in Burning Man, and yelled: BOOBIES! He created nothing at all.

SPATE

Dreams

I awoke from a dream and reached over but you were gone. Then I remembered.

I sleep alone now.

And under the weight of this empty bed on a cold November night, I have again been forced to reconcile with the unpalatable conclusions:

I know that what was, is now not.

And that which once burned with life has turned to dry ash.

I accept that twenty-two years became the limit of forever and that I will never really hear your voice or feel your touch again.

You will not return.

But when will you be gone from my dreams?

LIZZIE

The old man threw his books out the window, one by one. No one loves books anymore, he thought. He walked downstairs and lit up the first book, turning it left and right, watching its hardcover burn slowly. Suddenly a kid walked up to him. “Don’t burn it. I’ll keep it for you.” The old man’s eyes teared up. He put the fire out and sat on the floor. The kid sat beside him, holding the half burnt book like a treasure. Many others joined them, each grabbing a book. The old man was never so happy to be wrong.

KATHARINA

Burning by Katharina Bordet

Flames were trying to burst out through the windows of the two-storey house in the cul-de-sac. Leo looked at it in astonishment, whilst from afar, the sirens were blaring louder as they were coming near. Quicker than the sirens, his parents’ car arrived, coming to a screeching halt next to the boy. Leo looked around to see his mother jumping out of the car and running towards him, a look of sheer panic in her face.

“What happened, did you do this Leo?“ she shouted at him.

“But… you told me to clean out the house, mum!“

SEVI, REDGODDESS, and BONCHANCE

Burning by Severina, RedGoddess and Bc

Harry huddled in his cubicle and slowly arranged the 3 pieces of paper.
He gingerly taped the fragile pieces together into one and began to study it.
Harry was unsure why he was chosen to solve this mystery but all the same it was a challenge that excited him.
The faded trail on the map, ended in a 3-way split. He knew that the wrong turn could lead to a disaster.

Which path to take was the burning question.
The next day, Harry strapped on his gear and scaled down the storm drain to find his buried pot of gold.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle patted long john silver on the head, loaded shells into his shotgun and left a candle burning in the front window.
Wiener dog man would not be made to look like a fool. He pulled the eared hoodie over his head and strapped the dog nose to his face.
Call him a super hero, or call him a vigilante, he had a job to do and a promise to keep.
He walked down the street to Widow Finklestien’s.
“You have ten minutes to release her and her dogs, or I’m coming in.”
The eco-terrorists had taken the wrong hostages.

DANNY

Welcome to “Florida This Week.” Topping the BURNING issues of the week: Adolf Hitler gets thrown out of the Florida Republican Party for not being conservative enough. Robert Jones, leader of the KKK of North Carolina, had the following to say; “Well, we don’t have no way of judging who exactly we’re directing our beliefs at.” Jones has recently come under fire for mistakenly attempting to promote KKK membership among the predominantly black community of New Smyrna Beach, Florida, stuffing mailboxes with hundreds of fliers with the words “Our Race Is Our Nation” and a symbol of a hooded klansman..

JUSTIN

Gordon Freeman peered around the corner. Two zombies were tearing into a hapless soul who had wandered into Ravenholm. He stepped into the street and aimed the sawblade it held and fired. The blade spun through the air and sheared one zombie in half and dismembered the other. From beside him he heard the gurgle of more zombies. He backpedaled away from them and saw three fuel barrels. He pulled out his Glock and fired a few precious rounds. Flames exploded over the zombies and they stumbled about screeching until they fell into heaps of guttering flesh onto the ground.

TURA

In the Burning World the seasons are defined by the flames. In the Fire season, a man may not venture with impunity beyond the safe places. Then the Gasp, when the fumes that burst from the sand do not ignite, but suffocate. In the Cool, the venting ceases and one fears only the slow burning of the raging sun. Then the Blow, deadliest of all, when deep cataclysms open new vents, and we must find safe ground again before the Fire.

Our stories say that this world was created by the mad demon Frak, as our punishment for worshipping him.

SINGH

Foreign Madam and the White Yogi, a verse novel in progress by Chapter 20.

20.1

The last bus left in a cloud of diesel grey

as they returned from the burning ghat of the dead.
He felt quite bad that he would end this day

without his Margot next to him on a bed.

Hardly apart since raising that first sweat
on a sunken sofa in sundown grapevine light
with a backyard view where parrots pirouette,
Australia was the boat they’d burned that night.

Barhai glad of a struggling face upset
offered him a bed at the speed of light.
“You stay with us.” Too late to feel regret
the darkening sky helped Yogi say “Alright.”

20.2

Brijpal Chauhaan came up for dinner too.
He was the history buff among them, glad

to hear his high-pitched voice pull rank.

“So, Yogi ji, you like our Mahabharat.”

Youth in blemished white spoke from the couch,
with feet tucked up, hiding his cut knee.
“I have read it yeah, in English, a translation.”
Then added: “Bigger than the Iliad.”
Chauhaan eye-browed his Chairman. Barhai winked.
They felt the thrill of history acknowledged.

Yes! by a foreigner, someone from the West
from whom they sought approval, yet despised.
They had not deemed Australia to be south.
Chauhaan went on.

20.3

“It is our greatest book
without a doubt. The story of our race
and still for us, alive. This is the place
where it began. Hastinapur, the capital
is so close by. We could even go tomorrow.”

‘That would be great, but my wife is all alone.
She’ll be worried already, that I haven’t returned.”

“Of course, Sadhu Sahib,” Barhai added.

“We all are family men. Your duty’s clear.
Yes, right now she is too much worrying.

In a strange land, one should be vigilant.

Tomorrow is Sunday. Rest the knee, you must.
“Chauhaan, you send your car for Yogi Mrs.”

20.4

The leader and his deputy knew each other.

“A small service, Yogi ji, if you allow.”
“Of course, he must,” said Barhai, pushing on
with a host’s prerogative. “She is truly doing
noble work with the children. Please allow us

to show appreciation and share our home.

Mrs Barhai will be thrilled on meeting her.”

Yogi succumbed again. The air-conditioning

was softening his tired brain and bones:

come on, slow down, just take a little break.
He thought of Margot with that block of soap
scrubbing his white chola at the hand-pump.

He smiled with some relief. “Okay. Thanks.”

20.5

Then Barhai barked in Hindi, “Khana banao.”

“Ji Swami,” chimed a voice through clanging pots.

“Indian food you like?” “Very Much”

“Now Chauhaan, tell us something now.”
The history buff lit up. He cleared his throat,

then paused: “Perhaps we shouldn’t start on

Mahabharat here.” “Why not?” Asked Yogi.
“It is the story of discord in the home

and splitting of the atom of the nation.

Ramayan is a ghee lamp sharing light,
Mahabharat is the wick snuffed out at the end.”

“Come. That’s superstition,” Barhai said.
“Twenty crore watch it on Doordarshan

and still the nation hasn’t split your atom.”

20.6

“Twenty crore?” asked Yogi. “Two hundred million,”

said the man of rupees. Then told how

from week to week, at nine on Sunday morning
India stopped to quaff down myth like milk

from the sacred teat of new technology,

skyline satellite dishes, ham-wired, poking

above slums, bazaars, the colonies, mosques and mandirs,

the public spaces emptied, all at home

seated, reverent as inside the temple

through far darshan’s audience with the past

on national television. “It is tomorrow.

You will see,” Barhai added. “Well

we will take our dinner. Hungry, Yogi?”

“Yes,’’ he said, a growling dog in his gut.

20.7

They tore up steam balloons of roti
scooping deep the seas of chilli,
lady fingers, chopped green bhindi,
something cabbage, fried and windy,

deep brown dhal thick with hours,
aloo gobi’s hidden powers,

paneer slabs swimming cream,
floating in the Indian Dream.

Barhai, a man of chicken meat
went pure veg tonight, discreet,

while Chauhaan, scion of care

sniffed and tested with despair

spooning past the globs of ghee

gold whirlpools of high B.P.

Then the sweet dish, food for brain –

rice cream kheer came again and again.
Yogi’s robe earned its battle stain

a victim of the gravy train.

20. 8

“Don’t worry for the washing, Sadhu Sahib.’

Barhai called the servant to bring kurta
and white pajama as a sleeping suit.

“Thanks Chauhaan,” he said in advance for
Margot’s early car and gave a note.

Dear Margot, you must be anxious. Sorry.
Skinned my knee. Am resting up at Barhai’s.

Waiting. Yogi. P.S. Bring guitar.

Note pocketed, Chauhaan said: “Right Sir!”
descending stairs like bass notes on a keyboard.

It was time to shake the hand of his host and close
the door. But he felt like a rock. Food overload?

Laying down he sank in a dream of water.

20.9

darkness is poison stone body creepers

arms tied ankles rope-burnt thinking unwinds

reels out an oxygen lifeline bubbles bubbles

serpents swim scarlet green injecting venom

straight to bottom and through to another place

creepers break cobra hoods smash like tree roots

slither cold tunnel jewelled walls emerald cavern

the thousand thousand coils of serpentry

turning human with honeyed speech

poison is nectar each bite a burning antidote

each bite one hundred elephants of strength

after each fang clasp strange transference upsurge

sunlight kingdom surface breaking

awake in the mind asleep in the body

laying until the lotus-pink of dawn

20.10

When he woke, Yogi’s robe was clean
upon the chair. Showering, he changed
remembering the poison night. But noises
lured him via sprinkled scent of rosewater

in a front room spread with cotton sheets of white.

The ceiling fan spread air-con cool, but squeezed

too close, the men swabbed sweaty necks.

A girl passed round a tray of clinking glasses.

Barhai made way for Yogi, pride of place.

Garlanded with marigolds, red-sareed

Sri Lakshmi blessed all with wealth from her

pink lotus, framed above the television.
Herded together, ladies covered heads

as the picture tube fizzed into holy life.

PLANET Z

Long ago, I worked at the same TV station as a famous reporter.

Most people knew him for doing good deeds for the Houston community. But he was utterly cruel and vicious to his editor, producer, and the rest of the news staff.

The last thing I said to him was: “You attack the people you utterly depend on, and you know they will never fight back. When you burn in hell, you will burn brighter than anybody else, and you’ll be proud of that, you monster.”

He thanked me, and smiled his shit-eating grin.

He’s dead now.

And burning.