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 VOICE.

We’ve got stories by:

• Thomas
• Jeffrey
• fourworlds
• Decater
• Tom
• Munsi
• Lizzie
• Richard
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Serendipity
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Tura Brezoianu
• Helen
• Julie
• Justin
• Norval Joe
• Danny
• Maggy
• Singh
• Planet Z

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

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.

THOMAS

Her voice, specifically her fully, open mouthed, “performance laugh”, could cut diamonds. I was sipping coffee last Monday, when a burst of sharp sound cut into my brain from my left. The source of the explosion was a skinny, short haired woman of middle age yucking it up with her husband and another couple. Why did she make the noise project even more by opening her mouth and throat to allow this painful noise to escape into the crowded room? Did she want us to notice her? I wanted to throw my heavy mug at her temple to silence her.

#

Today, while submitting a lesson for my course at Penn State, I mistakenly used the word “deadloin” instead of the word deadline. My writing “voice” has aided me in using these errors in ways that are valid and pertinent to my poetry and prose. Deadloin could be a title for the story of a man, whose age has left him tired and limp, when he should be vigorous and prepared at a moment’s notice by merely putting his hands around the waist of a woman, as it does in the sweet dreams that he recalled from last week’s dream fest.

#

During the monthly meeting at the mayor’s coffeehouse gatherings, a few of us voiced our opinions about the recent additions to the streets and downtown core. A large, circular logo was embedded in the center of the street at the main intersection, and several bicycle stands and metal waste containers were placed strategically, around town. The logo depicts the teats of one of the original dairy farmers prize milkers, and measuring ten feet in diameter, shocks tourists and young children. The waste containers are painted fluorescent orange, with glow in the dark lettering that reads, “Waste Management Fondles Your Trash.”

#

Her voice was tiny, and she kept to herself, having been kidnapped by human traffickers and sold as a sex slave to the Sudanese Coast Guard. She looked like Sally Fields when she played in The Flying Nun. Now, working quietly as a Barista in Sylvester’s Coffee Emporium, she breaks down every couple of hours and retires to the storeroom to cry and grab hits off her glass pipe. Over the past six months, I’ve noticed she put on some weight in her behind, and carries her wallet in her hand now, as it won’t fit in her back pocket.

#

He screwed the pooch by giving voice to his feelings about public education when he spoke to the board of education at an open forum. He lambasted the superintendent for allowing the first two hours of every Monday for “special teacher’s training time”, and a number of other special days set aside for meetings, inclement weather, assemblies, picture day, senior day, statewide test day, etc. Turns out the district had 90 actual school days last year, and 80 percent of the seniors failed the state exams, behind Arkansas and Mississippi. His application to teach advanced placement math was rejected malevolently.

JEFFREY

Taking Advice
by Jeffrey Fischer

Sarah had always suffered from hearing voices in her head. Some part of her was aware that this was only a damaged part of her mind speaking, and she could usually push those voices away and ignore them.

A deep male voice would tell her to diet more or she’d never find a boyfriend. A sexy female voice would give her clothing advice. A shrill voice of indeterminate gender provided feedback on career decisions. When all three spoke at once, Sarah ended up with a headache.

In her firm’s kitchenette, Sarah stared at the last piece of cake left over from Jim’s retirement party. “Don’t eat the cake,” a deep voice said. She pushed it away. “I mean it, don’t eat the cake.” She closed her eyes and ignored it.

As she reached to take the cake, Betty from accounting slapped her hand away and grabbed the piece for herself. “You selfish jerk,” Betty said in a husky tone, “didn’t you hear me? Leave some for me.”

Democracy in Action
by Jeffrey Fischer

Ten-year-old Timmy came home from school, excited to tell his parents about his civics class. “Miss Crimmons says in a democracy everyone should have a voice.” Timmy’s parents were so charmed by this that they agreed to run the household as a democracy. Mom and Dad winked at each other, because they knew their two votes would always win over Timmy’s single vote.

The next day, Timmy explained that protecting the rights of the minority was important, and demanded a supermajority for important decisions, such as bed time or how many Brussels sprouts he had to eat. After that, Timmy had no trouble with his parents.

FOURWORLDS

Three rounds of chemo and thirty five radiation treatments killed the tumor at the base of my tongue. They also damaged my body from head to toe. I’d make that deal any day, but I miss my old life. I miss being able to sing. I miss being able to eat without sipping water after every bite. I miss understanding speech without captions or lip reading. I miss waking in the morning without ringing in my ears and pins and needles in my fingers and toes. But what I long for most of all is the blessed illusion of invulnerability.

DECATER

The Voice:

Stephen had a conversation with the voice every day. It tended to be an incessant dialogue until one or the other of them fell asleep. The voice cajoled and upbraided and urged him to do the worst things.

There was the time the voice commanded him to steal the money from his coworker’s till and she got fired. Or the time it wanted him to cheat on his girlfriend with that woman in the bar. Or his ongoing cocaine addiction.

What made the whole thing even more perverted was the voice sounded just like his third grade teacher, Miss Boggs.

TOM

Back in The Day
STAB was the most eclectic hair band of the 80s. Probably never hear of
them, in spite of the fact they released 14 albums and were the opening
act for Spinal Tap. Their debut record “Bonfire of the Vanities” a
selection of Shakespearean soliloquizes in Esperanza was an international
success. Rolling Stone called them the masters of Acid Raga. Front-man
Punchinello Tirebitter wailed with the phrasing of Sinatra and the
syncopation of Shatner. STAB’s seminal work “Three Forks and a Spoon”
never gained the air play of “Timmy in a Box” the deep track Schrodinger’s
Cat was totally prepost human.

A Well Defined Relationship 21
Mother turned to the Senator, “I’m not fond of heights,” she said staring
down at the ground four stories below. “Sorry, out of time,” replied the
Senator giving the Widow a push off the platform. Mother flew down the
zip-line, sailed over the Arno. A stabbing pain in her stomach rose up
into her throat. “Breath, silly woman,” she chastised herself in a
frontier fought with fear she was not about to let a childhood trauma get
the better of her. Hadn’t she stared down a Cathsore Viper and clocked a
Varsin Exopath. To no avail she lost her lunch.

A Well Defined Relationship 22

The Voice echoed out from heights of Mea Maxima Culpa. “Blood has been
spilled, blood is now demanded.” Timmy scanned the silver horizon and
found in the sea of angry faces a few earnest ones of support. Mother and
the Senator, Banister and Dino, Sparky and much to his surprise Doc
Proctor himself. Seven against thousands, well actually millions against
one. Timmy tapped the dermal control pad as he brushed the high priestess
hand. For the better part of a thousandth of a second Master Parsons
pondered the ethicacy of reprogramming another human. “BEHOLD HE HAS
RETURNED.” voiced the profit.

You Can’t Help Yourself

One of the simple joys in life is messing with people’s heads. It takes
the form of getting them to embracing your silliness just as they’re about
to dismiss you. One of my favorite gambits is the inverted “Have You Stop
Beating Your Wife” trap. In the original silence is the proper response.

Here goes. Michael is repairing a broken computer in your class. You
announce to the students you are hearing voices. Michael smirks. Then you
say: The voices tell me to give all my money to Michael. Nine out ten
Michael will yell out “Listen to the voice.”

MUNSI

Me in a Nutshell

By Christopher Munroe

You misunderstand me, I’m not unfeeling, merely uncaring.

As such, I feel your distress, I understand it completely.

I just don’t care.

I know you find me unbearable at times. It’s only natural. I am, at times, unbelievably irritating. To you, anyway.

Indeed, to most people. You’re by no means alone in your assessment.

I understand this perfectly. I simply choose not to act upon it.

Because, you see, I find the sound of my own voice incredibly soothing. Hearing me speak relaxes me to no end.

So, in answer to your question, no, I won’t shut the fuck up.

RICHARD

#1 – The attack

The attack happened later that night.

A sudden shout and the sound of gunfire roused George from sleep – something had gone wrong, badly wrong! Quickly, he grabbed his few belongings and ran for cover.

Hidden behind a stack of oil drums, he peered into the darkness, apart from shadows and the flash of weapons there was little he could make out. He shivered and crouched in the shadows.

A quiet sob in the darkness.

“Emily… is that you?”

“George? Where are you? I can’t see a thing.”

“Follow my voice Emily… I’m here. Everything’s going to be OK, I promise.”

#2 – Always the last place you look

When grandfather lost his voice, we practically turned the house upside-down trying to find it. We tried everywhere possible, and good few places that you wouldn’t have considered possible too. We checked the refrigerator, under the kitchen sink, in his sock drawer and even emptied the compost bin – but it was no use, grandpa’s voice was well and truly lost.

Eventually, tired, dirty and more than a little fed up, we decided to call off the search and I sank gratefully into my seat…

“OUCH!”

You guessed it… it was down the back of the sofa all the time!

#3 – How much?

Apparently, the pen is mightier than the sword and a picture is worth a thousand words, but I’ve never found anyone who can tell me what a voice is worth.

You’d think speech would have some sort of measure or, some method of calculating its value… but no, at least that’s what I thought.

It took me a while to work it out, but there it was, staring me right in the face and somehow, I’d never made the connection.

You want to know how much your voice is worth?

Just open up your phone bill and take a look!

#4 – Sounds familiar

My first day on the job: training fresh in my mind, script to hand – I was ready, with a sense of supreme self-confidence that only the foolish can boast.

I quietly repeated my mantra… “Grab their interest, grab their cash, grab the commission!” – Oh boy… was I going to be the best telesales agent ever!

Deep breath and dial.

A pause… one ring, two, three and, click!

Typical – my first call and I get voicemail! But hang on… that voice… strangely familiar.

I checked the screen in front of me – would you believe it? I’d dialled my own number!

ZACKMANN

STORY #1

“I might be overstressed. I have been hearing a voice saying the oddest things.”

“Nothing bad I hope. This voice isn’t telling you to do things?”

“Well actually yes but not anything really to fear. It tells me to wash behind my ears, balance my checkbook, and text my mother.”

“Son, does this voice sound very familiar to you?”

“Yes, like my mother’s.”

“With work and school you haven’t been spending much time home, have you?”

“No.”

“Ask your roommate when is he going to tell you he bought an answering machine for which he gave your mother the number?”

STORY #2

“Hey look that’s the Fuck You Song Guy on TV.”

“Honeyko, if you don’t want to have an unpleasant night you better watch your vulgar mouth and and not talk bad about Cee Lo Green.”

“Dearest, just because you have only heard the radio version of the song doesn’t mean the original isn’t still online where it was popular first.”

“Honeyko, Just quiet and let me watch The Voice.”

“You mean they made The Voice form Three Minute Danger Theater into a TV show, cool.”

“No”

“How can this be The Voice when it doesn’t even have a ventriloquist policeman?”

SPATE

Voice of Destiny

Thus little Jonathan was thrust into this world exhibiting vocal qualities unremarkable to all except his mother. She lay drenched in sweat, half delirious, weeping from pain and joy, thinking “This voice is destined for greatness.”

“Maybe he’ll be a singer,

or an actor,

or a politician.”

But our lives rarely turn out the way our mothers expect.

And while he wasn’t rich or famous or powerful, John was very happy. Ironically, he was most happy about his voice. You see, at his job he enjoyed making women quiver with desire whenever he asked:

“Would you like fries with that?”

SERENDIPITY

You should speak, they say – use your voice.

To me, that seems all wrong: I am not real – I’m an imaginary person – a construct of pixels and ideas, not real at all.

I cannot eat, sleep, drink or breathe; my every action is dictated by another; I am as distant from the world of flesh and blood as a dream is distant from reality. Why give me a voice when the words I speak are those of another and the thoughts I express are not uniquely mine?

And if I did have a voice… would you listen to me anyway?

CLIFF

The first thing I checked was the communicator station. It was silent. Mission control wasn’t talking to us. Then I checked on Orlosky. He was sound asleep in his bag and after three months in orbit with the Russian, I knew he didn’t talk in his sleep. So, where was that voice coming from. It was intermittent, quiet, and annoying as hell. My mind listed possibilities. Ghost? Stowaway? Space madness? It turned out to be a preprogrammed microspeaker that I was sure Sullivan left on his last tour. So, I set it up for Orlosky. We astronauts can be assholes.

Her voice was a kind of sexual magic. Men would empty their accounts at her request. They would abandon families just for a chance to carry her bags. Her power had corrupted her and she would ask men to do things just to see them destroy themselves for her. She met her match in Roy. Her voice had no effect on him. The reason eluded her and she hated it. Was he gay? Deaf? She discovered the truth when he calmly strangled her and saved the world. Her voice simply couldn’t compete with all the ones already in his head.

TURA

Everyone has a voice. The ones you usually hear about are the multiples, Legions saying nasty things from within, but we’re all sorts. Still small voices, voices pretending to be spirits from Mars, thunderous voices like the chap in all the Hollywood film trailers. Some are silent– you know, the inner urging of conscience in the still of the night, the presence closer than your own heartbeat.

You probably think you’re a real person, and the voice is just some sort of brain quirk. The truth is, we’re the real people. You’re just the semi-intelligent machines that move our bodies.

HELEN

I love my friends for sharing their Voices, and I love the 100 Word Story prompt, Voice.

My Voice represents truths, honesty, and engages logical thinking. My Voice is inspired by other voices that engage the mind to use knowledge versus stupidity. What’s your voice?

My Voice

My Voice fights for justice freedom and equality

My Voice fights hatred Antisemitism and ignorance

My Voice helps, feeds, and clothes

My Voice is fragile, soft, and loud

My Voice is quiet

My Voice is mysterious, and creative

My Voice has a mission

My Voice is love

My Voice is original and my own…

JULIE

I am home. There is a party downstairs to which I was not invited. I am pissed off. I like a party, and I wanted to wear a pretty dress.

This band seems to specialize in voices. First, one man sounds like John Lennon, and then Frank Sinatra. There is a lady who does Etta James. I am not there, of course, because I was not invited and pretend not to listen. Now, there is a George Harrison voice. The Paul harmony guy sucks.

I dance better than all the hedge fund wives and swirl happily in my cheap apartment.

JUSTIN

It’s always different when you meet someone in person. I’ve heard his voice is some Starfleet training and while researching some records, but to meet Ambassador Worf face to face was something else. Deep below the surface of Mol’Rihan, standing before an Iconian gateway controlled by the Romulan Republic, witnessing history. I’ve had many great moments in my career as a Starfleet captain, but this was the start of something huge, something bigger than I ever would have expected. Someone has been pulling the strings of the galaxy for an age. I aim to be there to sever their ties.

NORVAL JOE

Piermont Freedangle sat alone at a long table in the back room of Seniora Pinche’s Cafe y donuteria. His local writer’s meetup group had met, drank coffee and ate donuts, then critiqued one another’s monthly submission. The rest of the group had left long ago, and quite abruptly when he may have overreacted to a critique by an older woman who claims literary fiction is the only prose worth reading.
Piermont stood and shouted, “You want me to find my voice? Well, here’s my voice. Now, why don’t you find it?”
He sat down, realizing he had clearly lost it.

DANNY

(The Village) Voice

I still read the Village Voice online, but it just isn’t the same as when I would read my free copy every Wednesday while attending Law School in NYC in the early 1990s. Right after the Wednesday morning lecture, I would rush to the main hallway, grab my free copy off the stack, sit down in the cafeteria, and immediately flip to the back pages to determine what music club I was going to Saturday night after work. CBGB’s, Wetlands, Kenny’s Castaways, the Limelight, clubs that no longer exist, distant memories in a corporate city that has lost its soul.

MAGGY

Suddenly he heard a voice – Dan. No. There was no one around. Dan was gone.

He checked the recorder. Dan was often recording stuff. Reckoned it kept him sane.

Poor old Dan. Lost a lot of his hearing after the beating he got.

No. No voice on the recorder. Bit of piano music, that’s all.

But it was a voice. Whose? Not mine, not Paddy’s…it sounded more like Dan’s.

This room…This is where he…Better get out of here. “Hello, Szy.” It was Dan’s

voice, deep, soft. “Where are you?” I stood by the piano. It played.

SINGH

16.10

the voice was a bird on a buffalo

the twitter of crimson claws

boys raised bhangra digits to the sky

pink ribbons jiggled on girls’ plaits

the voice rattled the pipal leaves

the harmonium wheezed through its puncture
the heel of a hand worked its drum-skin

palms clapped with happy static

a deep pulse tolled from head to head

and finger cymbals set off other ringing

now the voice was a river in a flood

flowing through the ether through the akaash

the bird voice rode the back of power

and swallows did their figure-eight flight

and wrote infinity above

16.11

His voice became a tall tale taken home:

White Yogi with a guitar and happy clapping.

Passed around, the God chants kept repeating.
Celebrity swelled weekly to a crowd

that gathered in the mandir where bells rang

each time a parent came to offer fruit

or sweet rice, a flower, then sat down

to join the swelling sea of Hare Ram.

A drummer brought his expert dholak fingers

and a line of ladies chimed their finger cymbals

as Yogi led the chant and added English.

It sat awkward on their rustic tongues
while Foreign Madam clapped on at the back.

16.12

He took Bob Marley’s rock words

and sang them to their source:

bum bum Bhola bum bum Bhola
hail the Simple, Lord of Blessings
bum bum Bholenath

A masala of holy Names

a salty namkeen mix

Om Jai Shiv Omkara
Hail Shiva who is Om

Shiva Shambo Shiva Shambo
Shiva Shiva el Supremo

He wanted to sing more
from his notebook songs:

carry me over the worldly ocean,
over the sea of samsara

Hey Mahadeva

Oh my Lord Deliverer.

In the end he sang simple, Bhola,
Bam Bam Bholenath

call and response call and response
like the tides of the Ganga.

16. 13

Fame spread far, while Yogi kept on singing A to Z in school beneath the wish tree.
The alphabet song would rise and fall until

strumming stopped; he’d sign language

to their giggles, then started off again.

They followed his songlines beyond letters

into words. Soon were trading Hindi:
apple for saib, rice for padi field
orange was mosmani, banana became kela

a conga line made ‘elephant’ a hatti

a yogi with kids in tow went trumpeting
up and down the dirt with arms raised up
to noses like baby trunks, while little Atul
clapped hairy halves of a coconut behind.

16.14

Overbrimming with curriculum and accounts

she wiped the office desk of mouse dirt

and listened through the window with no glass

as he free-styled out there beneath the tree.

She was glad to let her barked-out voice rest up,
although she’d have to whistle him along

with pedagogy. Just a lesson plan or two.

Yes, he had great entertainment value, but

would run out of steam. Or they would, sooner or later.

A teacher needed more in the bag of tricks

to do her sleight of hand to pass the ace

before the God of Structure rang the bell.

16.15

And then it hit her,

sitting on the throne

of her flat metal chair

that bit at her hipbone.

Yogi was good with kids

although not her own.

For all that Adelaide time

and hard travelling alone,

they hadn’t let him in

and did their spoilt moan

to Papa, their howitzer

first chance on the phone.

He’d fired it back at her

his rain of shrapnel blown,

even though he had left her

for that sharp-nosed clone

of a wife who had stolen

the Frenchman, She would atone

one day for husband theft.

All was on short term loan.

16.16

She voiced sharper feelings to herself,

then realised she shouldn’t speak at all.

Margot was free as the gecko on the shelf,

while Yogi was a snail learning to crawl.

For now, he had song’s aura and could wow

a crowd of devotees and do child care.

In this place of wheat fields ready to plough

he might grow up to speak true through hot air.

But fans were closing ranks. Was he the star,

the next to fall flat through fame’s love affair?

She closed her eyes and saw the town bazaar
and beyond her singer with his hot guitar.

MAGGY

Suddenly he heard a voice – Dan. No. There was no one around. Dan was gone.

He checked the recorder. Dan was often recording stuff. Reckoned it kept him sane.

Poor old Dan. Lost a lot of his hearing after the beating he got.

No. No voice on the recorder. Bit of piano music, that’s all.

But it was a voice. Whose? Not mine, not Paddy’s…it sounded more like Dan’s.

This room…This is where he…Better get out of here. “Hello, Szy.” It was Dan’s

voice, deep, soft. “Where are you?” I stood by the piano. It played.

PLANET Z

The opera announced that the entire week’s performances were cancelled.

The diva had lost her voice. The performances would be rescheduled when her voice returned, but refunds were available.

I know they’re lying, because her voice isn’t lost.

It’s being held for ransom.

Here. In this coffee can.

That’s right. I stole it.

I want one million dollars for it. And I know that the insurance company will cover it.

They tried to trick me into letting them hear it over the phone, but I know that’s how voices can escape.

It ain’t over until the fat lady pays up.

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 STAB.

We’ve got stories by:

• Jeffrey
• Thomas
• John
• Zackmann
• Munsi
• Spate
• Richard
• Tom
• Julie
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Tura Brezoianu
• Singh
• Serendipity
• Danny
• Norval Joe
• Justin
• Lizzie
• Planet Z

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

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.

JEFFREY

Questions and Answers
by Jeffrey Fischer

Sweat trickled down Billy’s armpits as the time ticked away. He needed a good grade on this history test to avoid failing the class and being sent to summer school. That one question, though… he didn’t want to leave any blank answers, so he took a stab in the dark.

Mrs. Henderson asked Billy to stay after class. “This -” She waved his answer sheet in his face. “- shows that you have no command of the material. What were you thinking when you wrote that Custer’s Last Stand was, and I quote, ‘That shack on the beach that’s now a t-shirt shop’?”

Billy mumbled, “In class, you always say there are no stupid questions.”

Mrs. Henderson replied, “Yes, but there *are* stupid answers.”

The Stabbing Game
by Jeffrey Fischer

When we were young and, yeah, maybe a little foolish, my friends would play what we called the Stabbing Game. Remember “Name that Tune”? Contestants would bid down the number of notes in which they could name some popular song. “I can name that tune in two notes.” Insane, I used to think.

Our version involved a pen knife and a dare: where would you be willing to stab yourself? Highest bidder got to do it and won…well, our admiration. I was a wimp and always picked some small body part: a little finger, or a foot. I never won. Yvonne occasionally got to stab her palm. But the biggest winner was the kid we later called one-eyed Pete.

A Stab at Bats
by Jeffrey Fischer

The Animal Control guy emerged from the attic, covered in dust and ancient cobwebs. “Ma’am, I hate to say this, but I’ve looked everywhere in your attic and I don’t see any evidence of animals. Usually there’d be droppings at the very least, and most times we’d catch the critters napping at this time of day. But I found nothing.”

The woman put a hand on her hips, lit a cigarette, took a drag, and stared at the man. “Didn’t you see an entire bag full of Louisville Sluggers up there? My lazy ex-husband left them behind and I want them gone.”

“Why would you call Animal Control for something like that?” he asked.

She replied, “It says quite clearly on your truck: bat removal. Now get to it!”

THOMAS

Anyone that has read my previous work surmises I will use “stabbing pain” in at least one of my submissions. Nope. Sorry. I won’t. I will, however, take a stab at some stories that do not use “stabbing pain”, and see how I do with a couple of rollicking fables. Let’s see. Maybe a story about how a friend was stabbed in the heart as a result of losing the love of his life to a cabana boy during a short vacation in Baja. Better yet, an erotic animal fable about the turmoil between two pigs on my uncle’s farm.

#

The stab method of Japanese book binding was taught by an older woman in her home studio near the shore. She charged a modest fee for the day, which included all the materials, snacks and drinks, and plenty of personal instruction. I made two books that day, and started on a third. The little books are covered with cloth, have end papers, and are sewn or bound together with waxed sail twine. I treasure them, and keep them safe on my bookcase in plastic bags. Some day, someone will be going through my possessions and use them for grocery lists.

#

It just wasn’t the knife in my back, it was the size of the knife in my back. Stabbed in the back over a minor quibble with the sister of a student that was visiting my classroom. I asked her what she was doing there, and why couldn’t she stay home by herself. She was college age, but there must have been something wrong at home. She had no business being there, but I was in trouble with the female dean, guilty of some trumped up charge of harassment, so I found myself being asked to resign, immediately. I refused.

#

As counselors for the summer camp, each of us was issued a stab vest. A stab vest, or stab proof vest is a reinforced piece of body armor, worn under or over other items of clothing, which is designed to resist knife attacks to the chest, back and sides. Last summer, one of the campers was angry with the lunch menu and attempted to stab three counselors with a sharpened butter knife. The camp, sponsored by the Mormon Church, was used to rehabilitate those that toppled monuments in the ancient desert rock formations in the Goblin Valley Park in Utah.

#

STAB (Stupid TA Bastard) is British Army slang for a Territorial Army soldier. Territorial Soldiers come from all walks of life and work part-time as soldiers for the British Army alongside regular soldiers. Lucy Vallender spent years denying her feelings of being “in the wrong body,” joining the Territorial Army when she was twenty one in an effort to become more manly. Laurens “used to love firing guns,” and drank regularly with other members of his squad. Now, as a transgender, Muslim Woman, and married to a Muslim man she met on line, Lucy no longer plays with her gun.

JOHN

Internet Date

I thought; “With the right catch; you are sure to become successful, wealthy
and happy.”
She was a perfect specimen. Young and strong, and in this day and age I must
add; free of disease.
I looked down on her nude body adorningly as she lay peacefully.
My peaked anticipation was such that I had to steady my hands from
trembling.
I opened my bag of “toys” that I had brought for this evenings desire.
The ice in her bathtub began to melt where she lay face down.
After the precise incisions, extracting her kidneys was easy; a perfect
harvest.

ZACKMANN

“Welcome to Mandania General. Please tell us about your injury. Oh my you are bleeding and your leg has turned white as paper. Tell me what happened as you fill out these forms.”

The receptionist returns Charlie’s insurance card attached to a clipboard.

“I had to fight the evil wizard, who may not actually have been evil but still thought it inconvenient for me to live. As I thrust my blade through his chest he plunged the tail of a small demond into my calf. I fear it has to be amputated because I wasn’t just sliced, I was imp-paled. “

MUNSI

A Pep Talk (part II)

By Christopher Munroe

Waiting tables isn’t tough, once you get the hang of it.

When things become stressful, just remember my simple, four-step process, and it will get you through.

See to your guest’s every need, want and desire.

Treat them like you’d want to be treated, were you in their place.

Anticipate requests, so you can give them what they want before they even know that they want it.

Be friendly. Above all else, be friendly.

In short: S.T.A.B. them.

S.T.A.B. the customers who sit in your section.

S.T.A.B. every single one of them.

And make it clear: “I will S.T.A.B. you.”

SPATE

Nipping It in the Butt

It was a strange twist of fate that left John living a life of clichés but he managed to go with the flow.

Like when his Dodge Dart died on a backwoods road, of course he found the farmhouse… with the farmer… and the farmer’s daughter.

You probably guessed it, one thing led to another with the daughter, until a stab in the dark by the farmer abruptly ended that roll in the hay.

You should have seen the look on John’s face: caught with his pants down, pitchfork protruding from his posterior.

That’s one picture worth a hundred words.

RICHARD

#1 – Back down to earth

Pondering how he should proceed with his conquest of Emily, George found himself unexpectedly reeling when a sudden stab of conscience brought home to him the realisation that he was thinking like a savage.

“This is how society breaks down”, he admonished himself, shocked at how easily he’d allowed his morals to fall victim to baser instincts. Silently, he cursed his weakness – if he and his comrades were to survive, it wouldn’t be through indulging in selfishness – they’d need teamwork and a common cause.

It would be difficult, but he knew it was possible.

At least, he hoped it was!

#2 – Watch Your back!

Be careful how you choose your friends – be sure you can trust them and they won’t let you down in a crisis.

Do as I say, not as I do… I’m a hopeless judge of character – many times I’ve relied on so-called ‘friends’ who turned out to be the complete opposite when the going got tough.

These days, I expect to have my trust betrayed and be left shouldering the blame… I can spot the signs a mile off.

And when I do, rather than protest, plead and reason, I simply turn my back…

and wait for the knife.

#3 – Well prepared

Packing for the holiday was proving to be more traumatic than usual:

Clothes, sunblock, toiletries, mosquito repellent, stab vest…

“Honey, why the stab vest? We’re going to Disneyland, not Afghanistan.”

“You can never be too careful – who knows what we might come across when we get there. I’d rather be over-prepared than caught out in an emergency.”

“Don’t you think you’re taking things a bit too far though? It’s Disneyland, for heaven’s sake – nobody ever got stabbed in Disneyland. You’re not going to get stabbed in Disneyland!”

“Damn right I’m not – just as long as I’m wearing this baby!”

TOM

That Was the Last Thing On His Mind

He felt a stabbing pain in his arm sufficient enough to make him pause.
That was followed by a stabbing pain in his chest that brought him to his
knees. The world turned all shimmering gray, then black, then a dull red.
A stabbing pain in the shoulder caused him to snap his head backwards. A
trolly looking creature was prodding him forward with a spear. “OH HELL,”
said Timmy. “Got that right Slim,” chortled Troll-boy applying another
jab. Sulfur and brimstone blurred his vision, through his tear he could
make out their destination. A flashing neon sign read B-I-N-G-O

JULIE

One day last year, you fell while walking the dog. “I am just dizzy,” you said. “Inoperable brain tumor,” the doctor proclaimed.

Nothing worked.

Rachel fed you while your companion went to work, or chose not to deal. She curled in bed near you, stabbing your favorite food, and kept your mind off the inevitable. That is what sisters do.

It happened too fast. 49 days. She didn’t leave and held your hand when you died.

Rachel sent off sparkly red balloons into the sky, along with your ashes into Long Island Sound. We will pretend it is the Aegean.

CLIFF

Zack was a hustler. He’d do anything for a buck as long as it was illegal, as he felt that honest work was for suckers. He cheated at cards. He ran small cons in bars. He once sold a truck to three different people. It wasn’t even his truck. His conscience finally got the better of him. He convinced Sarah that he loved her and would marry her if she could just help him pay off a debt. She did, and the guilt made him commit suicide. Stabbed himself in the chest thirty times, according to Sarah’s dad, the sheriff.

Mr. Anderson, the owner of the hardware store, stared me in the eye.
“Guns are for cowards. Anyone can shoot a gun. Point, pull the trigger, bang! There’s no art, no sport to it. If you really want to know what death is like, you gotta stab him. You gotta watch his eyes as you slide a blade between his ribs and into his heart. If you want it to last a while, try to just get the lungs. Slow and painful. You know, if he deserves it.”
“Thanks, but I need a caulk gun. I’m fixing my bath tub.”

TURA

There was once a fisherman, who fell on bad luck. He vowed to make one last trip to sea, and if he caught nothing, he would drown himself. All day he cast his nets and drew them back empty, but on his last cast it took all his strength to haul them in. Yet he found nothing but an old bottle sealed with lead. In rage he shattered it on the deck, and from it emerged a genie.

“Your wish is my command,” it intoned.

“Well, stap me vitals!” exclaimed the astonished fisherman.

And so his luck finally ran out.

SINGH

From “Foreign Madam and the White Yogi”

16.5

It was clear that Yogi had some work to do.

The collapse of his grass castle was perhaps

a blessing, she thought, although she would not say

outright and crush his heart. The winds had come

and kicked him in the gut, but had they knocked

sense into his head? Calamities were a stab

in the back of a farmer’s faith in clement weather

whose turbulent face hid the will of God.
Here, they were next day’s business to be set straight.
But what would Yogi do? Return to the river,

clear his mind of clods and plant fresh thoughts?

16.6

And so the women got down again with gobar

redoing compound surfaces, restoring chullahs,

the squat-down ovens made from mud and dung.

They fetched and carried, picked up and put down,

they shunted husbands off to the fields and brought

some food and drink at midday. Then they came

back to eat some, scrub pots with ash, take a nap
before the sibling squabbles would start up.

They were the domestic goddesses of grit

with shit up under fingernails, and yet

lost it washing and scrubbing daily clothes

which also gave them time alone with water.

16.7

Revived they came back to peel the vegetables,

crush the ginger, onions, garlic and chilli mix

to be fried flavour for the evening pot of dhal.

They cooked on hot plates, throwing down their rounds

of chapatis made from wheat ground on a stone.

Margot still held back from kitchen gossip time.

She had come to teach, not be the slave of dough.

After all, Yogi was deft with food. She washed

the dishes, cups and steel pots, while he sat down

on the bed of thali wood with a thin mattress

and pulled out from its dusty case, his guitar.

16.8

But what to do with Yogi? Next morning

she brought him to school. “Now play on your guitar,”

she asked. He settled on a hessian bag

and sang a self-made tune for Hari Krishna Hari Ram

Krishna, Krishna, Hare, Hare — the mantra

he had learned from devotees at an North Coast ashram.

He had busked his way across the continent

and had arrived here now to sing with Krishna’s kids.

It was a charming switch, a stab in a new direction.

He had a knack with groups and just maybe

he might also be taught to teach. She planned ahead.

16.9

So he became a hit

with school kids after lunch.
He chanted simple sanskrit

mixing in his English.

Ganesha sharanam
sharanam Ganesha

to the elephant surrender

surrender to the elephant.

They parroted back

singing out of tune.

Ganesha sharanam
sharanam Ganesha

to the elephant surrender

surrender to the elephant.

Squirrels ran up and down

the tree trunk where he sat

and minah birds were busy

keeping tabs on bugs,

while out on the fresh fields

where the tractor had just ploughed

the herons stepped and stabbed

into the sandy land

with beaks like darning needles

threading strings of worms.

SERENDIPITY

Stab victims are boring.

Give me a juicy gunshot through the head, or a decent drowning, with a bloated corpse and fish-nibbled flesh. Better still, how about a good old fashioned plunge from a high-rise? You just can’t beat a nice splat, with a generous helping of scattered body parts.

A simple stabbing though? – Not that much to it: entry wound, a nick to a vital organ and that’s all… finished.

Boring.

Unless you can give me a proper, frenzied, all out knife attack, with multiple wounds and plenty of blood… Now that’s what I call a stabbing!

DANNY

“I’ll take a stab at it!” George exclaimed, pulling out his carving knife and taking a stab at the pumpkin. The pumpkin screamed back, “My god! You stabbed me!” The pumpkin suddenly sprouted arms and legs, grabbed George’s carving knife, and started to stab at George, who started to run. “It’s time for you to die, meat-bag!” the enraged pumpkin screamed. “Who are you?” George screamed back. “I’m the devil,” sneered the pumpkin, “here for your soul.” “As long as I can run faster than you, pumpkin, I’m grateful you do not have an AK47.”

NORVAL JOE

Smoke hung thick against the low ceiling of the inn’s common room. Two assasins bent across a small table, so close their hoods almost touched. No one paid their whispered conversation any heed until the smaller of the two drew back and stabbed a knife into the table top.
They turned back to their own business when the second stood and pulled the knife back out.
“You’ll be sorry you chose as you did,” he said, dropped the knife onto the table, turned and left the inn.
“You’re likely correct,” the other said, slipping the knife back into her belt.

JUSTIN

I peered from the vent shaft into the room. There was a desk and chair in the subterranean chamber. Two people walked in wearing hoods. The spoke, their voices mushy, speaking of plans and machinations. These were the evil behind Innsmouth and the Marsh Refinery. After a minute, only the tall person remained to see me fall when the grate broke. He wasn’t human, not with that face. I pulled a knife from the desk and ran around the room, dodging claws and teeth, then in a moment, I used all my strength to shove the blade into its heart.

LIZZIE

Stabbing that pile of rubbish wasn’t such a brilliant idea… It looked like a harmless heap of trash, leaking a gooey matter that seemed like something coming from the remains of a dead animal. The kids goofed about, throwing the knife they stole from the butcher’s at each other first. Then, considering the real danger of such a game, they decided to stab the stack of unusual bags. When it suddenly turned around, spitting gooey stuff all over them, it was already too late. They were all the nourishment that alien needed to complete its transformation to become a human.

PLANET Z

In Dungeons and Dragons, thieves and assassins get a damage bonus when they stab someone in the back.

However, they can only use certain weapons, like daggers and short swords. They cannot use polearms. Or crossbows. Or sofa cushions.

That’s right. You cannot backstab someone with a sofa cushion.

But if you want to kill someone with a sofa cushion, you need to catch them asleep. Then, smother them with it.

You can’t do that with a dagger or a short sword, can you? Or with a polearm or crossbow?

Nope.

And you can’t cushion your sofa with them, either.