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 RIVER.

We’ve got stories by:

• Thomas
• Jeffrey
• John
• Lizzie
• Richard
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Tom
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Serendipity
• Bonchance and Sevi
• RedGoddess
• Danny
• Norval Joe
• Justin
• Singh
• Tura Brezoianu
• Planet Z

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

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

The river of words flowed through my mind. Moving quickly, twisting and turning with the currents, bumping against the banks on their way to the river’s mouth and the open sea. When I awoke, I would try to remember the words that played tag, bumped into each other, or joined as they wound through the river’s course. I would look at the notebook on my night table, squinting to read the rough scratches I made in the night, if I awoke from a dream. Some days, I would be lucky enough to pour some of these words out onto paper.

#

The hobo lived in a shack by the river. As a boy, we’d go down to the river to throw stones, and harass the black man that lived in a shanty near the river’s edge. We would yell taunts, jump up and down, and run away if he stepped out of his shack. He was something unique, unusual and unknown that made us do what we did. He was attacked as he fished for his supper. He never yelled at us, and kept his head down. I am still saddened and ashamed, more than sixty years later. Forgive me, please.

#

In spite of a painful creek in his neck, he was able to put together new lyrics to the tune, Old Man River, employing the stream of conscious method he learned at The Little School of Mystery and Heirloom Tomatoes in Boulder, Colorado. A deluge of ideas cascaded through his brain, as he constructed new lyrics for the tune, as a present for the 44th birthday of the master. The tune began with the words, “Old Guru, Larry, That Old Man Larry, he must know something, but he doesn’t say nothing, he just keeps meditating, he keeps on meditating alone.”

#
I wish I had a river that I could canoe away on. A long, blue, sparkling, clean, river – full of jumping fish; flashes of Blue Herons and folks picnicking on the banks in straw hats, playing with their children and the family dog. A surprise around every corner.

I wish had a river, straight, and easy to paddle…a light current that would carry me forward to a place where everyone, everyone, has a good word or a smile, and the sun is out…for as long as I like. A river I could float on, as my time grows close.

JEFFREY

Honeymoon
by Jeffrey Fischer

Standing on their stateroom’s balcony, the couple watched the countryside move by as the ship left the river and slowly ventured into the ocean. Behind them, the sun sank slowly below the horizon, casting the water with a gentle orange glow. The woman shivered slightly in the cool evening air, and the man put his arm around her. Waves crested and crashed, causing the ship to bob slightly in the shallow coastal waters.

A second marriage for both of them, he couldn’t help think of it as a second chance as well, an opportunity to avoid the mistakes he had made the first time around. He knew, though, that the hard part was about to begin, that their ship had left the safety of the river for the uncertainties of the ocean, and sometimes the waves were very large.

Up the River
by Jeffrey Fischer

When Clyde was convicted of robbery for the first time, he didn’t know much prison lingo. However, even he thought he knew what it meant to be sent “up the river,” so he was quite surprised to find himself on a cleanup crew assigned to the state park upriver. Sporting an orange jumpsuit, he and his fellow convicts picked up trash left by anti-social tourists, trimmed trees, and cleared brush. It was unpleasant work in a pleasant environment.

The best part of the work was the education Clyde received. In addition to a newfound appreciation for the outdoors, he learned the secrets of older, albeit not very successful, criminals, and planned his next three robberies.

JOHN

The Journey of a River Named Emmanuel
by John Musico

Emmanuel was born of the highest mountaintop which was snowy white and looked down upon the world below.
Given legs, Emmanuel meandered down the mountainside. As he cascaded from one region to another, he cleansed the earth in his path.
Finally Emmanuel’s journey led to an arid land named Calvary where the heat beat down upon him transforming him to vapor.
He floated higher and higher above the clouds- returning to the mountaintop; rejoining with his father.
After he had ascended to the sky, there was no trace of his existence upon the land. Emmanuel wondered if he’d be remembered.

LIZZIE

The river twisted and turned in a familiar path. When Rick saw that last new turn, he was confused. It was blocked by debris, so he jumped off the boat to investigate. The more he tried to shove the debris aside, the deeper he was buried in it. First, he saw an arm… He got closer, carefully. The body was face down, bloated, scratched. Although disgusted by the looks of it, Rick turned it over and saw his own face. He remembered now. He had been lost in the river, looking for the way out for weeks, after that storm…

RICHARD

#1 – Emily

Over the course of the ensuing days, George had plenty of opportunity to get to know his new found allies. Apart from the occasional sorties to scavenge supplies for the group, there was little else to occupy his time.

He found himself gravitating towards Emily, a thirty-something woman, with dreadlocked hair and a decidedly new age outlook on their situation.

“Life”, she would say, “is a river… we are caught in its current and swept along with it – resisting its flow is pointless.”

George thought she was barking mad, but she amused him, and it helped pass the time.

#2 – Crossing over

People wonder why I do this job and not something a little less creepy.

I can understand, but every job has perks – it’s a steady wage and no chance of being replaced by a machine or a sudden fall in demand. It’s a skilled profession, and I’m not stuck behind an office desk all day.

Then there’s the people… you’d be amazed at the characters I get to meet. In fact, it’s only a matter of time before our paths cross, and it’s your turn to cross the river… and then you’ll see I’m the best damn ferryman there is!

#3 – Against the flow

A river of blood caused an ocean of tears – emotions burst their banks and flooded the land, yet peace it seems, was simply a bridge too far.

The glib words of politicians washed over us: wave after wave of meaningless flotsam, pouring from a wellspring of washed-out speechwriters – a fast-flowing current of rhetoric… we were drowning in propaganda.

It was clear the politicians didn’t give a damn. The tide of public opinion turned: anger overflowed, bubbling over in an outpouring of resentment – a watershed had been reached – revolution!

Finally… peace! And the soldiers began to stream back home.

CLIFF

Clyde stood on the moonlit bridge looking down at the river. Thin ice covered the water near the shore, but her e in the center, it flowed dark and inviting. “Looks like you could drop the whole town in there and no one would ever find it,” he said. He took a deep breath, building up his courage. “They’ll probably say it’s a cowardly thing to do, but a man can only be pushed so far. At least now, maybe I can find some peace.” Then Clyde lifted his neighbor’s musical Christmas yard statue and dropped it over the side.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship part 19

The center of Bowsmen was triangulated by three rivers. The Tiber
running North to South, the Arno East to West, the Rubicon running
North-by-Nortwest. The island in the confluence of these rivers was called
the Mea Culpa. Along the banks of the Mea Culpa stood the highest
concentration of temples, synagogs, church, Mosque in the solar system. At
it’s apex sat Mea Maxima Culpa with its newly ruined temple. The shattered
remains of a mosaic depicting the Eight Armed bringer of noodles. The
Pastafarites pour over the Bridge of Sighs thus crossing the Rubicon
“Alea iacta est” thought Timmy

The River

Alma Sue and Billy spent the summer skin dipping in the river beside the
refinery. Alma Sue ever shy always had Billy turn his back while she
undressed. Billy dutiful turned and closed his eyes till he heard the
splash. With the cloak of the dark waters she would sidled up to Billy.
Despite the glow of her crucifix Alma Sue felt safe in the river. Zombies
can’t swim, but they’re damn good floaters Prone to hyper gag reflex there
was little chance they would attempt a bit in the water.
As clusters float by you could hear: brains brains.

Broken Promise

When I saw the topic strains of the Bruce Springsteen flowed cross my
mind. “Go down to the river and into the river we dive.” Being a
contemporary of the Boss I know well the deeper meaning of that river.
When everything was extracted it was abandoned. A promise so deeply broken
it can scarey be captured in words. But he did ” I got Mary pregnant, man
that was all she wrote.” Good lord that was two generation ago. What’s
this place going to look like when the rest of the hope is gone. go down
to the river.

MUNSI

On the Subject of Wisdom

By Christopher Munroe

Every river flows into the sea.

It’s the sort of thing that sounds immensely profound, pregnant with meaning. The sort of koan in which deep truths can be found, if only you find the wisdom within yourself to really look, to truly understand…

…and yet, if you stop to think about it, it’s a completely meaningless turn of phrase. Factually accurate, but with no more depth than the equally true “ice is cold”, or “the sun does shine”.

Nonetheless, say it to somebody after a few drinks, in the right context, and who knows? It might just get you laid…

ZACKMANN

“I thought you had such a good idea to take a boat on the river and head south for the winter maybe ending up at the Red River but you know how you thought all rivers flow the same way; south?”

“Yeah Joe, since all rivers run south we’ll get someplace warmer maybe the gulf in Mexico.”

“That Welcome to Canada sign makes me think we took a wrong branch and are on the Red River of the North which flows north. All rivers do flow the same direction; downhill. Hopefully you’ll really like spending the winter on Lake Winnipeg ”
zackmann

SERENDIPITY

Old Jake was legendary to those whose weekends were spent at the river.

There wasn’t an angler among us who hadn’t lost a prize catch to him, or sat shivering on the river bank throughout the long cold night, hoping to ensnare the wily pike.

Jake was the source for many a yarn, retold in the Fishermans’ Arms, where he was known as ‘The River Spirit’. It was said with confidence that he’d never be caught, not by any mortal means at any rate.

How wrong they were!

It’s amazing how effective a couple of sticks of dynamite can be!

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

River Street Library

Jim decided to make a detour to his local library on River Street prior to the start of his work week.

Five minutes to opening there was a large crowd waiting for the doors to unlock. It had been a bitter cold night. Winter’s chill lingered in the morning air as he gathered his collection of borrowed Edger Allen Poe books.

Jim remembered days when there was less talk of economic recovery and fewer people huddled to gain access to the warm River Street Library.

Jim relished the comfort of his jacket against his skin with hope in his heart.

RED

There is a river that runs through Lola’s neighborhood to the hotel. Many residents treasure it as if it were “La seine” itself. Lola gazes through the foggy bus windows with sadness as she watches the fishermen, rowers, boaters and ducks on the water, soaking in nature’s beauty. It occurs to her, she has never taken a walk, had a picnic or even rode a ferry to the many islands close by. It’s ironic that tourists seem to explore the city more fully than those who live here.

DANNY

The movie “A River Run’s Through It” was the first thing that came to mind as heavy rain caused the river behind my home to flood its banks. Now a river literally runs through my home. Walls are missing, but frame and foundation is holding strong. Hopefully FEMA will take that into consideration before hiking my flood insurance premiums. Thanks, Florida, for not presenting any legal challenge to the rate hikes, filing a “friend of the court” brief supporting Mississippi’s case doesn’t help. I have no idea what this has to do with fly fishing, Brad Pitt, or rural Montana.

NORVAL JOE

Yellow flourescent tubes flickered and went dark, robbing the shopper of their meager luminescence. A brown glow beyond the register implied an avenue of escape. The cashier, his waxy corpse, a silouette against a shadow, sat on his stool, a rigor mortis guard.
Behind himself, buried in the darkness, a frozen-section compressor, thumped, rattled, then hissed its last, dying breath.
A mouse, alone, skittered past his feet, then another, and more, a river of peeping, squeeking vermin flowed down the aisle, past the rotting sentry and away, free.
The shopper didn’t move, couldn’t move, frozen, alone forever in his hell.

JUSTIN

I am a game character! I have mighty power! I can carry fifty guns, I can hold four hundred potions, I can survive the onslaught of innumerable foes! I fight with steel and magic. I can survive catching fire, getting shot with arrows and struck with falling objects. I can leap over chasms, swing on vines, and slide down snowy hills. Rock slides? No problem. Car chases? Easy. Drive a tank? I can do that, and fire the guns at the same time!

But if I put as much as one foot in water. I drown. What is the deal?

TURA

The Moving City was built a thousand years ago at the mouth of a great river, well placed for trade by sea, river, and land.

The city prospered, but over the centuries the river gradually swelled its flow, spreading over its banks and forming new branches. Buildings close to the river sagged into softening ground. Their owners abandoned them and rebuilt upstream.

And so, as the river mouth developed into a great, swampy delta, the city drifted miles inland. At last it reached the rocky ground where it now stands. But by tradition, they still call it the Moving City.

SINGH

From Foreign Madam and the White Yogi

a verse novel in progress

This work is set between Australia and India travelling via North America and Europe visiting relatives. In this episode Australian Yogi and French-Canadian Margot with two cranky daughters from her previous marriage are sightseeing in Chichester, West Sussex Later they get a taxi back to their friend’s cottage in Dimple Lane.

1

Lunch and double ice-cream. A signpost walk

to museums, pubs, a flower show, cream tea –

an hour’s stroll around the Roman wall

that’s been five metres high two thousand years.

The girls were not adventurers – just bored

and dragged their little heels on down the path

far from history – back to Australia

talking about Papa. “Can we call later?”

“I’m tired Mummy,” moaned Pauline. “Let’s go!”

while Adele played Glass Eyes. Yet, poor Margot

knew the game was up. It was time to get

a sleepy cab at the Square.

Away they went.

Miss Walkman hardly seeing the languid river;

2

Miss Glass Eyes paid no heed to the bumpy bridge,

stone-masoned, where those haloes of black gnats

were fish food hour upon the village water.

A man was casting a fly beyond the midges.

“Stop the cab,” said Yogi. “Do we have to?”

the girls complained. “Just for a second,” he said.

The driver stopped and Yogi wound down his window

to see the line whiplash and strike as the leaping fish

made its escape across the short fat river.

But the fisherman worked his line and soon all heard

the scream of the reel as the tussle then ensued.

3

The fish lunged to the right, until the angler

checked him. Then he dived, causing the rod
to dip, but the spring of it was too strong
and he had to rise, shattering the plate-glass
surface, its back smacking like a hand;

and plunged down deep, fighting the line

taut against his body, then tugging it away
from its mouth. The fish fought with water
diving to gain leverage with its tail
as if to ram its enemy. But it grew tired
and soon it was over. The fisherman reeled in
and scooped up his shining silver in the net.

4

“He caught it, Mummy!” said the fierce Pauline,

while Adele was silent. She was ever thoughtful,
while Yogi was remembering his father:

the fisherman, the outdoors sportsman chap

so deft and quick, unlike inadequate Yogi
who once went fishing up the Shoalhaven River
and never hooked a thing, while the Expert coaxed

a big brown trout from its hide-hole with a spinner
cast out and dropped below the spitting falls.

The fish was always himself thrashing against
superior Dad. He flinched, winding up the window.

“Let’s go driver,” he said, and soon the taxi

was puttering homebound into Dimple Lane.

PLANET Z

While Professor Walls works on the time machine, the rest of us deploy the emergency environment bubble.

There’s no telling what insects or bacteria are out there that could kill us all in a microsecond.

Or, I suppose, bacteria that we carry which could wipe out all life on the planet.

We’ve sent out a few drones to scout around and take pictures.

It’s mostly simple plants and pond scum around here. I think we overshot our mark by a few hundred million years.

Eventually, Professor Walls says we’re good to go.

I hope he doesn’t overshoot the mark again.

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 DECEPTION.

We’ve got stories by:

• Thomas
• Jeffrey
• Spate
• Lizzie
• Richard
• Tom
• Tura Brezoianu
• Steven the Nuclear Man
• Serendipity
• Singh
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Bonchance and Sevi
• Norval Joe
• Danny
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Danny
• Justin
• Planet Z

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

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

We were deceived. Angela was an expert at deception. She accessorized with a number of plastic and rubber accoutrements which enhanced her average frame. On the dance floor, from a distance of ten meters, she was a statuesque figure; buxom, thin waisted, voluptuous hips and derriere. Closer, the camouflage was apparent. Skin didn’t match, supplements slipped out of position. Adhesives warmed and wet with perspiration were out of alignment or…pulled by gravity…shifted down and away, leaving a trail of adhesive or toner. She was the belle of the ball until she slithered out, covered in her enormous, green wrap.
#
Helmut deceived the girls at the beach. Slipping a smoked kielbasa into his Speedo, he stood proud, cocky, hands on hips, drinking from a bota. He learned this deception from his frat brothers at State. They would stock up at Safeway before driving to Santa Cruz. One of the lads used all his cash to gas up his Olds, so he had to make do without any sausage props. He borrowed a pair of gym socks to form a bolster that he stuffed into his swimsuit. Explaining his unusual outbreak of athlete’s foot to the University doctor was a challenge.
#
The magician, Jonathan, was a master of deception. His specialty was close-up magic. Years of practice honed his hand magic skills to the master level. Twice a year, he and his lady friend would travel to The Magic Castle, a showcase for the world’s best magicians, and headquarters for the Academy of Magical Arts and an exclusive club for magicians and fans of magic. Last year, Jonathan performed the Kapolowski Ultra Move, wowing the audience and the other performers at the show. His friends begged him for the details of his trick, offering money or a night with their woman.
#
Deception Lake is located about thirty miles due West, just on the other side of Nichols Corner. The lake water is dark because of the minerals dissolved in the water. Only two feet deep at the shore and two and half feet deep in the middle, Deception Lake has claimed the lives of scores of drunks and careless, show-offs that run from the beach and dive into the water, taking a high arc, and crashing head first into the rocky bottom. Signs were posted around the lake, but teenagers and miscreants removed the signs as fast as they were installed.
#
I became a purveyor of deception when I went to a writing workshop at her home. I entered the dark, tiled foyer, and when it was requested that I remove my shoes, I asked for two plastic bags so I could slip them over my boots. The ploy worked, and I was allowed entry. (I had a hole in the toe of my sock.) The four women read their work, as I sat on the couch, ten feet away from their tiny, ornate table, crowded with manuscripts. I excused myself saying I remembered I had left something in the oven.

JEFFREY

Last Trick
by Jeffrey Fischer

They say that magic is really the art of deception. The left hand creates a distraction so the right hand can whisk away the object, making it “disappear.” The magician’s stage patter and his beautiful assistant provide dual distractions for the magician to open hidden compartments.

The conjurer who called himself Mysterio planned one last deception, but it was his most important. During the trick of the Sawed Lady he did his usual misdirection for the audience, then killed his cheating partner before disappearing beneath the stage, his getaway set.

When police officers arrested Mysterio leaving the back door of the theater, Detective Smith looked the killer in the eyes. He said, “We’re not that dissimilar: sometimes police work also involves an artful deception.”

A Grey Area
by Jeffrey Fischer

When Markus began his affair, he gave no thought as to how he’d manage to keep his wife in the dark. As time went on, however, he began to run out of excuses for coming home late.

He hit on the idea of faking a book club, so he could be out of the house on a regular schedule. He typed up a list of books they would read, he invented fictional participants, and even baked cookies every few months when it was ostensibly his turn.

His deception ended when his wife followed him one night. When the door opened, the entire “club” consisted of Markus and a lingerie-clad brunette.

“Gee,” said Markus’s wife, “I didn’t realize tonight’s book was 50 Shades of Grey.”

SPATE

Triple Deception

Maybe I exaggerated the truth a little bit. Okay… I lied.

But it was my lifelong dream to be an author and when this job asking for a writer came up, well… I had to lie. Who is going to hire a writer whose only experience was a few 100 word stories? (And they weren’t even that good.)

But in the end it turned out it was their deception.

Tickets?!
The only things I would be writing were tickets!
My job was to write freaking parking tickets!!!

Well… at least my legs look absolutely stunning in this meter maid uniform.

LIZZIE

“Some doors are best left closed,” he said, when he got back home.

She became angry at him because she thought it was better to clarify things, to talk about what was not right, to be honest. It was easy to get trapped in routines and entangled in the petty little every-day-life bickering.

“To grow above that, we cannot open all doors,” he replied.

She tried to understand, but she couldn’t… Unspoken, muddled half-truths broke her heart.

He walked away. “I’m right,” he thought, only to become so lonely in his fake righteousness.

She stayed, alone, behind a closed door.

RICHARD

#1 – Fort Hope
Fort Hope, it transpired, relied heavily on the art of deception.

Clever use of shipping containers, sheet metal and bits of old machinery contrived to give the impression of a secure, well-fortified compound. The reality was very different – the fortress would struggle to hold off any determined assault and was a potential death trap for anyone caught inside. It did, however, provide a much-needed sense of security.

The ‘Resistance’ were a pretty disorganised bunch, but no more so than George himself, and for the first time, George dared to think that his fortunes had changed for the better.

#2 – Place your bets

“Now, watch my hands carefully”

Rapidly, I switched the cups, sliding them quickly across the table, under the observant gaze of the mark, egged on by his friends.

“Now… which one is the pea under?”

He chose the left and lost the bet – as he always would, no matter which cup he decided on.

The gullible might call what I do ‘magic’, others may say ‘sleight of hand’, to the cynical it’s a ‘confidence trick’ – but, however you dress it up – it’s deception, plain and simple.

You can call it whatever you like – to me, it’s ‘money in the bank’.

#3 – Monkeys

It’s not really deception – I prefer to call it ‘enterprise’.

My publisher gives me a topic, I pass it to my to my team of trained monkeys, they come up with the stories, and I claim all the credit.

Why monkeys? Well, they’re cheaper than paying ghost writers – for the cost of a few old typewriters and plenty of bananas, I get all the stories I want.

Sometimes they get it wrong; occasionally they poop on the manuscripts, and I do wish they’d stick to producing short stories…

For some reason, they’re obsessed with typing the complete works of Shakespeare.

#4 – Coming Soon

In a world where movies are sold on the strength of their trailers, deception is the name of the game.

This year, we’ll take every explosion, every car chase and every romantic interlude from a three hour movie, and cram it into a two minute trailer.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and you’ll be completely convinced that this is the greatest movie ever made.

But It’s not.

It’s three long hours of mindless tedium, bad acting and confusing plot, interspersed with two short minutes of stunning raw action.

But what do we care?… as long as you’re paying to watch it.

TOM

If You Try Real Hard You Get What You Need.

She was practiced at the art of deception. Yep that’s my mum. Wouldn’t
think it, but a hard core rock and roller, serious Robert Johnson fan.
Spent late nights talking politics with Mick. Even in his 20s the front
man was a serious Tory. Good friends they were, she pulled some major
strings when the lads got in that nasty business with drugs. Music money
helped her quiet rise through parliament. In 67 she, Rockefeller and
Jagger attended a reception for the International Monetary Fund in New
York all posh and all, but that night all Sympathy for the Devil.

Waltz Across America

In the US the divorce rate is roughly two out of three marriages. The sure
mass of on going infidelity should’ve had a profound effect on the
American Psyche, but thanks to refined levels of cognitive dissonance and
an open embracing of daily deception, we’ve collectively maintained a
NeoPuritan view of marriage. Personally I believe its more a matter of
Commedia dell’arte. Some of us have been give the mask of the ruling
class, others the mask of the serving class. In a futile afford to adopt
the airs of our betters we have abandoned our true nature: serial
shagging.

A Well Defined Relationship Part Isipal

Mother moved towards the street. She was checked by the Senator’s hand.
“We won’t overtake this crowd. There is another way, further no small
amount of deception will be needed.” With Mother in tow the Senator headed
back across the tea room through the kitchen entrance. He started
rummaging through pots and pans. For a moment Widow Parsons wondered what
on earth was he doing? Her son was at the mercy of some mob. The honorable
gentleman was wasting time with cooking utensils. “One size fits all,”
said Mr Smith raising two spaghetti strainers. Out the loading dock they
went.

TURA

The new client showed me his business card: “Master of the Art! D. Zepshen.”

“What art?” I asked.

“The Art of D. Zepshen!”, he exclaimed. In a flurry of movement he transformed into a tall, slender, faceless figure, tentacles waving from his back.

“Ok, Slenderman impression,” I said in my bored voice. “I can probably find you some work at Halloween parties. Anything else?”

He changed into a Jedi with a lightsaber. Then a Pink Panther. “My résumé,” he announced importantly, presenting an envelope. It was a writ from my ex’s lawyer.

He gloated, “D. Zepshen, writ server, wins again!”

STEVEN

She is still online.

Quotes pump out on her Twitter feed, one every three hours. Her Tumblr shares funny images, the occasional poignant quote. Three posts a day.

I read her blog, every Monday. Ten in the morning. Like clockwork.

The rest of it doesn’t matter. Not the bounced e-mails. Not the offline indicator on Jabber or Facebook or Skype. Not the stuffy home with the overwrought quasi-Victorian wallpaper, the smarmy attendant, the stifling heat in the suit jacket in the stone-littered field. Her weeping parents.

The casket.

None of it.

She is still online.

For now, she’s still alive.

SERENDIPITY

I received one of those spam emails from a Nigerian businessman, offering to make me a millionaire. Do these people really think we’re gullible enough to fall for such blatant attempts at deception?

It was high time that somebody fought back!

I hacked into his mail server, set up a re-direct and waited to see what would happen.

Surprisingly, it seems people are actually pretty gullible – every day I’ve been getting emails accompanied by large deposits into my bank account.

Deception – it seems – really does pay, and thanks to my helpful Nigerian businessman friend, I have indeed become a millionaire!

SINGH

78
It was dark when Bhim returned to the hut and handed over the catfish and crabs. Devika had been doing her hut chores and collecting water, but felt a nagging loneliness. Priya seemed disturbed also.
“Where is Baba?” Devika asked passing Bhim a cup of goat’s milk.
“Gone,” is all he answered, drinking only half the cup.
Devika boiled the crabs and fish pieces. She was rationing the oil. The lack of basic supplies in the shaman’s store was beginning to frustrate her. That night she pulled her sleeping mat next to her husband, but he had turned to the window.

79
She felt rows of bamboo had grown between them. It wasn’t conscious deception. His dialogues and savage journeys would have scared her. Neither would he have known how to explain about the old man’s death. Instead, he spent more hours on the water than he needed for the fishing. As weeks passed she noted him spending long hours too in the temple, and after hearing strange voices, she sometimes crept up close to listen. Had visitors come? The prospect of returning to the world of community and familial warmth was her one wish. Meanwhile, he hunted her away with harsh words.

80
Bhim didn’t mean to shut out Devika, but the inner life demanded it’s due. After the shaman’s death, he had felt the baba’s power increasing day day day in him, but hadn’t noticed a new sharpness in his tone. Devika didn’t know what to do, but kept on with her chores and purposely forgot to wear the mask sometimes when going for water just to spark a reaction from him. Although his words were jagged, they were better than no words at all. She took refuge in her Lakshmi puja morning and evening and from resentment stopped going to Bonobibi’s temple.

81
Each day Bhim Das was becoming part of the Sundarbans’ untamable ecocosm. Representing Bonobibi’s symbolic brother Sha Jungli, the go-between rider of the tiger soul prowled through the shamanic levels assuming goddess power. Each shaman became his human face, and soon he would have to assume duties with the villagers, park officials, and be ever watchful of poachers. Yet, who would authorise a young man in place of the old shaman? Now Bhim Krishna Das would have to go and assert and become acceptable as the man who could offer protection prayers for fishermen, honey-gathers, wood cutter charcoal makers.

82
Meanwhile, he went on the tiger journeys mentally visiting old villages and farms across the water that once dotted the long canal that linked the thatched communities. Eventually he saw the crumbling heap that had been the concrete flood shelter. Like a bombed out building only one corner was still standing. His amber eye couldn’t help searching for a drowned mother, for that calm, gentle voice within the desolation of broken shards and bones. But there was no presence he could detect here and reunite with. The pull of maternal blood had been washed away by the sacrifice of the shaman.

83
As Bhim desired, he saw. The floods had subsided and some people were rebuilding. But the land had been poisoned by salt. Engineered cash crop rice had rotted away into sludge. Nothing would grow for years and a farmer without land was a wage slave. Who then had endured and how? He saw scenes from the city, survivors now driving rickshaws, peddled vegetables on bicycles door to door. He saw roadside women in saris breaking rocks to layer the coming freeways and relays of people working in cramped tailoring factories to make containers of clothes for London and New York stores.

84
He followed the tributary canal beyond Sitapur, searching for his own piece of river frontage. How different it looked. The river had changed its course in the floods. He looked for any landmark and finally there was his mango grove far away from the water’s edge. The flood had almost doubled the size of his land. Bhim trained his tiger eye and saw the stone grotto. Focusing even closer, he could see the old image of Lakshmi was intact and the hand pump beside it was no longer under floodwater. But there was an even more remarkable thing that had survived.

85
It was the Lakshmi plot — that little field that his father Bapu Das had made Bhim Das promise never to uproot. Tall and spindly, it stood defiantly flood-resistant. How many generations of storm surge had this local variety survived? The salvation of the land was in the land. Here was the seed stock for a new uprising and that real endurance is in the original genes. Now he had something to offer his wife and daughter. They could regenerate with even more land than before. Bhim drew back to the jungle and regained consciousness slumped over in the forest temple.

86
So he told her. “Chello. We are going back. Get ready.”
But then her doubts and questions arose. “Where? Our farm is gone. How will we live?”
A mother needs community for her child to grew up in and she was relieved. But he silenced her. “Stop thinking woman!”
She hated that tone, yet had to bow. He was the husband, the authority, the protector who had saved them. Yet for what? To wear masks backwards throughout their lives? Who would Priya one day marry? A monkey? They had suffered enough. Leaving, she could reclaim the husband she was losing daily.

87
Although she did not understand Bhim’s inner life, she could see the modern thinker had transformed to a jungle goddess devotee. Why couldn’t he just follow Lakshmi, the wealth Devi who was the link to the comfort and community she had known and loved? But Bhim had hardened, and she blamed this wild place and Bonobibi who represented it. Neither did she want to have to wear widow whites as custom demanded whenever her husband returned here as she knew he would. Or worse still, have to one day join the village of tiger widows. No, she would rather be dead.

88
Baby on hip, Devika brought her bag, cooking pot and the goat, while Bhim did farewell prayers in the temple. Stepping down toward her, she saw the smiling husband she had once married. Yes, he seemed glad to be going home too, although he sternly reminded her to put on her mask backwards. They made their way back down the trail to the boat beached on the mangrove mud. Bhim helped Devika aboard with the baby, then gathering up the goat by its legs passed the bleating bundle to tether inside the shelter. Devika nursed Priya while perched at the prow.

89
Bhim pushed off from mud, poling into the tributary toward the entrance to open water. Seeing Lakshmi’s spindly plot of sprouting rice in his vision had returned the feelings of the farmer in him, and yet this habitat had become a home as well. It had saved his family during the floods. Devika too was feeling alive and refreshed by the open breeze after many weeks cooped up in the hut and nearby surroundings. Then she called out: “Look!”
It was the pink-grey dorsal of Gangetic dolphin. It stayed ahead of the boat as if leading them to open water.

90
Bhim thought it a good idea to cast a final net for their journey and soon he and Devika traded places. She kept the boat steady while he cast in the narrow space next to the shore. Soon enough, he netted a baby bull shark and after landing it thrashing in the net, clubbed it unconscious at the bottom of the boat. Now the vessel was drifting bayward. Again they switched positions and Bhim commenced poling underneath the last mangrove overhang at the end of the island. Here, the branches dipped low like fingers wanting to trail in the water.

91
Just before the prow scraped under the leaves, Devika threw off her mask. She was glad to be rid of that, and bending over undid her plait, letting her hair cascade downward, exposing her neck. She disappeared from view and then Bhim felt the boat lurch. He couldn’t see what was happening, but he heard her sharp brief struggle and cry. Using the boat for momentary purchase, the tiger had leapt directly out of cover and cleared twenty astonishing feet with her gripped in its meat-stained incisors to the other side of the tributary island like an orange comet against blue.

92
Bhim yelled, but it was too late. The tiger had crushed her neck and was dragging her into the jungle opposite. He quickly shifted course to follow, and strained his eyes to see beyond the last tip of its tail, but midstream, he realised in his heart it was over. If he got down he would have to leave his baby girl crying and unprotected. The bleating goat had too had smelled the beast. Tigers were good swimmers and could easily reach them from either side. All he could do was paddle and try to mute the chaos in his thoughts.

93
An hour into the bay he stopped and slumped at the stern, stunned. Despite his inner journeys, visiting the tiger temple, witnessing the end of the old shaman nothing had prepared him for the utter desolation of this moment. She, who he had travelled so far with had been snatched from him at the last moment. “Why Ma? Haven’t I done everything you wanted? You said it was time to leave. Go do my work there, you said. Why take her and not me?” He felt tricked and deceived that the contract of the shaman had to be sealed in blood.

94
His baby daughter was still crying inside the shelter. Bhim went to comfort himself as much as her. It hit him then, how little he really knew his own child. Devika had done everything. He had protected and provided but done little of the nurturing. Now she was his only link. Laying down, he held the child close trying to smell Devika’s presence, then noticed her shoulder bag against his neck. He nestled into it like a pillow and breathed. This was all that was left and for a long time he let himself drench the cotton bag with his tears.

95
It was dark when he lifted his head. Priya was whimpering. He had to feed her and forced the goat up, wet his hands with seawater to work the teats. Dipped again and again into the creamy liquid, Priya suckled on his finger. It was clumsy work, but the best he could do until she was satisfied. It would have been so much easier to stay floating in limbo, but he had to paddle now for the child’s sake and face the new double existence awaiting him. Bhim nestled her against the goat’s udder and commenced the final journey for home.

MUNSI

Talent

By Christopher Munroe

I’m a man of many talents.

A fair writer, decent actor and good-ish comedian.

But my greatest talent, if I had to choose, is my talent for self-deception. Which is convenient since, of them all, it’s the talent I find time to use every single day.

I tell myself I’ll be okay.

I tell myself I deserve happiness.

And, like a chump, I believe it.

So, to everyone who ever said my talents would never get me anywhere, I say: Look at me now! I’m king of the world!

Or, at least, I will be. So far as I know…

ZACKMANN

I think my niece has started lying to me. First She told me she read Deception Point by Dan Brown which is crazy because people buy Dan Brown books but nobody reads them.
Then she told me she would be flying to Philly to checkout schools. After I said something about Manila she counters she meant Philly as in Philadelphia.
I told her everyone knows Philly is short for the Philippine Islands. Phillydelphia was just made up for that cartoon show all the guys are watching. Besides you don’t really want to move away from me to that other coast.

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Janet sat quietly as the quick witted editor tweaked her story. She had completed a comprehensive background search on the topic. Her story was solid, she excelled at writing.

It was clearly self defense. The man had a concealed weapon.

The gang boys liked to play the “pick a loser and scare him to death with a stun gun” game.

The boy’s gun misfired, the man’s did not.

For effect, the editor choose a picture of the victim’s gun and dramatized the boy’s hospital experience.

The facts would still be in the story, but the deceptive innuendo would shine through.

NORVAL JOE

A cow, a sheep, and a deer stood at the lunch counter eating veggie burgers. The deer held up a piece of paper for the other two to see.
“This has been circulating through the department all morning,” Deer said, scratching an antler. “Apparently there is a picture of a duck wearing combat boots within all these squiggly lines.”
Turning his head one way and then the other, Sheep said, “I don’t see it.”
Cow swollowed her cud and said, “According to the humans, the deception is in the optical illusion.”
“Humans are weird,” Sheep said and the others agreed.

DANNY

Mia Farrow recently commented that her son Ronan may have been fathered by Frank Sinatra Sr. Barbara Sinatra, Frank’s fourth and final wife, fired back, screaming deception, stating “It’s just a bunch of junk. There’s always junk writer-lies that aren’t true.” Ronan Farrow responded “Listen, we’re all possibly Frank Sinatra’s son.” Interesting, I don’t care who is deceiving who, tell me more! Woody Allen, 77, told the Hollywood Reporter via his rep: “The article is so fictitious and extravagantly absurd that he is not going to comment.” That comment itself is a deception, alleging that no comment is actually being made.

CLIFF

Maps are meant to be beacons of truth. After all, if your map is wrong, the consequences can be dire. What most people don’t know is that many commercial maps were deliberately inaccurate. In order to detect copying by competitors, map makers would introduce small lies into their maps. Usually, on a state map, there was at least one town that didn’t exist. The most famous in cartography circles is the legend of the disgruntled employee. Several small towns in Texas appeared on the map. The names of the town were quite insulting to the owners of the map company.

JUSTIN

It’s simple really. All I do it put on this paper mask and everyone thinks I’m on their team! Then I just walk around and stick knives in their backs and put disabling devices on their sentry guns when no one is looking!

Naturally, this makes people nervous and they start shouting that there’s a Spy around. Then I have to give every Engineer a wide berth because they are hitting everyone with wrenches to see if they are me.

The Pyros are the worst, spritzing everyone with a flame, also Spy checking.

It’s hard, thankless work being a spy.

PLANET Z

Every Wednesday, the delivery driver dropped off the wolf’s clean clothes.

“Thank you,” said the wolf. And he dragged the sack into his house.

When he opened the sack, the wolf saw frilly and lacy things no self-respecting wolf would wear.

“What the fuck?” he said, and he called the laundry service.

“We’re terribly sorry,” the laundry service said to the wolf. “It appears that we swapped the tags between your laundry and another customer’s.”

Across town, a sheep put on the wolf’s leather jacket and acid-washed jeans.

The phone rang, but she ignored it.

“Because I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaad,” she grinned.