The 100 Word Stories Podcast

WARNING: My audio quality sucks this week. I used a Logitech H540 USB headset because my H530 broke. The H540 sounds muddy and awful. I’m heading to Micro Center to pick up an H530 if they have one, or a Plantronics if they don’t. (Anyone need a free crappy Logitech H540 headset?)

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 YELLOW:

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

• Tom
• Jeffrey
• Lizzie
• Richard
• Munsi
• Tura Brezoianu
• Steven the Nuclear Man
• Serendipidy Haven
• Singh
• Justin
• Zackmann
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• June – Way Too Fantqsy
• Norval Joe
• Danny
• RedGoddess
• Planet Z

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

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.

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TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 5

Denman is the 5th rook from the sun. Your average M1 planet secondarily
known for Agro-mining, but primarily and singularly known for its D
classification. Denman was a Deity planet. Any signal act of sufficient
devotion could and often did manifest the god of your choosing. Timmy
hadn’t chosen the Flying Spaghetti Monster currently silhouetted in the
twin moon of Denman. “Look like were about to become the blue plate
special” “Not today” cried Timmy point at his Zauberlehrling creation.
John Wayne and the whole F! US cavalry slammed into the FSM. Banister
triumphantly whistled,” She wore a Yellow Ribbon.”

JEFFREY

On the Road
by Jeffrey Fischer

The yellow car turned the corner and accelerated on the broad highway, only to be stopped again by a traffic light. The car looked like something Big Bird might drive. Melvin assumed the buyer had lost a bet. The driver appeared nervous. He wore dark sunglasses and his hair was close cropped. When a police car pulled up behind, the driver of the yellow car looked in the rear-view mirror and reached across the passenger seat, perhaps to open the glove compartment.

The cop fiddled with his computer – maybe running the yellow car’s plates? – as the light turned. Both cars rolled through the intersection, and Melvin was left to wonder how the drama, if any, would unfold.

The Crossing
by Jeffrey Fischer

In the third week, our caravan began to run short of water. The yellow sun hung huge in the sky and beat down mercilessly. We had underestimated the amount of time to cross the desert, and found no oasis to restock.

Rain was an unlikely wish, and the intense heat of the day meant we had to stop and take shelter under the canopies until the heat began to break for the evening.

We traveled as far as possible at night, driving the horses to exhaustion. Two collapsed, and we had no choice but to leave them behind. At our current rate, we would be lucky to reach the edge of the desert alive. Still, this route was the only way to get the child to court in time for the coronation.

Yellow
by Jeffrey Fischer

“You callin’ me yellow?” the cowboy said, glaring at Sam. Sam, a bespectacled man of slight build, took a step back.

“Er, no, sir. I just said you appeared jaundiced, that your skin has a yellowish tone.”

That didn’t mollify the cowboy, who shouted to no one in particular, “You heard that – he thinks I’m a coward.” To Sam, he said, “Draw, or I’m gonna gun you down anyway.”

Sam thought quickly. He didn’t want to die in a disreputable bar in a nothing town, merely because a cowboy had more aggression than vocabulary.

“No, sir. I said you’re a mighty fine fellow.”

LIZZIE

Yellow Future

A yellow line divided the town in two. On one side lived the blue-eyed, on the other the brown-eyed. No one remembered why this division was implemented, yet everyone remembered who had used the yellow paint to draw the line, McAllister. His descendants retouched that line every year, perpetuating its forgotten meaning. One day, yellow was banned from the market due to a toxic component of the color. McAllister’s descendants tried a red line that year, but the result was disastrous. Blue-eyed and brown-eyed crossed the line defiantly, back and forth. The town completely forgot the line. The McAllisters didn’t…

RICHARD

#1 – Yellow

Fairly quickly, George learned that carrying forty tins of tomatoes was not conducive to rapid progress and, struggling with his load, it soon struck him that he’d been a complete idiot.

Why walk when there were abandoned vehicles everywhere he passed?

Not just any car would do though: he wanted something with a bit of muscle that he could rely on in a crisis – speed was out too; the streets were littered with debris and would likely be a death trap.

Passing a building site, the brutal yellow bulk of a large bulldozer caught his eye.

Now, that would do nicely!

#2 – Custard

Yellow is definitely not my favourite colour – it may well be the colour of sunshine and happiness, but it’s also the colour of custard – in my mind, a substance more vile and repulsive than any other.

Whether the cloying, sticky ooze, sandwiched between the pastry of the confectioner’s creation, or the pale, thin dribble of nastiness, clinging to your rhubarb crumble desert, there is nothing more disgusting than a dollop of custardly gloop.

By all means, surround me with hues of red, green and blue, they’re just fine by me – but keep your custard yellow to yourself, if you please.

#3 – Volcano

Scientists tell us that lurking deep beneath Yellowstone National Park there is huge super-volcano that will, one day, be the death of us all.

It’s cataclysmic eruption will annihilate much of North America and plunge the unprepared world into another ice age: we will all perish in the dark, cold fury of the endless volcanic winter.

So, what are the scientists doing about it?

Well, they’re investing their time and energy researching the geology and mechanics of Yellowstone.

No, scientists! Stop researching geology and how we’re going to die… and start inventing anti-volcanic disaster safety domes, or something!

MUNSI

Black and Yellow

By Christopher Munroe

Yup.

Alright.

You know what it is.

Black and yellow.

Black and yellow.

Black and yellow.

Black and yellow…

And thus, Wiz Kaleefa sang my very favorite song about bees.

Or maybe it’s about Pittsburgh.

Maybe it’s about that time Pittsburgh was infested with angry bees?

Did that happen? Was it a movie? Because I’d watch that!

Anyway, my second favorite song about bees is by Coldplay.

Look at the stars, see how they shine for you?

And all the things that you do.

And they were all…

…black and yellow.

Black and yellow.

Black and yellow.

Black and yellow…

TURA

Did your school physics teacher ever set the question, if the sun’s yellow, why does everything seem to be lit up by white light? That one’s easy: it’s because the rest of the sky’s blue. With yellow that makes white.

But try this one. The Moon shines by reflecting the Sun’s light. So why isn’t it yellow?

It’s because the Moon itself is blue! It’s made of blue cheese, not green! That’s why we’ve not been back since Apollo. The Swiss bankers don’t want competition for the Swiss cheese industry.

UN-altered REPRODUCTION and DISSEMINATION of this IMPORTANT information is ENCOURAGED.

STEVEN

We were placid calm blues and violets, the predawn still, bodies
wrapped around each other, radiating warmth against the slight summer
morning chill.

The dark still night is the place where busyness and activity and
words cannot hide you from yourself. Cannot save her from her fears.

She wakes with the first slivers of sunlight, and once it’s safe
enough, busy enough to start the day, the jealousy begins with demands
and screams and shouting loud enough to save her from her own
insecurity.

She is backlit, yelling, by the morning sun. Her words smear the
colors of our relationship.

SERENDIPITY

Jack Knife knew fortune was smiling on him when the swing of his pickaxe striking the rocky surface revealed the flash and sparkle of a rich vein of gleaming yellow… he’d struck the motherload.

Later that day, his triumph turned to woe, as he ran from the assay office, the laughter of his fellow prospectors ringing in his ears:

“That’s fool’s gold, you darned idiot! Nothing but iron ore!”

Now, thirty years later, he gazed through the window of his plush office at the huge operation that was ‘Jack Knife Mining Industries’. He smiled.

“Who’s the fool now?”, he murmured.

SINGH

(The text will be available eventually… he’s entering this piece into a writing competition.)

JUSTIN

Parents dead, killed by a mafia hit on the wrong house. Growing up on the hard streets, alone. He learned to live by the way of shadows. Then one day he met a washed up hobo drinking a bottle of tainted whisky, and he watched him transform into a monster, right before his eyes. Evil had gone too far, crime had overstepped the line of tolerance! He donned the mask, slipped into the spandex, and alighted a fedora upon his head and became

THE SLY DRIFTER!

Then he learned to use a sword after punching evil made his knuckles sore.

ZACK

There is a crash and someone screams “Aray. Hielo”. That was his contact.

She continues “I bet someone emptied that ice chest here intentionally. Why did I agree to meet that yellow journalist?”

Frank offers a hand to help lady up saying “I’m not a yellow journalist, I had jaundice.Do you have it?”

“Why could you not have gotten this yourself” she says handing him the Cap’n Crunch box.

“My wife doesn’t allow sugary cereal in our house but I have to see if there’s any truth in Dan Brown’s conspiracy theory. Starting why Cap’n wears a Commander’s uniform.”

CLIFF

Hello? Yes, I’m still holding. Yes, the bomb is still ticking.
When’s the bomb squad going to be here?
Why not? Retirement party? Well, yes, forty years is a long time to defuse bombs.
So what am I supposed to do?
Nail clippers? Yes, but…
ME?
Well, ok. Yes, I see the wires.
Red, yellow, blue, and green.
Really? In the movies, they always cut the red wire.
Ok, cutting the yellow wire.
What? The red wire? But you said the yellow one.
Just how long HAVE you been an intern there?
Yeah, well, the first day’s always the toughest.

JUNE

Yellow

by June Faramore

Yellow filters down to a tree not yet touched with dew as Cerwin ducks behind it for cover. The chase is on, and constant awareness is necessary, even in these quiet morning hours. The tealans squack, announcing the approach of the hunt, and with every wet sound he prays for the rain to return to cover his scent.

Cerwin did not realize filching a lemon cake would cause this much chaos. Leanna wanted it, and he wanted her, wanted up her short-skirt and whatever else hid behind the long-jacket worn by all girls not yet betrothed.

Cerwin runs from yellow.

NORVAL JOE

Dan shovelled a mouthful of his breakfast cereal into his mouth, savoring the crunchy sweetness. He knew from experience if he didn’t eat quickly the trademarked crunch would soon become mush.
With shock he looked to the box before him and gasped, “The primary colors.”
He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. There, before him on the box, yellow, red and blue. He turned the box sideways reading in blind disbelief, “Corn Flour, Sugar, Oat Flour, Brown Sugar, Coconut Oil.”
An image of the smiling Quaker Oat man loomed in his head as he whispered, “The Captain Crunch Conspiracy.”

DANNY

The expert went on describing his qualifications as an expert. It goes as follows: After I received my bachelor’s degree in Yellow Lunch Box Technology and DNA collection, I was then somehow hired by the State of Florida, in a demented state, then underwent extensive training packaging sandwiches wrapped in wax paper put into yellow lunchboxes, followed by a six month apprenticeship. The State Attorney continued, Your honor, I would like to submit Mr. ChingChingChuCiWApromiseI’mnotaracistjustsoundlikeone as an expert on packaging sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and placing them into a yellow lunch box. Any objections, Mr. Weiss? YES! I object to the term Yellow.

REDGODDESS

It’s wedding season! The hotel Manager announces gleefully as she walks through the lobby to her office. I guess, “good morning to staff” is not worth the same effort. Lola has too much on her plate, so she ignores her and focuses on the guests checking in. Violet, the Hotel Interior designer is getting married on Independence Day and she wants Lola’s opinion on the color scheme. Violet’s favorite color is saffron yellow. So she decided, everything except her gown will have a touch of yellow. The bridesmaids would have to find matching shoes. The men must wear the exact shade of yellow tie or they’ll come face to face with a bridezilla.
Lola nods and smiles as she shows her the wedding plan, guest list, cake choice and the piece the resistance, her massive yellow diamond ring. This is all too consuming for Lola without caffeine or a cocktail. Wedding talk is like asking a new guest about their day and they derail into details about their whole trip, including what they ate on the plane. All of a sudden, Lola says, “oh wow, look at the time.” I have a meeting with the Manager, as she slides away from the counter. Lola wishes her luck on her big colorful Independence day bash and trapped herself into the dragon lady’s office.

PLANET Z

When she was a kitten, her eyes were yellow.

But after she lost her mate, her eyes turned green.

Then, when we got her a kitten to keep her company, her eyes would change from yellow to green, depending on her mood. They were usually a muddy yellow. Never were the same again.

I hear her howl from the bedroom. I know she is carrying around a toy ball and searching for her mate to give it to.

She will never find him.

Green. Yellow.

These are merely colors. What matters is that you see what you want to see.

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 TOMATO:

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

• Jeffrey
• Munsi
• Tom
• Richard
• Singh
• Steven the Nuclear Man
• Serendipidy Haven
• Zackmann
• Lizzie
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Danny
• Norval Joe
• Tura Brezoianu
• Justin
• Kurdt
• RedGoddess
• Planet Z

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

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… 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 get those fixed up as soon as possible.

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JEFFREY

Frank
by Jeffrey Fischer

I was in the middle of “One for My Baby” when she caught my eye. She was a real ripe tomato, the kind of girl with a mouth made for kissing and hair made for tousling the next morning in bed. I winked at her. The band kicked into the last tune, and I had trouble keeping my mind on the song as I made sure she didn’t leave the room.

“How ’bout a drink, sweetheart?” I asked. She nodded quickly, so I added, “I have a nice bottle of bourbon in my suite.”

In the morning she was gone, of course. It was always like that, but it didn’t make any of them less special.

Roadhouse
by Jeffrey Fischer

The tricky thing to learn about playing in a band in honky-tonks is how to dodge tomatoes while still keeping the rhythm. Sure, beer bottles hurt more, so you have to steel yourself for the impact and not flinch, but most of the drunks can’t put a lot of strength behind the throw. These guys aren’t Nolan Ryan, zipping a fastball at your head.

No, it’s the over-ripe tomato that causes the most damage. There’s no way to remove the stains on clothing, and chunks inside a hollow-body guitar wreak havoc on the sound. Even the chicken-wire barrier doesn’t help – it just slices the tomato before it reaches you.

For particularly nasty crowds, I’ve started carrying my own supply of rotten fruit to gigs. If nothing else, it keeps the crowd’s attention.

MUNSI

Pronouncement

By Christopher Munroe

I say tomato, you say to-mah-to.

Seriously, stop saying to-mah-to.

It comes off as weird and affected, nobody talks like that. Maybe they did when the song was written, when regionalisms like that were more widespread, but as the world increasingly globalizes certain common pronounciations become widely accepted and you just have to learn to live with that.

It’s tomato. Everyone agrees that it’s tomato. Get over it.

I mean seriously. To-mah-to? What on earth were you thinking?

For reals.

Anywho…

I say potato, you say po-tah-to….

Are you fucking kidding me?!?!??

That’s it, we’re calling the whole thing off.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part Four

Tim pulled the trigger too late. The Clark exploded like a bushel of Roma
tomatoes. The coach was covered in red. Banister laughed while clocking a
floater, which was performing an un-natural act on one of the Batlofts.
The danger from the Clarks wasn’t due to direct injury, the danger was
from uneven distribution of weight. It didn’t take much to send the stage
into a barrel roll. Timmy doubled his efforts and extended his firing
range. “Not Good,” roared Banister over the gathering storm. A Russell’s
Teapot was doing a Z-drop. Timmy yelled back, “Is that the FSM? OF!”

RICHARD

#1 – Tomato, Tomato

It was going to happen sooner or later – it was just a matter of time before a word cropped up, over which myself and my American peers simply didn’t share common ground.

You say, ‘tom-ay-to’, I say, ‘tom-ar-to’ – but which should I use? Just like the song, I felt like calling the whole thing off.

I was going to compromise, but then I thought, to hell with it! Be true to yourself… be proud of your heritage!

So, ‘tom-ar-to’ it is, and ‘tom-ar-to’ it’s going to be

And, if you don’t like it – you know where you can stick it!

#2 – Tinned Tomato

All George’s efforts were now focused on finding human company – he headed in the direction from which he’d heard the squeal of tyres.

As he jogged, it occurred to him that he could well be running into danger – after all, the vehicle he’d heard was trying to get away from something, and fast!

He looked around for a weapon and soon came across a pile of cans strewn across the road. He hefted one in his hand and nodded to himself, then filled his rucksack with as much tinned tomato as he could carry.

Now, he was armed… and dangerous.

SINGH

Bali Snapshots 2 (Tomato)

1
My nasi goreng arrives tomato-red on the plate, a rounded mound of Balinese fried rice. It’s different to your normal Chinese take-away. There is none of that black soy sharpness. Instead, kecap manis sauce carries a salty sweetness, especially sitting in this bamboo restaurant in the green paddy fields. We walked a trail to get here. A thick wooden straw is a periscope rising from the fat coconut. Its lid has been carved like a lotus flower. Meanwhile, a red hibiscus dangles over the bamboo railing nodding like someone tuning into our conversation. We smile, we smile, we smile.

2
They spread a thin mattress in the Balinese hut. I’m told to strip to my shorts, and when they drop the muslin curtains my wife does the same. We lie face down with sarongs over us. As they press and knead our Western flesh, my wife who speaks Bahasa learns both the women are widows. One lost her husband to a heart attack and the other keeps silent. I think of my own red face. Has my blood pressure dropped or risen since arriving here? My wife doesn’t turn over. She is still shy, due to her mastectomy nine years ago.

3

One the way to the cockfight, I see a white-haired grandmother with dried dugs exposed above her red sarong. She is hitting at coconuts with a long pole outside a house. I am reminded of old sepia-tinted photos of Balinese maidens who wore only sarongs in the streets, the rice fields, at festivals, in temples. The paradisal image immortalised by impressionist Gauguins survives now as a cheap model of sexy art sold from roadsides, thanks to the Protestant Dutch reformation making women cover up last century. Meanwhile, topless Grannie whacks the coconuts. They jiggle like breasts full of milk.

4
After independence Bali survived, clean-minded and house-proud with competitions for the best-kept walled homes and gardens. Our driver stops to showcase one owned by his friend. From outside there is not much difference between ornate temple and the average house of sculpted volcanic rock. Inside, we see separate buildings – the ‘head’, the ancestor temple points North to the mountains; the ‘body’ holds the family rooms; and the feet form the wood fire kitchen with its big rice pot; at the garden’s centre each child’s umbilical afterbirth is buried under the hibiscus tree linking the family to this place.

5
Women fold pandan leaf strips into square trays to hold prayer offerings. Then, thrice daily they take flowers and morsels to the temple. This eats up forty percent of the family income. Elsewhere, women are in paddy fields, are cooking, or sweeping the paths. Even in the temples, women priests mutter the same prayers and drip holy water from a long folded leaf into your hands like their male counterparts. Some men carve gods, while women slog to keep up the rituals, but mostly their husbands sit smoking clove cigarettes, watching football and drinking endless cups of the thick Balinese coffee.

6
We join 2000 men for tajen. Banned throughout Muslim Indonesia as an anti-gambling measure, the cock fighting arena survives in Hindu Bali’s province as religious blood sacrifice. Our driver says this is just a front. Under-the-table ‘licenses’ are provided by the police. Gamblers bid “Chok-chok-chok-chok!” as the black bantam and white are held up, a blade tied above hind claws. Released they fly at each other. The black one strikes and soon blood oozes like chilli sauce through white feathers soon to be chicken soup for the Balinese soul, betting stubs dropped in the dust.

7
We reach the professor’s home for our appointment. We sit upstairs to discuss shared interests. He has many students and is a leading figure in the Bali Arts Festival. Soon an American theatre director arrives to lead a group rehearsal for her coming show – a Balinese version of Shakespeare’s The Two Gentlemen of Verona. She explains the plot’s twists and foolish turns of cross-dressing infidelity and love. It all fits perfectly here. Nyoman our new young friend says he wants to be Romeo. “Wrong play!” someone shouts. “Don’t worry,” says the director.”There are plenty of Romeo’s in this one.”

8
The professor drives us through a traffic jam to the festival, picking up an Australian woman on the way. Tall, red-haired and loud, she launches into her day’s report: prison work for convicted Western drug mules learning to draw, act and write with the aid of the professor’s students. Some are on death row for the stupidity of coming to party in the night clubs of Kuta Beach in Denpasar, bringing in cocaine and marijuana to finance their holidays; others will be here for life. She reports on the good effects of art used as a tool for prisoner rehabilitation.

9
Weaving through clouds of clove-smoke, we escape inside to the Wayang Gong — folk opera with drum and flute orchestra. Nasally singing starts behind the curtained entrance. Next to me sits a sandal salesman. Girls caress mobile phones. Its a typical Shakespearean Balinese crowd.
Two women heel-step out with elegant red and gold dresses of formal brocade silk wearing bantam headdresses. They drag long hems between feet like the feathers of shaggy fowls. Suddenly, one is a slim standup artist working the crowd, the other a chubby buffoon wiggling her butt. An ancient story, new jokes and the crowd roars.

10
Outside we go to see a shadow play with the professor as Independent Judge. Behind the screen the dalang performs scenes from the Mahabharata with intricate stick puppets cut from buffalo hide. Painted in red, green, silver and gold only black outlines project in the coconut oil lamplight. Noble characters speak ancient Kawi and comic servants with bellies and bulb noses translate in Bali Bahasa. Father and son attend heroes and gods, while the bad guy’s servants’ schtick is to fall over, fart and fill in the story details. It ends with a battle between the good guys and the demons.

11
The next day we meet Nyoman. This Topeng mask theatre student has a passion for Marcel Marceau-style mime picked up deftly from You-Tube. He shows his own group’s video clips. The Balinese are brilliant mimics hiding their true selves equally behind traditional hibiscus wood masks, or modern white face-paint. He narrates the true tale of his girlfriend and love thwarted by overprotective Dad. Another Tempest on the island of Bali? He sips his smoothie, wearing its slice of watermelon, cut like the tail feathers of a fighting cock, still the best emblem for the spirit of this place.

KURDT

He lays half naked, body slightly twitching, head glowing red. A quick opening of his eyes is followed by a catapult from off the ground.
“Johnny?” I inquire.
“What?!” he responds, eyes still half glazed.
“Are you alright?”
“Where’s my goddamn shirt?!”
“Will you please quit yelling at me?!” I turn, charge towards the bedroom and slam the door shut behind me. The pounding footsteps become louder…
I lunge towards the door and quickly lock it.
“Let me in!”
I close my eyes and envision Johnny at the machine shop, laughing with his co-workers. “Good ol tomato head,” they say.

STEVEN

Oh good. You’re awake!

Look, I have something to tell you. You were…

You were right. There. I said it. Not that hard at all. It’s not as easy for me as it is for you, but I can admit when I’m wrong, just like you–

Hm? Oh, right, I know. I search for similarities. 23 Skiddoo, right? Seeing things in clouds. You’re so quick to tell me that I’m “imposing a pattern of similarities onto dissimilar data”. And let me tell you, that’s just not true. We have SO much in common, and you just refuse–

Ah, right. Sorry. Starting to argue again, and it’s not really fair with the gag in your mouth. And besides, I already said you were right. We’re very dissimilar. It’s true. I mean, look at us. Look at what we do. You’re a banker with your suit and briefcase, and I’m a sculptor with my smock and my chisel.

That’s the answer, honey. The sculpting. You don’t build something up – you take a rock and then you chip away everything that doesn’t fit. Everything that’s different.

And then we can be happy together!

Tomato, tohmahto, let’s just chop the whole thing off.

SERENDIPITY

The headline was intriguing – ‘Killer Tomato Destroys Family!’, and the news stand was doing a brisk business on the strength of it.

I queued, paid, then ran for my train; and settling comfortably in my seat, shook the tabloid open to read this extraordinary news.

The huge headline dominated the front page, followed by ‘Turn to centre pages for full story’ – I dutifully complied.

There, tucked in the corner was the simple story: ‘John Smith, aged 43, recently choked to death on a small piece of tomato. His wife says the family has been ‘destroyed”.

Who says the press never sensationalise?

ZACKMANN

“Do you have any two pound heirloom tomatoes?”

“Sorry Not this week” replied produce guy.

“Too bad you don’t have any this week because my last one was magical.”

The produce man wondered if his client knew of the dimensional pathway not far away. He liked the man so he decide to investigate further before having to kill him to protect the secret of access to real magical worlds

The produce guy asks “Was it really magic?”

“No but it did taste wonderful and it was priceless to hear my wife opened the produce bag then say “It’s so big.”

LIZZIE

“A tomato is the perfect addition to a perfect salad.” He chopped the tomato in half. “Real food, tomatoes. They’re very healthy.” The rookie lawyers who drafted his contract messed up and didn’t state that he had to say the name of the kitchen knives he was selling. So, he never did. This generated a colossal confusion amongst the viewers. Knives or tomatoes? Hundreds of calls flooded the lines bringing the TV station to a halt. No sales whatsoever. He was fired. Well, invited to leave. He asked for a million. “The perfect addition to a perfect life,” he thought.

CLIFF

They warned me that stand up comedy was tough.
“You won’t make any money,” they said. I replied that I was already broke.
“If you’re any good, other comics will steal your material,” they said. I said that I’d write more jokes, better than before.
“They’ll heckle you,” they said. I replied that I was good with a snappy comeback.
“They’ll throw tomatoes at you,” they said. I replied that I doubted if they did that anymore and if they do, at least I’ll eat healthy that night. They forgot to tell me that the tomatoes would be canned.

+++++++++++++++++++++++
Building the perfect BLT is an art. You start with the toast. If darker than a light golden color, it’s too dark. You don’t want it burnt, just toasted enough to support the fixings. The lettuce should be crisp and dark green, not pale and weak. The tomato should be firm and ripe, juicy without leaking. The bacon should not be fatty but not too lean and be cooked to perfection. You only need a thin layer of mayo for a bit of zest. There’s no M in the name, so you don’t need much. Garnish with cyanide and serve.

DANNY

When I first came into Second Life, there was a comedy stage on the mainland called The Flying Tomato. From the first time I discovered it, the stage and parcel was always empty. In these moments of solitude, I would wonder what avatar would want to get on stage to do a comedy act just to have flying tomatoes hurled at them. With the lag in Second Life, it would be impossible for any avatar to get out of the way of such a barrage. Then one day, the stage was converted to an open store selling flying tomato chairs.

NORVAL JOE

I hate thee little worm, in truth
You haunted my dreams when but a youth
With bulbous head and spiked tail
With which you threatened to impale
my tender hand.

Two eyes could see, but many more
Run down thy sides, and I abhor
Your clinging feet upon the vines
Of tomato plants, which do at times
Grow on my land.

Camoflage of silver and green
a grand disquise to look like leaves
I see you not ’til I wish to take,
The ripened fruit, but I must make
another plan.

If tomatoes you wish to grow,
Poison is best.

TURA

I don’t like tomatoes. Nasty, cloying taste. But I once imagined I did. I’d fallen ill, getting sicker and sicker for two weeks. Then it turned round and I started recovering.

During that recovery, I read a novel, in which there was a small scene of an impoverished priest frying some tomatoes, sprinkling salt on them, and, his hunger being so strong, eating them straight from the pan. The author made it live, so much so that I nearly went straight out to buy some tomatoes and do the same. But I didn’t, of course, because I can’t stand then.

JUSTIN

John Mullins, Soldier of Fortune, crept through the jungle, drops of rain bursting against the barrel of his assault rifle. The sound of muttering being cut off by “Hush!” gave him pause. Through the foliage he spied two terrorists attempting stealth through the trees. John swayed his gun towards them and bullets popped out through the silencer. One terrorist took a bullet to the arm and one to the neck. He died from shock. Two more bullets struck the other terrorist in the head, which turned into an exploding tomato. The bodies slumped to the ground quieter than when walking.

REDGODDESS

A lot of celebrities have fallen for the GYOP (Grow Your Own Produce) marketing hype. Even the First Lady has jumped on the eating fresh bandwagon. She holds fruit and veggie parties on the White House lawn for the children. For entertainment, she performs the hula hoop without breaking a sweat. Ah yes, save the children, Lola whispers to herself.
You have to admire a well-liked mother, wife, public health advocate who finds time to grow her own tomatoes. She then shares her bountiful crops with voters and visitors. Five blocks from the White House, CNN reported that a homeless woman was arrested for stealing bread at the Farmers’ Market. She confessed she lost her food stamps at the shelter and needed to feed her only child. I guess when it comes to feeding the hungry, not everyone can eat from the land.

PLANET Z

Ted likes ketchup on his burger, but he hates tomato.

Fred likes tomato on his burger, but he hates ketchup.

So, when the waitress got their burgers mixed up, they attacked her with a chair.

Then, they sat back down, traded plates, and finished their burgers.

By then, the waitress had crawled to safety, and the owner of the restaurant had called the cops.

Ted and Fred asked for separate checks.

When nobody responded, Ted and Fred Each put down a twenty and walked to the exit.

What happened next?

Who cares. I’m hungry.

Let’s get a burger.

My treat.