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 DRINK:

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

• Thomas Pitre
• Chris the Nuclear Kid
• Jeff Hema
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Serendipidy Haven
• Munsi
• Lizzie
• Singh
• Zackmann
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Helen
• Tom
• RedGoddess
• Deanya Zenfold
• Justin
• Danny
• Norval Joe
• Tura Brezoianu
• Planet Z

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

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:

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THOMAS

He was sober, but his behavior had not changed. He was dirty and sober, to coin a phrase. Dave continued to cheat widows out of their savings, and take advantage of women with low, self- esteem. He would pretend to listen to them when they answered his questions: “What do you do.” “What do you think of so-and-so.” He’d look into their eyes, touch their wrist lightly, and lean forward to sip his drink. He had mastered the skills of being a cad and a lothario. Dave was shot through the groin by a scorned woman of especially, low self-esteem.

#

The drink was new. Developed by a bright, young chemist at PepsiCo. Progengen combined several herbs and a generous portion of caffeine. The herbs, indigenous to Brazilian jungles, were used to enhance brain function. They also were close in chemical composition to free testosterone. Those that drank the new cola, were less sleepy and more aggressive. Gangs of Progengen drinkers found themselves clustering together at concerts, bars and soccer games. They would arrive early, leave late, and would be responsible for riots, fist-fights, and setting fires to cars in the parking lot. The FDA eventually pulled the drink from market.

#

It was a three dog night. So cold in fact, that Jennifer slept with four dogs that night. She allowed herself a couple of shots of brandy before wrapping herself in her wool blankets and pulling the dogs in close to keep her warm. Of course, Mr. B., the oldest dog snored, and this kept her awake for an hour before she drifted off. Jennifer could not move a finger during the night. Enclosed in the bundle of wool and dog flesh, she was immobilized. The heat generated by a couple of hundred pounds of dog was more than necessary.

#

Lenore was an odd duck. When she had company over for a fine dinner and drinks, she would exhibit a skeleton on a shelf in the middle of the dining room. The purpose of the skeleton was to remind her guests of the brevity of human life as she offered the first toast, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” Every one of her dinner parties were subject to the display, but the food was good and the food and drink were plentiful. Her guests adopted Lenore’s décor. More than half the dinner parties in Brentwood featured skeletons.

#

She was a tall drink of water. Samantha is blond, slender, blue-eyed, and young. Her makeup is done in such a way that her eyes are emphasized, but the make-up is so soft and subtle, it is not detectable by everyone. When I talked to her, her father was always nearby. He is a friend, and dreads the day Samantha starts dating. He fears what he might do if anyone causes harm to his first born. He is a big man, works in construction, loads trucks, and capable of removing a teenage boy’s head without the use of hand tools.

CHRIS

Daily life of an assassin

I have a decent on off job. I have time to drink all sorts of whisky, ale, beer, and cider. Or that’s how it used to be. I was sitting at the bar checking out the fine ladies when a man sat down next to me.

“You’re a wanted man. “He said simply, “I’m here to hire you”

“what’s the pay and who do you want dead?”I asked. He looked up putting on a fake smile, gave me a hug whispering in my ear, got up and walked away.

“Well I had better get going.”I grabbed my gear and left.

JEFF

A Life Of Toil

They say school time is the best part of our life. Well, I disagree. Waking up in the mornings was always like pulling teeth for me, especially if I had been burning the midnight oil trying to finish my homework.
I remember once I woke up late and had no time for my morning shower. So I drank a big glass of milk in one fell swoop, and it was as cold as the weather outside.
In a hurry I jumped on my bicycle, and within five minutes I felt that my shoulders were peculiarly light.
“Darn, I forgot it!”, I howled.

JEFFREY

To Drink the Ocean
by Jeffrey Fischer

The aviatrix crawled toward the meager shade the wrecked plane provided against the mid-day sun. If only I had some water! she thought, then smiled wryly. Water. She was surrounded by it, but none would slake her thirst.

In the two weeks since the engine failure and crash landing on the Pacific atoll, she and her companion had tried to conserve the potable water as long as possible. Now the water was gone, as was he, and the aviatrix no longer believed rescue would come in time.

Drink! her body commanded, and in time she could hold out no longer.

Alice in Wonderland
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Drink me!” read the sign. Alice considered, then obeyed. She shut her eyes as the amber liquid spread through her body. It burned.

She saw colors – oh, what indescribable colors! – swirling, blending together before separating again. She felt as though she was floating in air, weightless. She heard voices, first faintly, then louder and increasingly strident.

Alice opened her eyes. She lay on the floor, her barstool towering over her. A crowd had gathered, wondering what to do.

The bartender peered at Alice, a stern expression on his face. “Miss, I think you’ve had enough.”

RICHARD

#1 – Stiff drink

Once, he’d recovered sufficiently from his encounter with the lamp post, George took stock of his surroundings.

He was in a typical suburban street and had come to grief outside the doorway of a second-rate bar. Untypically, the door itself was lying in the street and shards of glass littered the pavement from the broken bar room windows.

He toyed with the idea of nipping inside – he could have murdered a stiff drink – but, commonsense prevailed and, painfully he dragged himself to his feet and nervously, walked – somewhat more carefully than before – briskly away from the scene of destruction.

#2 – Lost

Because of the drink I lost my home, and along with it, my family, friends, job and everything that I owned. Now, it’s the drink that keeps me going – my days lurch from pub, to bar, to off-licence, and my nights are spent huddled in cold shop doorways and on park benches.

So, in many ways drink is also my salvation of a kind, even though I know that it’s the drink I have to blame for losing everything.

At least, that’s what I assume… it could well be me that’s lost, and my home is somewhere around here!

#3 – Alice

‘Drink me’ said the label on the bottle.

Alice considered the oddly coloured liquid critically – it had been a very curious day: all these potions and cakes, with their intriguing labels; things just kept getting curiouser and curiouser. Still, that wasn’t going to stop her.

She grabbed the bottle, removed the stopper and drank the lot, before falling to the ground, clutching her stomach in agony.

The bottle’s label dropped to the floor where, as her last breath escaped her body, she read the words on the fluttering card: ‘Drink me’; and – too late – printed on the reverse: ‘And die!’

#4 – Going native

The drink had a peculiar, yet not unpleasant taste, and a potency of epic proportions. Swirling it around my mouth, savouring the flavour of the thick liquid, I swallowed, gasping from it’s fiery burn.

“It’s good”, I choked, smiling broadly at the toothless old woman, and held out my bowl for more.

“What’s it made from?”, I asked our guide, who simply nodded towards the woman who was preparing my second draught.

To my horror, she hawked up a huge wad of saliva into the concoction, and stirred it well, before passing me the bowl with a wide, gummy smile.

SERENDIPITY

Why do they make medicine taste so awful?

This stuff I’ve been prescribed is vile, and for all the good it’s doing me, I’d be better off with a couple of aspirin. If anything, I feel worse since being on the medication!

But it’s the taste that makes me feel sick after every dose. I’ve even tried mixing it with orange juice or honey, but it’s still foul.

In the end, I went back to see my doctor – I told him I couldn’t stomach the stuff anymore… he laughed at me.

“You’re supposed to rub it in, not drink it!”

MUNSI

Sunday Pub

By Christopher Munroe

…if you want a pleasant atmosphere in which to enjoy a drink or two (or eleven), you could do worse than a pub on a Sunday.

It’s industry night, you see, and as such it’s pretty much all waiters and bartenders celebrating the end of their weekend of work. A relaxed, understanding atmosphere in which to enjoy your evening.

The people working, I’m told, make incredible money themselves. Which makes sense, I suppose, nobody tips like other waiters.

Still, I could never work the industry night shift, however good the money might be.

I gotta get my own drink on…

LIZZIE

“What’s this?” asked the stranger from an obscure planet.

“A tap, it gives water, see?” replied the innkeeper.

“Or something else, when we are lucky,” added a customer.

“Something else? Like what?”

“When democracy was abolished, a group of subversives hacked the water system and added a powder that shuts down the brain temporarily. They still do it today.”

“That’s terrible…”

“It depends. With workdays that are 18 hours long, being knocked-out for a day or two means rest time.”

“We have robots to do our work,” said the stranger appalled.

“We did too. Oddly enough, they became the subversives.”

SINGH

The Boy with the Wild Boar’s Face Part 2

12
The collection theft turned out to be the saving grace of the Muzim Trust. With the insurance money they were able to renovate and modernise. Media attention aroused public sympathy and new audiences and patrons flocked to the well-funded productions which gained generous newspaper review space because a stream of celebrity actors could be employed here between their film shoots. Thus, the Muzim Theatre regained its prestige as a premier leader of the arts in the city. Ketut was happy. He helped out with front of house before each show, swept up afterwards glad Tuan’s life work would continue on.

13
Under the practical but tasteless Puan, Management tried to curate a new collection, restocking the displays in the vestibule to justify the name and image of the Muzim Theatre. The exhibits were no substitute for those rare exhibits that each had an authentic history behind them. Nevertheless, they installed the inferior collection with fanfare under the glare of media cameras. While all went off to a party, Ketut remained indignant. How could they dishonour the name and memory of Tuan, a national treasure, with all this junk he didn’t collect, all the while keeping his gilded portrait on the vestibule wall?

14
Installing the new collection was also timed with the opening of new production, the last work written by Tuan based on the story of Jayawarman the Ninth. It was part dance-drama and song cycle with background shadow puppetry telling the story of ritual suicide of a Javanese King, Queen and 1500 family members and retainers before colonial Dutch guns. Instead of fighting and sacrificing thousands, the noble king staged a dance drama full of tragic spectacle as his ultimate protest in the face of military invasion. After the first night sensation, the play was a sell out. Everyone was ecstatic.

15
But the following week of success and media attention Puan received another shock. Tuan’s priceless collection mysteriously re-appeared overnight replacing the new one.

“Tut,” she called. He came running. “Have you seen this?”

He shrugged.

She really didn’t know what to make of all this, but was suddenly fearful that last night’s new media attention the theatre might be exposed for fraud. Clearly Azlim was not to blame after all. She called her staff.

“Look, we have to hide this all? But where?”

They thought hard for a moment.

“There’s that hidden storeroom under the stage,” said her office manager.

16
As they tugged and manhandled the garments, hats and masks from the cabinets Ketut became agitated. “You are hurting Tuan’s things. You will damage them.”

Worried about a scandal, Puan got angry. “Oh! We have to hide it all Tut. It will bring a bad name to my husband’s memory.

Backstage, they found the hidden door, but it was locked.

“Who has the key? Tut? Please open up.”

Reluctantly he turned the lock and switched on the light. There was the new collection boxed neatly against one wall, his worn grass sleeping mat against the other and Tuan’s picture looking down.

17
It dawned on Puan what had happened through the innocent Ketut. What drama! She couldn’t be angry with him. He had saved their precious institution, after all. For now, they would have to reinstall the inferior collection. In time they could bribe the local police to uncover the ‘stolen’ one, fabricating a story of a raid on some art thief ring’s warehouse and even get media attention for it. So she deftly diverted Ketut muting him through admission into the actor’s ranks. His talent shined. Public popularity led him to the top very fast fulfilling his destiny as Tuan’s artistic successor.

18
Ketut developed into a great mask mime and led the Muzim Troupe to overseas festivals. Even Puan was moved to glimpse her own husband occasionally embodied in the new Tuan.
Back home, Ketut carried on as before. Never marrying he lived in the theatre sweeping up after hours. He also fixed the old trapdoor in the stage floor and would trigger it each night, plunging gleefully down onto foam. Then, he would put on his old boar mask, dust the precious exhibits while conversing with Tuan’s portrait on the wall.

“Ok, Tuan?” he would ask. “Did you like the show tonight?”

ZACKMANN

“My kid has been going on about how I shouldn’t drink so much bottled water. That it is bad for the environment. How tap water is quality checked more often than bottled water. He tells me about all the things he has seen on youtube and the conspiracy theories about soda pop companies convincing people that bottled was better so they would not lose costumes when they became diabetic and stopped drinking soda pop.

Sure I could claim I have fears of chlorine and fluoride but the truth is I like to drink bottled water because I hate washing dishes.”

CLIFF

When a policeman pulls you over, be polite. Have your license and registration handy, but not in your hand. After all, you weren’t doing anything wrong. When he asks if you know how fast you were going, act slightly embarrassed and simply say “No, sir.” When he says that you were doing one hundred forty, don’t pump your fist and yell “YES!” It’s bad form. Act contrite, apologetic, and sincere, even if you have to fake it. And, whatever you do, when he asks if you’ve been drinking, don’t pull out the bottle of scotch and offer him a drink.

HELEN

To Drink or Not to Drink is the Question
by helen r starr 06/15/2013

To Drink or Not to Drink is the Question

Life is in the balance how do you go?

Up or down, I don’t know

People say to you, “Do it this way”

My gut says, “No, let’s do it this way”

Who’s right or wrong, I cannot say?

Can I have a drink?

You play,

You sway, and say, “Oops, the next day”

Wait,

Did drinks just cloud the way?

Minds under pressure

Tears flow, where do I go

Sadness overcomes gladness

Boxed to drink

Depression

Despair

Who do I trust?

To all I say,

“Don’t drink, and walk away”

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part II

Banister removed his hip flask and passed it to the boy. Mother didn’t approve of The Drink and under normal circumstances he would let the green liquid pass him by, but here on Stormedge that just wasn’t the most intelligent option. Tim didn’t particularly like the way The Drink made his head feel. Some said The Drink heightened one reflexes. Timmy threw back a swig and coughed. Banister smiled and raised two fingers. The first of the fermentation clouds appeared on the left. The Drink was the only thing which would keep you sober as you flew through Nimbus Alcoholus

REDGODDESS

Drink by RedGoddess

Lola remembers a saying “a drink is a drink, is a drink, is a drink.”
Maybe its from one of her recovering alcoholic hotel guests. She can’t remember, but in some cases, it doesn’t make sense.
Every morning, her choice of drink is a home brewed cup of dark roasted coffee, with a dash of brown sugar. After work, coffee won’t cut it, even with Baileys.
So honestly, a drink is not a drink, it is not a drink because Lola needs to numb her frustrations, before she explodes like dynamite.
Two days ago, she witnessed her lover having a drink with another woman. He didn’t see her, but she can’t get this image out of her head. Him. Her. And a bottle of wine between them. Him smiling and laughing without her.

DEANYA

Drink –

She’d not seen the advertisement until she’d finished dinner, flipping absentmindedly through the magazine while she cooked and ate, pages of health tips and “Can this marriage be saved?”

He’d chided her for having wine with dinner; Baptists should only take alcohol if Jesus Himself had turned it from water. Then he’d take the prescription drugs that kept him calm, he’d said, during his emotionally charged acting lessons.

But there it was: his smile; bottle of Merlot in one hand, glass in the other; his acting lessons really paying off; the word in bold sans serif above his head: “Drink?”

JUSTIN

Those basement rats nibbed my toe! I’ll drink a health potion! Those scratches are gone, right away!

Yipes! Flesh wound from that kobold! I’ll drink a health potion!

Dang orc gashed my arm! Nothing a health potion won’t clear right up.

Bugbear broke my nose! Health potion tastes like blood, but works just the same.

Troll hit me over the head with a tree! Health potion and an advil.

Dragon just burnt me to a crisp! Two health potions.

Consume responsibly. Contains high levels of mana. Not suitable for pregnant adventurers or adventurers sensitive to mana. Consult cleric if nursing.

DANNY

Cookie and Bubbles met Sparkle as she got off from work from the “Ride ‘em Cowboy” strip club. It was only 2:30 am, the bars in NYC don’t close until 4, so the girls decided to head to the nearest bar to get a few drinks. Sparkle knew the bartender, Julio, so they all received free drinks. By 3 a.m., Cookie and Bubbles were completely wasted. Sparkle got into a fight with her so called bartending friend, giving him a swift roundhouse kick to the jaw, dislodging his false teeth, which fell to pieces on the floor. Bubbles threw up on the bar.

NORVAL JOE

“You’re mad,” the second mate shouted as he struggled in his bonds. A shipmate slugged him and blocked his mouth with a dirty rag.
“Harr, Mr. Turner. Ye’ve been found guilty of mutiny, and even amongst us pirates that be punishable by death,” the captain growled. “Take him, boys, and throw the scurvy dog into the drink.”
“Excuse me, Captain,” the first mate put in. “We’re space pirates and there is no drink out there, only the soul sucking void of space.”
“I’ll tell you,” the captain said. “You people are no fun. Then, just put him out the airlock.”

Dergle stood outside the bar, wanting to go in, sit down at their table and order a drink. He pulled his wiener dog hoodie over his balding head and pressed the wiener dog nose-mask onto his face.
He stepped through the door. The party at the center table went silent, but for only a moment. They all suddenly laughed at what must have been the funniest joke in the world. They laughed at him and he knew it.
They’d made it clear that the Justice Friends were “Just Us Friends”.
Like so often, they were in and he was out.

TURA

Robert Heinlein said that a fiction writer is competing for the reader’s beer money. I’ll drink to that! But why compete? Every microbrewery bottle carries a blurb about how it was “Brewed on the banks of the mighty St. Vrain” or whatever. You could print a proper story there instead, perhaps a hundred words long. Use easy-peel labels and offer collectible albums. Challenge people to collect a saga in instalments. On a bottle of Bailey’s, you would want only the very best stories, stories you can read and reread for as long as the bottle lasts.

The possibilities are endless!

PLANET Z

You’re supposed to drink eight glasses of water per day, but I have no idea how big the glasses are supposed to be.

“Glass-sized,” said my doctor. “Why do you have to be such an asshole?”

So, I made a glass with a counter on it, and after every glass of water, I add one to the counter.

When I get to eight, I can stop drinking.

My friend thought it was a cool idea, so I lent it to him.

Three days later, he ended up in the hospital, suffering from severe dehydration.

The dumbass never reset the counter.

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 STAGE:

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

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

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

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:

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THOMAS

The microscope’s stage held a sample of the material gathered from the bottom of the wine cask. The technician twisted the turret around to the highest magnification lens, adjusted the fine focus, and saw the squirming worm-like, life forms. The wine, a 2003 Shinn Estate Merlot was medium-bodied red, composed of eighty-eight percent Merlot, five percent Cabernet Sauvignon, three percent Cabernet Franc, two percent Malbec, one percent Petit Verdot and one percent mystery worm. The nose was enchanting, with faint plum aromas and vanilla, while the palate offered plum and berry flavors with smooth tannins and well-integrated oak providing structure.
#

She was on the stage at three years old. Her father and brother were also part of the act. They would go on to the stage dressed as a happy, nonchalant, little family. Her father and brother wore sport coats, and she wore a handsome, pink dress. They would dance a little, then they would turn around, drop their pants, and moon the audience. The man that booked the act was shocked and upset. Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth as he grabbed the collar of the father, screaming, “What do you call that outrageous act?” “The Aristocrats.”

#

He staged the demo in order to convince the woman that the vacuum cleaner was powerful enough to lift heavy steel nuts and bolts off the rug. He dumped a bucket of fasteners on her fancy, Turkish rug, plugged in the machine and started his demonstration. The first bolt was whisked into the hose. Klank! The bolt jammed itself into the works and destroyed the motor and the only sale he might have had since joining Chinese Vacuum, Limited. He should have known. The majority of the major components were made from beer cans exported to China from the U.S.

#

At this stage, young Grissom was determined. He carried his rifle and pistol, and several grenades on his web belt. Grissom told his wife that if anything happened to him, his love would be powerful enough that he would be able to materialize at any time, and he would leave a message with her. Stepping on a mine, Grissom was blown to a ragged mess, and all that remained were some shredded bones in his limbs. His guts lay in a pile next to him. He looked down at himself, deciding he would rather go than stay. He let go.

#

Still riding the stage coach between towns, Tom Mixx was the brave shotgun guard that accompanied the chests of valuables that were transported between Western Washington towns. Slower and more vulnerable than the armored cars operated by Brinks, required the coach to use back roads and be disguised as a church hayride. Bales of fresh straw covered the stage, and Mixx had a bulletproof niche in the corner of the coach. Three dummies, dressed as parishioners were seated inside. The coach was the brainchild of an eccentric owner, who loved the wild west and all the adventure inherent in it.

#

During the third stage of the journey, Tania neglected to switch on the waste liquid recycling module, so the crew did not have clean water. After three days of desperation, the crew began capturing liquid from other sources on the craft. They began with the hydroponic gardens, finding the water used as a nutrient solution was not recoverable due to the addition of all the chemicals. They began extracting from the plants, using a modified juicer and jerry-rigged press. The liquid extracted from the cucumbers, carrots, cactus, succulents, was sufficient, and lasted until the recycling apparatus was back on line.

JEFFREY

Intervention
by Jeffrey Fischer

The empty bottles stacked up in the recycling bin that Barry never seemed to remember to take to the curb. Bottles with liquor still in them lined the shelves of the pantry, with others conveniently located about the house for ease of access.

Outside the house, Barry was always the life of the party – for the first half-dozen drinks, that is. After that number, insults, lewd behavior, and broken glassware became more likely. Invitations became scarce, though Barry’s ability to accept also declined after he lost his driver’s license.

Even so, when his friends and relatives came to his door one morning to stage an intervention when Barry was still in a hung-over fog, he was surprised.

Career Opportunities
by Jeffrey Fischer

Theresa strode across the stage in her graduation robes, her cap cocked back at a jaunty angle and held in place with a dozen bobby pins. She accepted her diploma from the Dean with a handshake and a broad grin. She snuck a glance at her parents who were, if anything, smiling even more than Theresa, no doubt delighted to get their youngest child off the payroll and out of the house at last.

As she walked off the platform and started contemplating her future, Theresa began to wonder whether going $75,000 in debt for a major in Gender Studies was a wise decision.

RICHARD

#1 – Rule 2

Rule two: Always look where you’re going.

The lamp-post with which George collided suffered far less damage than he. Once the world stopped spinning, he eased himself into a sitting position. His shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the impact, would bruise beautifully – not a propitious start to his outdoor activities.

Ruefully, he realised that if he was ever going to survive, he needed to slow down, think things through and not run blindly into danger.

“Stage one, George”, he muttered, “get a grip on the basics, or you’ll never get to stage two… whatever that might be!”

#2 – As You Like It

If all the world’s a stage and we are merely players then, Mr Shakespeare, I have a few questions…

Just who is directing this show and how did we get our parts? I for one, wasn’t asked to audition… And, forgive me, but I’ve not been shown a script.

What about rehearsals – do we at least get time to practice our role, become familiar with our props, adjust our costumes to fit, and maybe make some changes to the plot?

Oh, and Mr Shakespeare, if every one of us are the players, then please explain, who precisely is our audience?

#3 – Deception… doubled

“All we need to do is stage your death – I’ll claim the life insurance, then when the fuss has died down, we’ll head off into the sunset. No-one will be any the wiser. Trust me, everything will work out perfectly.”

This was the reason I’d gone into the insurance business and finally, my plan was coming together. I’d pull all the right strings to ensure that Susan’s ‘death’ was dealt with speedily, and then I’d simply disappear with the cash.

As for Susan, I wasn’t worried that she’d find me – according to official records, I’d been dead for years!

MUNSI

Stage Acting for Dummies

By Christopher Munroe

In the theatre, the most important skill you must master is the ability to speak while well lit.

Also: Do what you’re told.

There’s more to it then that, obviously, a certain skill set is required and there are a lot of tips and tricks, but it boils down to, in essence, those two basic things.

Take direction, and take it well. And then, when the time comes, walk onto the stage, find your mark, where the light hits you properly, stand there, and speak.

Not a romantic notion of acting, I know, but it gets you through the show….

LIZZIE

It was long and deep, as any tragedy should be. After a drawn out silly-season, the media gathered for the opening, eager to witness the much awaited comeback of Pemberton’s work.

After two hours, of which one was an exasperating monologue, the journalist of a smallish publication stood up.

“Kill him already!”

Silence invaded the theater.

In a fit of rage, Pemberton hurried across the stage, coming from behind the curtain, and threw one of the props, a rather heavy one, at the journalist.

Unfortunately, having his masterpiece ruined was not the lowest moment of Pemberton’s day… or following years.

SERENDIPITY

The final stage is perhaps the most bizarre, as a shocking transformation takes place.

Facial features become distorted: eyes and nose become pronounced and may discolour; a rictus parodying a smile or grimace forms and hair becomes wild, or may become altogether absent.

The feet may swell massively and movement becomes uncoordinated and erratic. Falls are common, as is gratuitous violence.

These somewhat frightening – though occasionally amusing – creatures tend to gather in groups of their own kind, and are drawn towards children, bright lights, gaudy colours and large crowds.

Love them, or hate them, the circus must have its clowns.

CLIFF

There are five stages of writing
Denial. “They can’t be serious. A hundred word story? That has to be a typo.”
Anger. “They can’t limit me like that! I’m an artist! I must express myself fully and without restriction.”
Bargaining. “How about a thousand words and I’ll split it up into ten smaller stories?”
Depression. “It’s all meaningless. No one will ever read this. I might as well go write a haiku.”
Acceptance. “Alright. I’ll just focus on the most important aspect and write a one hundred word story on that. Now, how much do I get paid for this?”

TOM

The widow Parsons was waiting for the stage. Timothy hung close to mother the transvelt wind swirled dust over his spit shine shoes. They were bound for Evanstown to meet Doc Proctor who’d placed an inquiry for housekeeper/bookkeeper in the Stratmore Hearld. The coach pulled into the station Giff Banister tossed down body armor to young Timothy and released the air look to the stage. “Aim true and hold your breath as you shoot,” the widow reminded the son. “I will,” dutily said Tim as he triple pumped the railgun. Banister pulled the rains. The batlofts pressed into the wind.

ZACKMANN

Nice to see you back Nunzio, how was your wild west vacation?”

“Great, I robbed some stagecoaches.”

“Do you mean you reenacted stagecoach robberies as part of the vacation activities?”

“No Guido, I mean I was able to send two stagecoaches and a utility wagon through a dimensional gate before anyone noticed they were missing.”

“Did you send unattended animals through a dimensional gate?”

“No, they would have noticed missing horses right away and not every world that doesn’t use cars uses horses as their draft animal.”

“Nunzio where you going for your next vacation?”

“Somewhere with my cousin Guido”

STEVEN

Your lover twists silk around your wrists, pulls it taut. The soft,
unyielding resistance is numbing your hands.

“It’s a little-” you say before your lover presses a sweat-salted
finger against your lip.

“Stage one,” your lover says.

Your heart races, pumping love and trust and fear.

Then your ankles – not soft silk, but the cold clank of steel
handcuffs, metal edges biting your skin.

“I-” you say. Your lover’s silencing hand is a stinging slap.

“Stage two,” your lover says.

Your heart races, pumping love and fear.

“Stage three,” your lover whispers, drawing the knife.

Your heart races.

JUSTIN

All the world is stages,

And all the players merely gamers;

They have their powerups and their combo moves,

And one man in his time has extra lives,

His acts being seven ages. At first level,

With low hit points and few powers.

Then the apprentice, with his new abilities

And shining with temporary invulnerability, blinking momentarily

Unwillingly to long cutscenes. And then the equipment reset,

powerups removed, with a woeful ballad

shouted at the TV screen. Then a Game Shark,

Full of strange codes and skipping past bosses,

Jealous of high scores, sudden and quick in quarrel

during multiplayer.

DANNY

The past disappeared into the ether as the stagecoach raged forward across the barren Mojave desert landscape. “How soon before we reach San Francisco?” I anxiously inquired. “Well, at this stage of the game, I’d say we should at least get there with 2 to 3 days to spare,” the stagecoach driver replied. “We must hurry, my Stage debut at the Filmore is scheduled for June 18th!” I implored. “Well, wouldn’t it have been more efficient to rent a car instead of a horse draw stagecoach during this day and age if you were that concerned with time?” the stagecoach driver sneered.

CALEDONIA

She tripped over the lip of it and fell flat on its aged wooden surface with a painful thwack!

“What’s this? Who put this here?”

An ethereal voice came out of nowhere, “Welcome to a rarefied world where art and life collide. Welcome to the great forum of thought and emotion.” The voice raised in pitch, and intensity, “Welcome to the deep reality of emotions reflected with …”

She interrupted impatiently, “Yes, yes, get on with it. Where’s the ladies loo?”

“Backstage left, and down the stairs to your right. Push the handle twice, please, or it won’t flush properly.”

***

The veteran and the neophyte stand in the wings watching, and waiting.

“Do you ever get nervous?” the young one asks.

“Every time,” is the curt reply.

“Really?” the young one croaks, hand shaking as he raises his water bottle and slurps, hoping to not botch his very first line out on the boards. He twitches. “But all those people, all those eyes watching you!”

The veteran turns a slow, patience gaze on the young one. He very softly, very deliberately whispers, “If you hit your marks and stand in your light, you will not see them. Do not look.”

***

Bette reached for the shiny statuette. It was a local award, but it sparkled like a Tony. As she sputtered out her humble gratitude, the past entered her mind.

It was a sunny, hot bee-buzzing July afternoon. She hid high amidst the fanning branches of the old backyard swing tree. Mamma and Auntie on the back porch sipping huge, foggy tumblers of supposed lemonade.

“I wish I knew why Bette needs so much more attention than the other children. She’s always performing!” her Mamma cried.

Her Aunt’s patient reply, “Don’t worry, dear. It’s just the stage. She’ll get over it.”

RED

After years of failed campaigns, Emily, a conservative home grown teacher was ready for a 3rd chance in the political ring. Teaching is her calling but she’s compelled to work from inside the system. She’s been a good citizen, reaching out to local politicians and engaging her neighbors. She even started a petition at her school with the support of the PTA. Her frustrations led her to challenge the incumbent. She deters all decision about her image the campaign consultant who plans to stage a get out the vote rally in front of City Hall. The more she focuses on her political appeal, the clearer it becomes she has entered a popularity contest. Win or lose, the kids will pay the price.

NORVAL JOE

The secure channel to Command Base only crackled with static. They’d declared stage four retreat; a complete bug out, every man for himself.
Doorn Van Kirk ran the lunar scan algorithm again hoping to find at least one ship rising from the fourth moon of Spanspek. The flight back to the prime colony ship would be long and lonely by himself.
He initiated the hybrid plasma charge and waited for the moon to go pink. Any remaining colonists would die, but so would the damn Crabs. Human technology could not be left in the hands, or claws, of the Crabs.

TURA

There are so many self-help books now, you can’t compete just by writing a new load of nonsense. So I invented a way of generating unlimited amounts. First, choose a title of the form “N stages of X”. “Five Stages of Wealth.” “Eight Steps to Quitting Your Job.” “Ten Stages of Life.” (People are suckers for bulleted lists.) Google the number and throw together whatever comes up. Pentagram, Eightfold Way, Ten Sephirot, that sort of thing. Chop your subject into however many pieces, and hammer them into the mould. Then, profit!

I call the method “One Hundred Words of Huckstering.”

SINGH

The Boy with the Wild Boar’s Face (Part 1)
1.
When the famous Muzim Theatre closed nightly, Ketut swept the wooden stage and aisles, working his way to the vestibule collection. He unlocked each case and gently brushed the exhibits with a duster made from a cockerel’s tail feathers, remembering when the Master, his old Tuan had procured each on world journeys. There were historical costumes, hats, swords and stage ornaments and props from Asia to Europe and back. Touching the mask collection Ketut recalled his village in Bali. Years ago the Tuan had spotted him in the street wearing one with pig tusks miming a wild boar with compelling realism.

2
Ten year old Ketut was an orphan from a lineage of royal mask makers who had been taken in by his maternal uncle, a barber. The boy proved a financial burden for the pragmatic family, always off chasing street puppets and dance troupes.
Tuan’s two sons had shown no interest in theatre, but Tuan saw a glimmer of himself in the boy.
“If you take him with you, I will give you his father’s collection,” the uncle bargained pulling out a heavy chest. Tuan’s eyebrows raised. This was getting more interesting. “Alright show me these masks and then I will decide.”

3
Tuan gasped at gold foreheads and teeth, a red-lipped Barong with tusks, Garuda, Rangda, a moon goddess wearing snake hair, a beauty mask with a royal Batik headdress, the good Boma demon, another with a gecko crouching between the wooden eye sockets. There was a smiling Buddha with rotten teeth, a white faced topeng monkey mask made from hibiscus wood and more. These were some of the lost heirlooms of the last Jaywarman king who had long ago committed ritual suicide. The royal seal was imprinted inside each.
“Yes,” Tuan said, “I’ll take the boy.” And also gave money.

4
Thus, Ketut commenced traditional discipleship as Tuan’s attendant while doing chores like sweeping the old theatre, while Tuan began the training.

“Look!” he would say going to the wet market to buy durians and mangosteins. “See the man hopping about on the hot road like a crow? Remember that, Tut.” Or when the monsoon pounded the pandan leaves Tuan would say, “Listen to the roaring downpour followed by the last ping-ping of raindrops. You can use that at the end of a dance sequence.” Then Tuan demonstrated a jerky hand movement coming to a standstill. Ketut was aroused and captivated.

5
Tuan also told Ketut to look after the collection which was the pride of the Muzim Theatre. “Be diligent. Many of these costumes and jewelled ornaments were endowed to me by famous people like the Sultan of Brunei and the Count of Barcelona after I performed in their courts. Then there were great makers and artisans from France and Italy with whom I exchanged our kris blades, kebayas and turbans in return for their costumes, hats and weapons you see here. Look especially after the masks from your father. They are the most precious. They will be your best life teachers.”
6
Such favourite attention aroused jealousy among the actors and even the Master’s watchful wife. She still hoped one of her sons would return from the north to manage the family theatre. Puan was from a plain business family. Overseeing management matters suited her, replacing the tedium of art making. Frankly, she didn’t agree with, or understand her husband’s lofty ideas, but she did enjoy the status of being the wife of a great artist. When he formally adopted the Balinese boy, (who still wandered around with a boar mask playfully scaring the children) she did not accept him in her heart.

7
Ketut maintained the Muzim Collection and happily did all the menial chores. Then after two years during the southwest monsoon season, the Master died suddenly from dengue fever. It was a blow for the whole company and Ketut. After the mourning period Puan carried on, yet without Tuan the company began to dwindle. Ketut’s theatre education stopped, too, although he had formed the habit of mimicking everything and everyone around him, and although pure minded proud actors like Azlim, a rather messy rice eater felt offended seeing Tut sit down with younger children mimicking each person in the company including himself.

8
Obligated, Puan kept Tut on, but without Tuan to champion him, he was soon sidelined. Puan read the motives of her actors and rationalised she had to keep things on a tactful footing. The easiest course was to leave Tut on as a janitor boy without any stage prospects, despite the career path Tuan had in mind. Nevertheless, Ketut continued without complaint doing all the menial chores: sweeping the stage and aisles and dusting the collection at night when the doors were locked and all went to their homes. He imagined Tuan still speaking his lessons through each garment and artefact.

9
Put on those pantaloons from France, Tut and the Ming dynasty dragon coat. Take the sword from Toledo and leap onto the stage. Yes, that’s right dance now. The sky is falling. Let your blade flash and slice off your enemy’s head.

Ketut’s role-played his signature boar character being chased by a hunter all the way back up the other aisle. Then he put on a Commedia dell’Arte mask, hat and Harlequin suit skipping and tumbling clownishly across the stage.

Like this he paid homage to Tuan, and afterwards locked up everything up, going off to sleep under the stage.

10
One morning Muzim Trust headed by Puan was having a meeting. Sweeping outside the office, Ketut overheard a familiar angry voice.

“We should sell off the collection. Funds are low, I tell you.” It was Azlim, the lead actor. Secretly, he wanted the company to go bankrupt because a developer had promised him a generous commission if he secured the contract for real estate development of the land. Things were changing in the city. With the money Azlim was going to migrate to Australia.

What would Master say? Thought Ketut.

“No! We must maintain Tuan’s legacy at all costs,” said Puan.

11
The next day Puan found the theatre unlocked and the Collection gone. She called the police.

“Who has access, Madam? The officer asked.

Speaking in her high society voice said, “Azlim and Tut, our janitor boy.”

Ketut was brought. Puan seeing enemies everywhere these days suspected Azlim.

“He has been scheming with the other actors and demanding more pay since Tuan passed.”

Later, they matched fingerprints on the door with Azlim’s, but lacking more direct evidence the case was shelved. Nevertheless, Azlim was forced to resign. In reprisal, he lured away several key actors and actresses to start their own collective.

12
The collection theft turned out to be the saving grace of the Muzim Trust. With the insurance money they were able to renovate and modernise. Media attention aroused public sympathy and new audiences and patrons flocked to the well-funded productions which gained generous newspaper review space because a stream of celebrity actors could be employed here between their film shoots. Thus, the Muzim Theatre regained its prestige as a premier leader of the arts in the city. Ketut was happy. He helped out with front of house before each show, swept up afterwards glad Tuan’s life work would continue on.

PLANET Z

When Ted was in high school, he took an aptitude test to see what career he was best suited for.

The results came back “Hostage.”

Which was perfect for Ted, because he had very rich parents, and he was always being taken hostage and held for ransom.

In fact, the school guidance counselor took Ted hostage and threatened to say that Ted would be perfect for medical testing or janitorial work.

A SWAT team surrounded the school and tried to rescue Ted, but he was killed by a stray bullet.

The guidance counselor updated the test results to “Dead Hostage.”