Errors

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The error messages this system spits out are frustrating.
They are just a bunch of meaningless code.
“Can I get some meaningful error message that tells me what I did wrong?” I ask.
The developers say no. They are too busy getting rid of the bugs that cause the errors.
“In the meantime, I’d like to know what the errors mean.”
They shake their heads.
“How about some error messages that are even more meaningless, filled with profanity and racial epithets?”
The developers think I’m being silly.
So I grab one by the throat and give him a few examples.

His Number Came Up

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He was not a number, but his number did finally come up.
The old actor died last night.
His greatest performance was over forty years ago. He had full control over the production, and he put everything into it.
I’m watching it now, episode after episode of The Prisoner, and despite so many things changing since then socially and technologically, the themes of paranoia, distrust, and the human spirit of individuality still shine through.
There’s a remake of the series in the works, but I won’t watch it.
There’s no improving on perfection, I say, and I hit Play again.

Foldspace

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Edgar needs to go to Phoenix.
He pulls out his world map, makes a few folds, and he’s now just a few minutes walk from Phoenix.
“Relative Foldspace” he calls it, in between cigarettes.
I call it Voodoo.
“It doesn’t hurt anybody,” he says. “It just folds my relative space.”
He smokes another, ashes fall on the map.
Brushes them off. “Thought it would set the world on fire?”
With a shout, he tears the map in half.
I recover from my fainting spell to the sound of Edgar laughing. “It’s just a focus. It ain’t the world.”
Is it?

Never

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We all stared at the turtle in its terrarium.
They named it Never.
“What kind of name is Never?” I asked.
The twins both shrugged at the same time.
They did that kind of thing, shrugging and smiling and sneezing together.
And they were always in agreement.
Even if it was something weird, like naming their pet turtle “Never.”
“I still don’t understand why you two wanted a turtle,” I said. “Why not a dog or a cat?”
And they shrugged again.
Sure, they’re my kids. I love them.
But it can be really, really creepy when they do this.

Poison Banquet

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The guards aren’t allowed to beat us anymore, but they still torture us.
They have a chef cook feasts for them. The air ducts are arranged to blanket the jail with the kitchen smells:
Fresh baked bread.
Deep, rich gumbo.
Buttery, roasted corn.
So good!
Then they slide trays with the usual, horrible slop under the bars.
The chef is one of us. Did twenty years for putting a knife in a man trying to rob his restaurant.
They beat him bad too many times, so he’s adding his extra special ingredient tonight.
“Poison never tasted so good,” he chuckles.

Weekly Challenge #142 – Double Dipping

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Forty-Two 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… was…. um…
It’s a combination of: Double Dipping
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

Which were the best stories of Weekly Challenge #142?
Ashley
Guy from http://guydavid.com/
Tom from http://midi.libsyn.com
Anima Zabaleta from http://http.zabbadabba.com/
Justin from http://www.thebeandom.com/spaceturtle
Norval Joe from www.norvalsoutlook.blogspot.com
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

Ashley

“Happy birthday Mr. Thomas,” said Little Johnny.
Mr. Thomas said, “thank you Johnny,” as he opened the bag of chocolate goodies.
“The smaller ones are peanuts, the bigger ones brownie bits. I made the brownies and double dipped each in chocolate myself.”
Mr. Thomas smiled as he popped a brownie bit into his mouth. The smile gone, he swallowed hard, coughing mightily.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Thomas,” said Little Johnny as he headed back to his seat. All the other kids in the class watched with awe.
They already knew, the brownie bits were really deer pellets. A legend was born.

Guy David

You have to double dip it. Once is not enough. Once won’t get you the texture, the finesse. It has to be dipped twice, then it has be be rolled over three times and wrapped around that other part five times. The topping comes next. That has to circle the whole thing ten times. Circle it eleven times and you destroy the balance. Circle it nine times, and the taste is ruined. When it’s done, don’t just eat it. Savor it. Treasure it. Enjoy every tiny bite, every twinkle of taste. Enjoy it for what it is – your life giver.

Tom

Timmy the typewriting monkey was double dipping. He had an exclusive contract with Crap Publishing Houston TX. But unknown to the firm Timmy had sold a story to Ben and Jerry Press, which was being serialized in Vanity Fair. The story was entitled: Our American Cousin. In the final installment the old rail splitter having been mortally wounding by the villain TollBooth in a mix of fever and lust rips open the bodice of his morning wife thus exposing twin scoops of Mary Todd just as Abe expires. Crap Publishing has taken legal acts, but at present is spanking their monkey.

Anima

Howard has incredible luck; so much, you’d think he’s double dipped in it.
Spying twenty dollars on the ground, Howard stooped to pick it up; his hand
was crushed by the scuffed leather shoe of Brad Pitt.
Mind if I take that? I have a family to support.
When he was stranded on the highway, Prof. Ado Bayero, king of the Nigerian
scams, stopped to help. Howard got arrested as an accomplice when Vice
pulled up.
Don’t even ask about his dates.
Is Howard’s luck changing? Today he found a four-leaf clover; there were no
falling anvils to been seen…

Justin

This weird scientist reunion is ok. It’s good to see some of my old friends
and all, but some can be such plonkers! Bloody Time Traveler over there, he
keeps jumping back in time to steal all the snacks. He’s a real git. And
there, Captain Nemo, he’s playing with a little toy sub in the punch bowl,
what a sod! Oh, yes, there, Doctor Jekyll, as if he haven’t all seen the
‘now I’m Jekyll, now I’m Hyde, trick.Bugger. Oi, look there! Willy just
double dipped a candy cane into the chocolate fondue fountain. He’s such a
Wonka!

Norval Joe

He had heard of double dipped chocolates, Sienfields’ double dipper faux pas, and
even a double dipper recession. He had never imagined double dipped hosiery.
Dilbert Doublet, a particle engineer, hadn’t worn a matched pair of socks in forty
years.
Dilbert took long, hollow, nano fibers and immersed them, twice, in a polarized
ionic solution. When woven into the fabric of cloth the fibers could be given ionic
signatures.
Dilbert Doublets Double Dipped nano socks, activated by heat from the dryer, will
magnetically find their mates to come out as a matched pair.
Coming soon to a store near you.

Planet Z

Poisoning apples for Halloween is a lost art.
Not only do you dip them in the poison twice, but you need to let the first coating of poison dry before applying the second.
Nobody gives out apples anymore.
It’s all pre-packaged candy these days. Cheap and simple, no fuss.
Still, every now and then, I’ll buy an apple from the grocery store, work my magic on it, and put it back.
My son wants to follow in my footsteps, but he does it with lemons and oranges
That just poisons the outer peel.
Oh well. Maybe one day he’ll learn.

Sturgiss

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We followed Sturgiss the Necromancer, that demon graverobber criminal!
His destination? The accursed Voltmaster.
His watchtower rises from a clearing in Gloomwood.
We goblins know to give this abomination of stone a wide berth.
On the roof, Sturgiss arranges steel rods.
Clouds, ready for harvest.
I shout to the sky: “We demand the return of Lord Grondol’s body!”
Sturgiss screams his response: “You may fight the jackals for Grondol’s unused remains.”
Inside, Voltmaster throws a switch. The tower explodes with light and power.
“This is just trickery!” I shout, but my goblin soldiers run.
Grondol, your desecration is my dishonor.

There will be peace when the Gnomes love their children more than they hate us

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In the nursery, we keep it simple: babies coming in equals babies going out.
Come up short, and security checks the tapes before “Stolen Baby” makes the evening news.
But when we come up with extra, that’s worse.
“Damn those Gnomes,” said Nurse Riley. “They sneak their agents into nurseries to infiltrate our species.”
This giggling, squirming lump in a standard-issue diaper is no child.
Riley pointed out the beard-stubble and bright red shaving rash.
The look in her eyes: sadness and horror.
I signed the authorization. Quarantine, then furnace termination.
They don’t scream, even while burning.
Damn this war.

Skin Contract

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Awake at 4. Itching, scratching.
The rashes are unbearable.
One more week until my skin contract’s up.
The free ones are nothing compared to expensive designer skins, but with the contract, you get a discount on those.
I look in the mirror. Hideous bags under my eyes, wrinkles like canyons across my face.
And rashes.
Last time, I cheaped out. Ever since, it’s been dermatologist appointments and oceans of cosmetics.
Yak butter creams? Tungsten wire therapy?
I won’t make that mistake again.
I put on my happy-face, the porcelain doll-mask with the vacant, vapid stare, and head to the kitchen.

Belt

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I could not find my leather belt this morning.
It was not where I had left it – wrapped around my neck.
My belt is usually on yesterday’s pants, but I didn’t wear pants yesterday. So I wrapped it around my neck and went to sleep.
When I woke up, it was gone.
I only own one belt. It’s a black belt, so it goes with everything.
Maybe I will go buy another belt? I should buy two, but in all my life, I only own one belt at a time.
Because I only have one neck to wrap it around.