Cake Baking

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Mom was busy in the kitchen, baking a gigantic cake.
Little Susie asked why.
“It’s Baking A Cake Day,” said Mom. “And that’s why I am baking a cake.”
“Why is there a Baking A Cake Day, Mommy?” asked Little Susie.
“To celebrate Cake-Baking!”
“Why celebrate cakes? Why not pies?”
“You’re not an unpatriotic pie-lover are you?”
Little Susie asked why pie was bad, but her mother shoved her out the door.
“Go play outside!” she shouted.
Susie walked through the trees to the neighborhood creek and made mud pies with her friends.
But she came home caked with dirt.

Chorus

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Ever hear of the Falling Chorus of Ghastly Cliffs?
No? It’s a fascinating story.
Imagine a gigantic gleaning amphitheater set on the edge of a cliff.
As the city residents become old and weak, they join the line down Main Street to the chorus at the cliff.
When they reach the amphitheater, they sing for all they’re worth.
Some go for a few seconds. Others, for hours.
When they’re exhausted, helpers pick them off the ground and toss them over the edge.
Another takes their place. The choir goes on forever.
It’s beautiful, except for the screams and messy splatters.

Strewn at his feet

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It is a rule of the royal palace that everywhere our liege walks, rose petals must be strewn at his feet.
Sadly, the roses were killed by unexpected frost, and it will be months before new blooms can grow.
Our master lays in bed, tied up and angry.
“All I want to do is walk to the bathroom,” he growls.
“No,” I say. “We have no roses to strew at your feet. We must carry you.”
He sighs. He knows that he is no more important than the office, and with the office comes rules.
We tighten the ropes.

Twilight Years

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I’m not old, they tell me.
I’m in my Twilight Years.
They’re not lying, I tell them. They’re just full of shit.
I look like I’m in my eighties, but I’m really in my eight hundreds.
Been that way since I was… well, eighty.
I don’t know how and I don’t know why. I just know that I haven’t died yet and I don’t appear to be in any rush to.
Know that song Forever Young? Well, I’m Forever Old.
I get sick a lot. I feel tired, weak.
But it beats the hell out of the alternative, I guess.

Weekly Challenge #114 – What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Fourteen, 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 selected by Justin, and we went with What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

What were the best stories of Weekly Challenge #114?
Steven the Nuclear Man!
Tom from Footnote
Guy David from Guy David dot com
Justin the Space Turtle
Thomas Merkel likes ComiObama?
Anima Zabaleta
Eva Moon of The Lunatics
Michelle from Different World
Sister Mary Edith
Planet X-Ray from Planet X Podcast
Terry Tee from Quiet Time Podcast
Sougent from SL Adventures of a Southern Genlteman
Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club
Laieanna and Hodgepodge Point
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

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


STEPHEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The head writer’s litany began the same as it had all week.
“Sharks. Piranaha. Tigers. Bullets. Female ninjas. Male ninjas.
That guy who chomped things. Beheading hats. Booby traps. Even
frickin’ lasers. The franchise is done. What else could 007 face?”
“He could face,” Justin said, while I cringed and sank into my chair,
“a dragon while he had nothing but a Boy Scout Handbook and a Pi”ata
costume.”
The stuff we took at last night’s party had not been THAT potent.
“This isn’t MacGyver, dammit,” the lead writer yelled.
Then we locked eyes and shouted it together.
“A team-up!”

TOM

What would I do if I found myself
face to face with a dragon and
all I had was a boy scout handbook
and a pinata costume?
Well I”d square my feet
raise my head and proudly say:
So! Where the hell was Biggles
when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen
who always pulled you though?
They’re all resting down in Cornwall
writing up their memoirs
for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.
I”d shoot candy from my butt,
embrace my moral straightness
and waddle as fast as could for the exit.

MIKE

I opened the Boyscout Handbook. Oath? Yeah, I know one – more”n one – and if the dragon catches me in the open, I”ll say “em all. Hmmm, Table of Contents.
Badges? I don”t need no stinking badges! First Aid? Can”t fix “dead”. Ahhh – Outdoor Adventures!
Quickly, I stuffed three lighter refills down the sheep pi”ata”s throat, tied twine to a foreleg, ran it around a nearby tree and… a rush of wind and the dragon was there. I yanked the twine and the “sheep” lurched. The dragon pounced, swallowed and, five seconds later, blew up.
This better be a great fraternity.

GUY DAVID

Chaketo Chirapa knew what he had to do. He put on his cloaking device and went to the store. The salesperson had his head buried in some comic book with dragons in pi”ata costumes. He might as well have been reading a boyscout handbook. It was so easy. Chaketo Chirapa took what he needed, put it under his cloaking device and went back underground, where his people where singing their Chirapa songs.
Back in his room, he hooked everything, turned it on and said: “I am Chaketo Chirapa, I am an alien from another planet, and this is my podcast.”

JUSTIN

The boyscout handbook sat open on the ornate vanity below the mirror. Scattered strands of crape paper are scattered about, one in the book marking the page on birthday parties. The ancient dragon stares at her red face in the mirror. Her golden eyes glinted with machinations of a brilliant plan. Her stomach rumbled with angry pangs of hunger. Piece by piece she donned and assembled the pinata costume that was big enough for her whole body. She would fly to the party, lay in waiting, then when the first boy struck her, when they all expected candy, dinner time!

THOMAS

His piercing golden eyes stared, impatient, hungry. “I’m a little bit hungry here, can we please speed things up a little?”
My tail encircled the struggling woman’s ankles, holding her aloft, her brightly colored dress falling around her looking like a large overstuffed pi?ata.
“Just give me a few more moments.” I told him.
I’d been gazing at a boy scout field guide looking for just the right cooking technique. He liked his humans always the same, but I was getting bored and wanted some new recipe.
“Come on, I’m starving.” He whined.
“Fine, tartare again.” Patience isn’t his virtue

ANIMA ZABALETA

I’m an Eagle Scout, but nothing in my scout handbook prepared me for this”
My trusty book covers such things as killing large animals with a Bowie knife”. Earned the badge in Webelos.
Lookey’re: Blueprints for a survival raft out of ocotillo staves and spider webs” I built variation C at Jamboree.
Page 35. Here’s instructions for cooking Chili Mac in a turtle shell.
But there’s nary a word about this”
Steeling my courage, I turn a deliberate 360, look the Dragon directly in the eye, and ask,
“Lai Choi San, does this pi”ata costume make my ass look fat?”

EVA MOON

She stared at the screen. Who were they kidding? A boyscout handbook? A pinata costume? How on earth would those things help you with a dragon?
“I swear, hon, they’ve really lost it this time.”
“Let it go, Alma.”
“I hate this! It’s impossible and it pisses me off that I won’t get a story in this week.”
She felt his hot breath on the back of her neck. “Want me to blast ’em for you?”
“No, no.” She reached up and stroked the familiar, scaly claw that curled gently around her shoulder.
“I give up. Take me flying, baby.”

MICHELLE

Early Monday afternoon newly formed Boyscout Troop 714, from Detroit Michigan, was planning a simple Fourth of July party, Mexican style. A quick meeting in the park suddenly turned to tragedy when the dragon struck yet again.
Volunteer parent, Janet Turner, was the only survivor of the attack. Troop leader, Melinda Cox, was heralded as a hero for using a pinata costume and distracting the dragon long enough for Janet to escape by building an airplane, according to directions found in the boyscout handbook, and flying away. The plane crashed, killing the other sixteen parents onboard.

MARY EDITH

Pi”ata? Check. Dragons circling in the distance? Check. I called the troop over.
“OK boys, we’ll have a roaring fire in no time! Everyone find a good weenie roasting stick?” But as I demonstrated proper whittling technique they fell back screaming! I felt a breath of steam on my back. I whirled.
When I regained consciousness, the fire hissed and popped with drippings from a brisket so big it took three boys to turn the spit.
Those Boy Scouts– always prepared!

PLANET X

When Daphne was fourteen she thought she loved Laurence so very much.
She would stop him everyday to ask him questions like, “What is a girl suppose to do when she knows her destiny is to marry someone and he won’t even acknowledge her existence?”
Always, Laurence would just stare with a blank face.
But it was when he finally answered her questions with “What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?”,
that she knew that Laurence was only full of crap.

TERRY TEE

Some great stories start out like Charles Dickens A Tale of Two Cities with “It was the best of time, It was the worst of times”
Or even classics like Poe’s The Raven, with “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,”
But only Larry Snodcrapper would come up with a beginning like “What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?” in his story, I was a teenaged podcaster.

SOUGENT

Jimmy tugged at his outfit, “itchy” he mumbled. “Hold still”, his
mother admonished as she finished closing up the back.
“We spent a lot of time making this pinata costume, I don’t want you
tearing it up right away”.
“I won’t Mom”, Jimmy replied. “Where’s my boyscout handbook?”
“Right here”, his mother said, handing him the book.
Jimmy took the handbook and dashed out to his meeting.
When he arrived, all the other boys were milling around.
Suddenly, in strides a rather large dragon causing the boys to freeze in place.
“Hello Scoutmaster Digsby!!” all the young dragons shouted.

CALEB

The mood was set. She had candles burning, incense too. She had slipped into something more comfortable and looked radiant. We were sipping champagne and feeding each other ranier cherries. I was sure it was time. My heart skipped a beat when she wanted to play truth or dare. I said truth. And so she asked, “What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?”
I shook my head. Packed my things and left. Rather get my cherries popped by her sister anyway.

LAIEANNA

“Are you taking this seriously?” Lulu’s lawyer asked, pointing at Morris’s pi”ata costume.
“This keeps me in good spirits during these trying times,” Morris said.
“Mr. Gritter, we’re here to discuss the details of your divorce. I strongly recommend you retain an attorney.”
Morris touched his tattered, old boy scout handbook, “I’ve always lived by the honor and rules of this book. It’s my lawyer. Besides, I’m not looking for a divorce,” he met Lulu’s keen eyes, “just some changes in our relationship.”
The lawyer motioned to continue; Lulu’s ears flicked in anticipation.
“Just stop eating my family and friends.”

PLANET Z

A dragon tattoo on his chest, a bottle in his hand.
“Get back in the basement, you little fucker,” growled Frank.
Frank married Mom last year, then she overdosed.
Goodbye Mom, hello pain.
The basement was full of junk and cockroaches – somehow, Bobby survived.
He read his torn-up Boy Scout Handbook, wore rags and busted pinatas when his old clothes rotted away.
He found a knife. Scraped it sharp.
Above, laughter. Shouting. Something shatters. Screaming.
Then, silence. Frank was asleep.
No more of this. Tonight, escape or die trying.
Shadows, creeping slowly. Raising the knife.
Bobby slew the dragon.

Jellyfish

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Jefferson Jellyfish Jones couldn’t count to 88, but he used every one of those 88 keys on that piano like a surgeon uses every knife on his tray.
He sliced and snipped at the music, tucking and nipping until what was once a bloody mess was a shining example the finest beauty.
Your ears and soul, lifted higher than they’d ever been lifted before, sonny.
At the ripe old age of 88, at the Bad Times Bar, Jellyfish hit those keys one last time, face down.
Even in his dying moment, no sweeter sound.
Play all night, Jellyfish. Play on.

One Billion

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Ever seen a billion dollars up close? Run your hands over it, or your eyes. Slowly.
Even when it’s in hundreds, it fills a room.
You can make a room out of it. Stack it up, make walls, a roof.
Maybe even live in it. But it would make more sense to buy a place with it big enough for what’s left over and you to fit comfortably.
It doesn’t take much. You’d barely miss that little bit at all.
And it wouldn’t miss you. A billion dollars doesn’t care.
It just sits there. In a room. Doing absolutely nothing.

Weatherman

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We’re a small town, barely a thousand people.
Everybody knows everybody else, or at least knows about them.
George is the town’s weatherman. Had a job at a big television station before he got sick of city life and retired here.
Well, maybe not retired. More like cracked up after blowing a bunch of forecasts, getting fired… drinking a lot.
Whatever. He’s a lousy weatherman, but the best we got.
When the tornado siren went off, he just laughed.
“No tornados today,” he said.
Those were his last words. During the cleanup, we found his body smashed against a tree.

Sloppy Fred

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Sure, you think you know all about the Sloppy Joe, but I knew Joe, and he wasn’t sloppy.
No, the real problem was the waiter Fred.
We called him Sloppy Fred.
Joe would make beef sandwiches and smack the bell. Fred grabbed the platter, and all hell would break loose.
Sauce this way. Sandwiches that way.
Sure enough, by the time he got to the table, he’d gotten them all messy.
Fred tried to blame Joe, the chef.
But he didn’t count on these things being a hit.
Joe killed Fred. Covered his tracks really good.
Not sloppy at all.

Pet

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So, you want to pet the kittycat?
I can’t blame you for wanting to.
Follow the rules:
The kittycat decides who may pet the kittycat.
The kittycat decides when you must pet the kittycat.
Not may. Must.
The kittycat will decide where on the kittycat you may pet and where you must.
The kittycat is not obligated to tell you where.
And the kittycat can decide to change its mind about anything it has decided.
Sure you still want to pet the kittycat?
Fine.
But don’t bitch when your other hand ends up in a bandage like the first one.