The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Welcome to the Ninety-Eighth 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 selected by Tom from Footnote.
It’s At My Funeral.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

What were the best stories of Weekly Challenge #98?
	Phish Frye
	Anima Zabaleta
	Craig from The Open Site
	Storm Thunders from From The Eye Of The Storm
	Terry from Quiet Time
	Tom from Footnote
	Guy from Guy David
	Daphne from Going Broke
	Josh from A Work In Progess
	JD from Writing.com
	Laieanna from 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):

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PHISH FRYE

Overslept. No idea how tired I was. As I try to put on my slippers, my feet just keep passing through. I really must have overdone it last night.
Downstairs to the kitchen. Not even a note taped to the fridge. She’s really not coming back this time.
Staring, blurry-eyed, at the cofee maker, trying to remember the night before.
“My sister?”, she asked.
“Yes”, I replied.
“But why?”
“Because she swallows.”
I probably shouldn’t have rolled over and gone to sleep at that point.
Or bought that over-sized pillow.
Gave up on the coffee. Late to my own funeral. Interred ten minutes ago.
I guess mother was right.

ANIMA

I am transitioning into the grey realm of “Adult”. Where do I fit? I am too young to be old, but too old to be young; I must embrace middle age.
The passing of youth shall not go unnoticed. At my own funeral, I will have black horses with feathered plumes draw the hearse; followed by a Dixieland jazz band. I shall bury the fears and vagaries of inexperience in a box six feet under, and joyfully don the wings of maturity.
I wear tattoos as memento mori, etched in earlier years, to remind me of
the temporality of youth.

CRAIG

Hunched in the locked confessional booth fearful of discovery, holding
my breath I squint through the cracked stained glass.
Sitting directly in front of me wearing a black floppy Hedi Lamar hat
was Delilah. Animated as always her head bobbing to and fro blocking my
view of the mourners.
Sure, I wasn”t dead but I felt like I was. That damn Delilah was causing
me as much grief at my funeral as when we lived together.
I whispered pleadingly “please Delilah take off your hat.”
Mourners came and left my funeral. Tell me, how can I ask who they were.

STORM

The ratings are astronomical. And the wave of condemnations only draws more watchers. It’s all that raw humanity, framed and outlined by the horrifically inhumane context. It’s a pricey show to make, right up there with “Bridezilla!” its only real competitor, but the advertisers flock to it. The fans love the show – laughter, tears, raw truths revealed, heartbreaking stories, secret lovers and previously unknown children, the episode where the guy ended up in the emergency room when his wife found out he was fine…
Truly, “At My Own Funeral” is the most devastating example of reality TV ever made.

TERRY

Day what, I don’t know, I’ve lost track of how long it has been since the crash.
I have just spent the last several days working with the communications equipment and have partially repaired the Vid-Comm. I now can at least receive transmissions from Earth but still unable to let Space Command know I am alive.
The first transmission I have received was ICN anchor Dan Quayle discussing the explosion of the landing module on descent and how the Phoenix, the main ship, is still in orbit around the planet. He said that Space Command will be remotely using the Phoenix to survey the planet for wreckage but there was no hope for survivors.
This evening, Dan narrated during the memorial service as President Clinton and the First Husband placed wreaths for each of the crew members next to a stone replica of the Phoenix. I never thought that there would be a day where I could watch and be at my own funeral.
This is Josh Jones, survivor, signing off.

TOM

Ellie Arroway bedded Cervantes on day one. “You said I would have to take the initiative.” As Arnesto caught his breath he noticed an ancient manila folder at the night stand. The label on the edge read “At My Own Funeral” a pencil scrawled signature read: A. Cervantes. “A man should not know his fate,” he protested. “Don”t get all Doc Brown on me. Look at the photo.” Arnesto saw himself at 80 laidout and himself at 40 standing next the Queen, a young girl on her lap. “That”s Herminie Arroway the great great great grandmother of your grandchild Marie.

GUY

A crow spread his wings and flew away. The men carrying the coffin looked up and smiled at their black feathered friend. A clown in a business suit juggled cats. Everyone cheered and threw colored confetti. The four men put the coffin on the ground. A man and a woman jumped right on it and made love. “A life ending, a life beginning” proclaimed someone from the crowd, I couldn’t see who it was, was too busy being dead, but I know my friends where going to remind me how wonderful life is, and that’s the way I wanted it.

DAPHNE

I stood in the back watching the mourners. The closed casket with a photo on it… a photo of me. They said the only way I would be able to escape her was to produce a body. So I went to the morgue, claimed a Jane Doe and paid for a proper funeral. They said after years of living two lives it would kill me, I guess they are right. She was trying to take over, saying I needed her to live. Well I’m alive and she’s heading off to cremation. Before I leave I’ll sign the guest book “My deepest sympathies on your loss, Daphne”.

JOSH

The enemy vessel returned fire; apparently their feelings were mutual. Dead and dying men littered the deck, but the Captain stood fast with determination. He watched as the ship surgeon and priest moved through plumes of smoke, like angels of mercy amidst thudding musket-balls and cannon-fire. Untouched by any, they reached a hopeless young man ravaged by shrapnel, and the priest knelt to read his last rights.
“…Amen,” the priest finished and stood up just as a musket-ball splattered the sailor’s face.
The Captain returned his attention to the battle. His funeral, a traitor’s funeral, would not be as distinguished.

JD

They came over the palisade by the hundreds. Our only weapons, sharpened sticks and rocks. Afterwards, nothing was left to bury.
They found us hiding in a cave. Our mutilated bodies were tossed into the canyon below.
In the deep woods the legionary put us to the sword. Our bodies left to feed the wild dogs.
They sank the ship and left. We floated for days without water, before the sharks came.
The jungle erupted with automatic weapons fire. We tried to run. They left us to rot where we died.
Death is always near. Not so a decent funeral.

LAIEANNA

Proportions are wrong. I see myself, bigger than life. Crying is
happening all around. I’m staring at family and friends through a
kaleidoscope view. It’s nauseating. I tolerate by concentrating on
the why they’re here. So many from my past. Some deeply ingrained in
my memory and yet others a fleeting face I can’t quite place. What am
I doing outside myself? Oh. I’m dead, but still seeing myself in
all the massiveness I had become.
Casket door closes and I’m alone with myself in the dark. The air
won’t last. I had such a short time in this reincarnation.

PLANET Z

Dr. Odd fired up the time machine and ordered it to send him ahead a thousand years into the future.
Instead, something jumped out of a rift in the fabric of spacetime and the machine crashed.
Bruised and battered, Dr. Odd climbed out of the wreckage to discover that he’d collided with a duplicate of his from another dimension.
The investors would be pissed about this project’s failure, so he killed his mirror-twin and ran.
There were a lot of questions raised at his funeral. Thankfully, he didn’t have to answer them from his new hollowed out volcano headquarters.

(Ending music “At My Funeral” by Crash Test Dummies)

Welcome to the Ninety-Seventh 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 selected by Elisson and Caleb.
It’s Mufaletta and Navel Lint.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

Which stories were the best from Weekly Challenge #97?
	Tom from Footnote
	Caleb Bullen from Black Tie Martini Club
	Terry from Quiet Time Podcast
	Guy David from Guy David dot com
	Josh from A Work In Progress
	Elisson from blog d’Elisson
	Laieanna at 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):

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TOM

Arnesto”s first jump was to Dec 1st 1999. He was greeted by a beaming female stranger who called him Pooky. This completely rattle Cervantes for it was the term of endearancient Ways
Ament of his mother. “You said you”d look surprised and should be reminded that time is like navel lint.” She handed him a Mufalleta and said it was his favorite food from the future. “Have we “” started Arnesto. “Yes and a lot more!” said the director. “You said you always leave just before you arrive.” She handed him a very old box. He handed her a very new book.

CALEB

She said, as she put down her Mufaletta, “I think this sandwich has navel lint in it”.
I asked, “Do you even know what navel lint tastes like”?
She said, “Oh I know what navel lint tastes like, I”ve had my tongue in more belly buttons than you”ve so much as seen”
I said, “I dunno” I”ve seen a lot of belly buttons”
And then she threw out a number. A number I won”t share with you because frankly, you won”t believe it. But I believed it; I was there. I said, “honey, you”re the weirdest woman I”ve ever known”

TERRY

Day 4 ” May 16, 2012
After putting it aside for a couple of days, I find myself trudging back to the wreckage of the living module of my once proud ship. I think the shock of losing my fellow crew members has abated enough so that I can give them a proper burial.
Reflecting back on to each of them, our time together in training and the 2 month trip here has given me a new prospective on life and friendships.
Sergeant David Mirowski, the security NCO of the crew was a huge man, but now so very small after the flames of the crash has claimed him. It may be crazy, but the one thing that I remember best about him was his 30 year collection of navel lint that he kept neatly rolled up in a ball. I’m going to bury it with him since it meant so.
Lieutenant Regina Rodriguez, my co-pilot, so beautiful in life along with being so talented in many areas. During our trip to Mars, she would prepare dishes from her home country at least once a week to give up a change from our bland rations that we were provided. I think my favorite was the Mufalleta she made last week.
I couldn’t find the body of our final crew member, Sprocket, the Labrador Retriever that Space Command sent along. I wonder if he made it out before the fire or was in some other part of the ship, I guess only time will tell.
This is Capt. Josh Jones, Earth Space Command signing off.

GUY

Aunt Mazal and uncle Hezki came to visit us from Israel last summer. They insisted on making their famous Mufalleta. They disappeared in the kitchen. We waited. Strange sounds followed. They emerged with what looked like discolored pan bread, a small dish with honey and another with chocolate spread. Mother shrugged and dipped a piece of Mufalleta in honey. It was then, we noticed the little gray blobs on the Mufalleta and the fact that uncle Hezki had one hand up his nose and another picking up lint of his naval. We never invited aunt Mazal and uncle Hezki again.

JOSH

“Fire!”
At the Captain’s command twenty broadside cannons spewed hell’s fire, smoke and brimstone orbs into the air. The spheres carried with them the thunderous echo of dissension and presented it one by one to their target with the fury of a scorned lover. Unrelenting, the battery reduced the marked ship to splinters of charred wood ? naval lint.
They would not misinterpret or ignore his subtle message. After all, most things are more gentle than the kiss from a cannonball, but few are as conclusive. On this day, the Captain had many final kisses to deliver, to many former lovers.

ELISSON

Katrina devastated New Orleans in 2005, but Hurricane Louis sounded its
death knell in 2023. The city drowned, never to recover.
Both the Navy and the Marines sent in frogmen to salvage what cultural
artifacts they could. There was a huge demand for experienced
Muffuletta Divers.
It was a heartbreaking job, one that was physically demanding. The
divers needed concentrated rations that packed a caloric punch.
Chocolate filled the bill.
While the Marines favored Godiva at first, it was a Swiss chocolatier
that won the hearts of the Annapolis boys. Oh, how the Big Easy salvors
loved their Naval Lindt.

LAIEANNA

“I’m sorry,” Amber said, staring at her mufalleta. Justin first
thought she was talking to the sandwich till she bit into it and
continued. “It’s just not going to work out between us.” Her mouth
moved with each word, exposing the beginning of her digestive process.
“I’m not attracted to you. You never fart or belch. You don’t
smell; hair is neat and your skin is smooth. For god sakes, you don’t
even have navel lint!” Justin sadly bit into his own food. “And you
eat salads! You’re not a normal guy.” She gawked in disgust,
finishing off her meal.

PLANET Z

According to The Bible, Adam gave names to everything.
But if he and Eve were crafted by God’s hands, then they were not born of a mother, so they had no navels.
After their expulsion from Eden, Cain’s birth presented the couple with a few new and somewhat messy items requiring labels.
“Baby,” muttered Adam, pointing at his squalling son. “Umbilical. Placenta.”
Eve picked up the baby and began to nurse.
“Mind getting me some clean fig leaves?” she asked. “My old ones are a mess.”
Adam went gathering, because it took a lot a leaves to cover her-
“Mufelatta,” he mumbled. “I should name something that.”