The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Richard Lisa Tom Serendipidy Norval Joe Planet Z The next topic is Pencil case LISA The Dog Walk Afternoon. The light fails fast. The poetry of the season doesn’t escape me as a golden glow hugs the park: it’s a feast for the senses. Russet leaves rustle underfoot. Mustard and claret cling on in trees above. I forage with an urgency through damp, decaying debris in a thousand shades of brown. I find a perfect red mushroom straight from a fairytale but on I search to avoid a fine. My foot, with full body weight wins the treasure hunt. It oozes either side of my deep treaded boot and smells like I should’ve found it a lot quicker. LIZZIE She wrote poetry. He said it was garbage. She tried again and again. He laughed. She cried. He mocked her. She wanted to stay, but couldn't. She wanted to leave, but couldn't. He torched her poetry. She wrote some more. His rage became impossible. He destroyed her clothes and her books. She grabbed her purse, her poetry notebook and her umbrella. She didn't know why she took the umbrella with her. She just did. It was hers and it reminded her that when you look at an umbrella from underneath, you can see the sky and feel that you're flying. RICHARD Poetic I've never been one for poetry. Give me prose any day. I don't need flowery language or complicated structure, just give me facts in plain, straightforward terms. It's not that I don't like poetry. I appreciate it, and there are times it's perfect for my mood or the occasion, but I don't go out of my way to find it. The same goes for writing. I suck at poems. I never have the time, And they never really rhyme. Well, how about that? I'm writing on the train right now, so I guess you could say that's poetry, in motion. SERENDIPIDY ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue With a shot to the head I'm going to kill you' I told you I wasn't the artistic one in the family. If I'd asked my sister to pen a poetic prelude to your last moments, she'd have done a much better job of it. It would have been full of drama, pathos and emotion; you'd have wept at how she'd captured the moment in all its horrific beauty. But, I'm afraid you're stuck with me, and my less than brilliant grasp of rhyme and meter. So... ‘Roses are red: And now, you're dead!' NORVAL JOE Billbert watched the old man spin up into the sky and disappear. He shook his head. “Poetry in motion.” Bobbi squeezed Patrick’s arm. “What is wrong with your head? You were going to kill those women.” Patrick shrugged away. “What does it matter to you?” Tears formed in the tall girl’s eyes. “It matters because you’re my brother and I love you. And I don’t want you to go to jail.” Patrick looked like he had been hit on the head by a brick. “You love me?” he asked. “Even after everything I did to you, you still love me?” TOM reads us stories out of I Ching She was poetry in motion you can let go. An angel from the angel band. A shadow in a wasted land. A Specter rising up in the sand. Sweet Lorain. You know you should run, cuz your feet know better. The mark on the ground is big red letter. Sweet Lorain. The spell that she cast will be your end. To bottomless pits she will send. Sweet Lorain. Now you know it's a shame and a pity you were raised up in the city and you never learned nothing 'bout country ways. You’re the not first you’re not last. Sweet Lorain TURA Poetry ——— In 1892, young Matilda Dunnett travelled by steamship from New York to Liverpool. During the voyage, she and a young man called James Hurt struck up an acquaintance, and discreetly became lovers. At some point James wrote her a declaration of love on a ship's biscuit, its durability promising his faithfulness. It is not known what became of the affair, but Matilda's grand-daughter found it among her belongings after she died. The biscuit is preserved at the National Maritime Museum in London.

Every time Elaine drank herself into a blackout and woke up in some strange guy's bed, she swore she wouldn't do it again. Bagging up the guy's body, washing the place up, putting him in his own car's trunk. Over and over and over. One day, she'd slip up and leave evidence. A hair, being seen together on a camera. Dropping the car off at the chop shop. "Nice BMW," said the owner, looking in the trunk. "We'll take the disposal out of your finder fee." That night, Elaine went out to celebrate. And a guy sent her a drink.

Early Hollywood was pretty racy. Lots of violence and nudity in movies. So, the Catholic Leagues would produce lists of movies with ratings of each. Some were safe, that their parishioners shouldn't see. Others weren't safe. And then some they said if you saw them, you'd go straight to Hell. Sure enough, people used the lists. They skipped the safe movies and went to the naughty nasty smut shows. When the Hayes Production Code arrived, nudity and violence were curtailed and censored everywhere. And the churches stop publishing the lists. But people still went to Hell for their earlier transgressions.

My first pizza was Barnaby's thin crust in Northbrook. Their sign had a brown potion bottle, but I always thought of it as a bowling pin. We also went to the original Uno's for deep dish. Greasy thick dough pies. Same with Godfather's. Gross. When we moved, a local joint called Rufini's got me back to thin crust. Until Little Caesar's and their Detroit casseroles turned me off. Abortion-soaked spongy toast. And I choked down Sbarro's only because they were free. These days, it's wood-fired brick oven. And a crust so thin, I can cut my wrists with it.

Why didn't I make perfect grades in school? The work was boring. And my parents thought I wasn't emotionally capable of handling skipping grades. Except that I wasn't emotionally capable of dealing with being bored, either. Check my juvenile rap sheet. Eventually, I got a scholarship to a private school. And did college-level physics and math there. So, academically, I was ready for college. Except they required four years of English. Yet, when I graduated, a Junior was allowed to attend summer School English to replace a year. I tried to ram the headmaster's car. (Also on the rap sheet.)

When I was little, my parents compiled a baby book. It had photographs and report cards and vaccination records. And some Bank of Israel bonds from a rich uncle that would mature when it was time for college. Both were for ten dollars. Two pizzas on a weekend. Gee, thanks. But the page with the gift list mentioned three bonds, not two. So, I dug around the closet and found the third one. It was for a hundred thousand dollars. My parents had tried to swindle it. So, I swindled it back And it paid for a lot of pizza.

I worked at a place that offered free lunches, free snacks, a free gym, and free power charging for electric cars. Oh, and free cheap cell phones. They didn't pay great, but with these perks, they added enough to the compensation to make it worth staying. When the pandemic hit, they didn't offer a lunch stipend, sent out three small boxes of snacks over two years, and that's it. People who asked about the perks were made to feel like shit by management, so they left. They tossed their free cheap cell phones into the gym. And went to lunch.

Richard Lisa Tom Serendipidy Norval Joe Planet Z The next topic is Poetry LISA Christmas Christmas was always the same at Mums. Everyone stayed over except Auntie Lizzie because she had to get back for her dog. She gave the best gifts but apologised saying she hadn’t got out to buy anything this year so, it was a shock when she handed me a present. It was a pricey looking necklace. “They’re real. Not paste.” Excited by this my brother unwrapped his even larger parcel. It was heavy and had a bit of a smell. He said nothing but showed us her dog. I was dying to say: ‘at least you can stay over now.’ RICHARD Ho, ho, humbug! I hate Christmas gift shopping. It's not that I don't enjoy choosing and giving gifts, it's all the hassle that comes with it, and I'm not the most organised of people. I have friends who buy presents throughout the year, wrap and label them as they go along, and when December comes around, all the hard work is done. Not me though. I used to leave it to the last minute, and it was always a nightmare. Thankfully, I don't usually see family and friends until after Christmas, so now I buy most of my gifts in the January sales! SERENDIPIDY I grew up in a very annoying family. All my siblings could have been described as gifted. Between them, they excelled at sports, the arts and academically. Unlike me. You'd never describe me as sporty, I can't paint, write, sing, act or play music and I dropped out of school, failing every exam I took. I suppose you could say that, for me, it was an unhappy childhood: watching my brothers and sisters succeed and flourish, whilst I floundered. They're not succeeding now however. Not since I poisoned them all. I guess my cooking skills weren't up to much either! TOM Tis Da Season I don’t go Christmas gifts. My family and every close friend is a good 1000 miles away. I do have one person who I do un-Christmas gift with. Each year we head down to the local Walmart. Pick out a functional but not so fashionable leather wallet. You do this four decades you end up will a draw filled with wallets. Not bum you all out, but that friend die a few years back, so now truly I don’t do Christmas gift. I must admit look in the draw of wallet is a bit of gift when the snow falls NORVAL JOE The old man snarled at Billbert. “You’ve gifted the Five Star Sisters a reprieve, but it won’t last very long.” The door slammed open. Mrs. Weinerheimer charged in, shouting, “Gift is a noun. Not a verb.” His mother’s superpower of efficiency was more than the Black Knights control over Billbert and Sabrina could handle. As the tsunami dissipated to nothing, a tornado formed over the dilapidated cabin and ripped the feeble roof away. Mandy and Mrs. Weinerheimer rushed to Billbert while Bobbi grabbed Patrick’s arm. The tornado shrank, wrapped its tail around the Black Knight leader and whisked him away. PLANET Z Sometimes I like to buy things on Amazon for myself, get them gift wrapped, turn off notifications, and get blackout drunk. I don’t remember that I bought the things, and when they arrive I’m pleasantly surprised. Then I read the notes, and they’re horribly disturbing… downright creepy. How the Hell did they know this about me? Are they spying on me? Are they stalking me? Then I see the credit card statement and wonder if they hacked my account and stole my credit card. I call the card company to cancel my card and I change all of my passwords.

You know, I used to bite my nails. Don't remember a time when I didn't. Therapists told me that it was a form of self destruction. I said the suicide attempts were more important signs of that. I stopped biting my nails after Piper died. For some reason, promising a cat that I'd stop biting my nails worked. Aside from a rare pruning when I don't have a kit nearby, every few months or so, I've stopped. Of course, the cat's death provoked the last suicide attempt, but the gun jammed. Probably on a fingernail clipping, knowing how karma works.

When Bobby Brown died, he went to Hell. No waiting in line for Bobby. A bodyguard at the gates with a clipboard, unclipping a velvet rope gate and saying "This way, sir." A line of gorgeous women waited for him. With baseball bats. Bobby staggered along the line, suffering blow after blow, feeling bones crack, skin split, muscles tear, and blood flow and spurt and ooze. And at the end of the line, Whitney watched. And waited. At first, she enjoyed the spectacle. She knew Bobby was suffering. But she wanted her chance at revenge. Waiting. Waiting. And suffering, too.

It’s a sad thing when you have to bury your own child. The last time, I got a sore back, using a shovel in the back yard. So, that’s why I called around and the neighborhood showed up with shovels. One guy got a backhoe from a nearby road construction crew. That was nice of him. We made a block party out of it. With lemonade and cookies and music and a volleyball net. Everyone had a blast. “Same time next week?” I asked. The crowd cheered, and I patted the dirt down. And called the foster agency for another.

I have a good job. With a corner office on the top floor. And a good parking space to charge my car. Good perks: free lunches, fully-stocked breakroom with tea and snacks. I can work from home when I need to. But why would I want to? Well, with the pandemic, I need to. I still have my job. But I work from my living room, not my nice corner office. I don't drive my car to that spot with the charger. And any lunch or tea or snacks are bought on my own. That's okay for now, I suppose.

Every day, we have a team meeting. And when we go around the table... well, go around the list, since we're not at the same table while we work remotely... we say what we did yesterday, what we'll do today, and what blockers we have that need resolving. Then we leave our microphones on all day while working on whatever we're working on, saying something if we need assistance or want to demonstrate something. Repeat until it's time to go home... well... we're already home, so shut off the laptops and fire up the war games. When we truly collaborate.

I fired my doctor and made an appointment with a nearby clinic with testing and other departments that will be a lot more convenient for referrals. A year since my last checkup is way too long, especially with the cholesterol meds running out of refills. And weight gain. And other things. I should walk more. And eat less. I don't drink, in spite of what my former doctor thought. People lie about that kind of thing. But when beer and liquor cause kidney stones, you stop. Trust me on this. Or don't. But if you're my doctor, well, you're fired.

Richard Lisa Tura Lizzie Tom Serendipidy Norval Joe Planet Z The next topic is Gift LISA Cynthia's had a Fall It’s a tale as old as time: we were discussing the idea of assistive technology. Well, we mentioned things, they were refused. Luckily, Cynthia's house already had rails and ramps but the idea of wearing a medical assistance necklace was dead in the water. She really didn’t want a daily phone-call either, once a week on Friday was all she’d agree to. Cynthia fell again on Tuesday. She didn’t answer Friday’s call so we went over. There was smeared blood, as if she’d been dragged, across the carpet and Aunty Cynthia, dead, an arm stretch away from the pendant alarm. RICHARD Help! Gotta love assistive technology! I've ditched clunky, outdated and labour-intensive interfaces with my computer, in favour of technological solutions. I replaced my keyboard and mouse with speech recognition, and I don't even turn my monitor on, since my screen reader takes care of that. My Roomba does the carpets and the robot mower cuts the grass. Alexa takes care of boiling the kettle, ordering my groceries and controlling the heating. All I have to do is sit here. Even my chair helps me to my feet. Then I fall down, unable to get up, thanks to my atrophied muscles! TOM old When you reach a curtain age in life one needs a bit of Assistive Technology to get through the day. Take the Randick Pecker Electrostatic 360. A marvel of modern know-how. 11 setting (max level may cause death, see your doctor if you stop breathing) And there are lot of add-on packages for your package. The rainbow led array, the quadrophic micro speaker sub-woffers. There the AC-DC switch hitters add-on, the solo master unit. Powered by harmless hydro cells (do not store in a dark place for over a month, call 911 in the event of a fire). Use responsively. TURA Assistive technology ——— All technology is assistive— that's what it's for. But everything that assists you weakens you. Writing destroyed memory. Keyboards destroyed handwriting. Central heating, hot showers, and soft beds destroy resilience. Abundant food destroys health. Prosperity destroys reproduction. Instant communication foments strife. Peace flows inexorably into war. Teaching prevents learning, answers prevent thought, advice saps initiative, ease destroys character. And AI, the everything box, will destroy everything. For this is the iron law of success: that every success contains the seeds of its failure. The easier we make the path of life, the shallower the heights we scale on the way. SERENDIPIDY The torture business is hard, physical work, and it really takes a toll on your body. After a long day in the dungeons, your body aches and you feel utterly worn out. It's lifting all those heavy iron shackles, manhandling prisoners and hauling on ropes and chains all day. Chopping off heads is the worst. My dodgy shoulder isn't up to hefting that axe anymore. So I persuaded management to buy one of those new -fangled guillotines, and it's completely transformed my life. You can say what you like about the modern world and the march of progress. But assistive technology rocks! LIZZIE The little robot rolled around, following him. No, thank you. No need. You can roll back to your corner, he said holding his daughter's photo. The pain was unbearable. The robot tilted its head to look at the photo. He frowned. What do you want? The robot blinked twice. He stared at it in silence. He knew that blink. He looked closer. Is it you in there? The robot blinked twice. He rushed to read the gift card again. And there it was. It's just a robot, he thought, but it wasn't just a robot. That blink saved his life. NORVAL JOE Mandy and Bobby waited in the back seat of the car. The strange old lady patted her head three times. “This is the place. Billbert’s inside.”

Politicians lie. It's what they do. It's the job. Stacy said one thing before she ran for for office. Then she campaigned on the opposite. Claimed she never said what she said in the first place. After she won, she denied having said either. Then admitted it, but said she'd learned more since taking office. Evolving her position to suit the needs of the people. Journalists printed her lies about her lies. And fact checkers claimed it was all true. When she ran again, she touted her experience. But the only experience she had was with lying. The perfect politician.

Rufus Washington was the greatest standup comedian without actually standing up. He did his routines from a wheelchair, spinning tales from the ghetto on the other side of the tracks. Drug dealers, hookers, pimps, corner stores instead of grocery stores. Now, he traveled in a limo or a tour bus, with gorgeous assistants to help him into the chair... or bed... or the shower. When the limo got in a wreck, Rufus woke up in the hospital, screaming that he couldn't feel his legs. Turned out, he'd been faking his paralysis just for a schtick. Also, he'd faked being black.

Water maintenance today. They're redoing the mains so they don't have to shut down the mains every time they need to work on a single building's water pipes. I'm sure that whatever maintenance and improvements they do, every future break or problem will be upstream from the work they did. I've set aside some gallon jugs full of water for whatever... toilet flushing, tea, bathing a muddy cat. Some neighbors are angry at the cut-off, despite an email and text alert going out. It's 2022, people. If you're wanting paper notices on your door, maybe they should be eviction notices?

Spumco was the production company that produced Ren and Stimpy. Spumco animators not only drew the characters, but they produced, filmed, and edited them. You could say they were very hands-on with the production process. Spumco's founder, John Kricfalusi, was very hands on with young female artists. He'd invite them to Spumco to learn the business. More like monkey business. Nickelodeon fired Kricfalusi and Spumco... because of the level of violence in the cartoons. And Spumco was shuttered after lawsuits over royalties. After an avalanche of sexual harassment complaints, Kricfalusi retired from animation. Only because nobody would sponsor his projects.

Every weekend, there's a cultural festival in my city. This week, it's the Italian festival. Italian dances, Italian food, Italian poetry. Next week, it's the German festival. German dances, German food, German poetry. The week after, it's the Caribbean festival. Caribbean dances, Caribbean food, Caribbean poetry. And after that, it's the Japan festival. Japanese dances. Japanese food. Japanese poetry. There's no Palestinian festival. They grab bullhorns and scream at the local Israeli consulate. And synagogues. And community centers. And the Holocaust Museum. That's what they call culture? What a bunch of pricks. No wonder why they don't have a state.