Ever turn your keyboard over and shake it?

Usually, just hair and dust fall out.

However, it's somewhat unusual for an living octopus to fall out.

I carried the odd creature to the sink and filled the sink up with water.

The octopus crawled around, exploring its new environment with its suckered tentacles.

How long had it been in my keyboard?

How did it get in my keyboard?

I don't remember dropping an octopus in my keyboard.

I called the manufacturer... they had strict octopus-prevention procedures in place.

What will I do with it?

Hey, anybody need a pet octopus?

Welcome to the Ninety-Fourth 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 of Footnote.

It's Pen and Ink

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

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

LAIEANNA

The shopkeeper pulled a pen and inkwell from under the glass counter. "Take this and use your favorite pad of paper to draw your dreams." The shopkeeper packed up the merchandise and handed it over to Fiona. "Just remember the potency wears off within hours. Go home and imagine."

Fiona did just that, only to return to the shop minutes before
closing. The shopkeeper looked up at her strange new companion and
smiled. "How did it go?"

"Huge problem!" Fiona huffed, "He's perfect except he's purple! It
won't wash off."

"That's what you get for drawing on frilly colored paper."

TOM

The nuns said the uses of a ball point would ruin my penmanship that vessel sailed long before the world was burred in BICS. The ball of ADD Dyslexic contrails which is my brain never got the hang of laying pen to paper. I was never patient enough to master the Zen of pen and ink. It was always about whole body mechanics from the finger to shoulder. It was about a floating perpendicularity as precise as Marine Drill Sargent. But most important is was the feel for metal gently biting the surface of pulp a conscience contact with externality

STORM

I dream in colors to the rhythm of the needle against their skin Tapping Trapping ink beneath the layers Freeing secrets

The bells jingle. Usually they come asking for butterflies or skulls or lovers' names. I look over to see another who's heard the whispered rumors and come seeking. My inks mix with their blood, creating colors and lines showing the indelible marks within... Inner beauty, hidden scars, buried secrets... My pen flows, illuminating their truths.

This one I refuse. I speak her name aloud, shocking tears from him.

"I will not damn. Make amends before you face my needles."

GUY DAVID

My pen is bleeding blue Blue ink of pain pouring rain Where does all this sadness come from Time have sharpened the pencil Wrote my life and laughed And now my pen is bleeding red A scream of anguish The rage of time passing And the stone wall Unbreakable wall

My pen is bleeding blue
Blue ink of pain pouring rain
On wet paper
The wetness of tears
Maybe I could drown like Alice
Maybe disappear
But where would I go
Can't run away from my past
So I stay in the present
Bleeding the blue blood of a pen

TERRY

Day 1 – May 13, 2012

I have found myself alive and still breathing after crash landing on the planet Mars. I think the cause was a malfunction of the guidance system in the ship's main computer.

The craft is a total wreck; it has spilt up into several sections with parts of it burning after spotting signs of smoke on the horizon.

My command module has sustained damage, but seems to be still pressurized and I have enough water and air for several days.

With the other wreckage burning, I have to assume that there is oxygen in the atmosphere, Now all I need to know is how much and how to extract it. I have tuned my radio, which looks as if it is still functioning; to S.O.S. But, only god knows if anyone will hear it.

My next chore is to suit up and explore the wreckage for usable equipment; I wish I only had pen and ink to set this record down on paper.

This is Captain Josh Jones, Earth Space Command, signing off.

HOUSTON

Hello my name is Stephen Hawking and Houston has asked me to resort to pen and ink and recite some of my original poetry.

Her skin glistened in the moonlight,
My heartbeat quickened as I soaked in her beauty.
My wandering gaze moved from her lips,
To her plunging neckline,
To her…

Steve, Man, sorry, this just isn't working.

What do you mean?

It just sounds, I don't know… Creepy

FINE! JERK! The next time you need assistance with astrophysical
theory you may go elsewhere you small minded, cube dwelling, thick
browed technical support drone!

Uh. OK. Thanks anyway Steve.

ELISSON

A few cycles ago, I was glimming the morning Speedtext, where I saw the most intriguing ad:

PORTABLE INFORMATION STORAGE SYSTEM

requires no batteries, stores images or alphanumeric characters with
equal ease. Data retrieval uses principle of SELECTIVE REFLECTION™ in
conjunction with electromagnetic radiation source (not included). Access
any part of your database with simple manual operation! Available
preprogrammed with large variety of software.

Store below 451°F.

I had to have one! I scanned my credichip and waited for the transmuter
to zoop it.

It was a “book.” I was mesmerized. What primitive beauty!

The “pen” and “ink” come tomorrow.

CALEB

Hey Merle, come here! What’s all that ink doing in the pig pen?

That aint Ink, Jocephus, that’s oil!

Oil?

Black Gold, Texas Tea, Well the first thing you know ole Jed’s a Millionaire, OIL man!

Okay… So uh Merle, What’s all that oil doing in the pig pen?

Well either we struck oil and we’re going to be filthy rich and never have to work another day in our lives or one of the robotic pigs has blown a gasket. Now which do you think it is?

Aw Merle, those goddamn robotic pigs are more trouble than they’re worth.

PLANET Z

Back in the wild days of the Wordslingers, pens for hire would ride the range, silver pocket protectors in their button-down shirt pockets.

They'd square off on Main Street at high noon, standing there tall, staring each other down.

Their fingers twitching at their sides, ready to reach for their magnificent pens...

All around, the townspeople watched, the local newspaper's literary critic measuring out column space for the loser.

They draw! Ink flies! Harsh words are exchanged!

One man goes down! Get this man an editor!

He arrives too late.

The victor bows his head, and writes the epitaph.

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week, it's a tie: Tom of Footnote and Laieanna of Hodgepodge Point.

Tom's topic is Worst Job and Laieanna's is Storage, so try to combine those two concepts.

You have until midnight on Friday February 1st to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #96 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

There is always a banana in my right jacket pocket.

Every time I reach in there, I feel a banana is in there.

I know this, because when I pull it out, I have a banana in my hand.

And, sure enough, another banana appears in my pocket to replace it.

You'd think this endless supply of bananas would be a godsend, but I don't like bananas.

You like bananas?

I think this jacket's about your size.

What have you got in your pocket? A plum? An orange? Strawberries?

Oh, you always have a weasel in your pants?

Never mind.

Elisson's show is named Lost in the Cheese Aisle and you can listen to it at 4PM Eastern time over that streaming link.

I'm a part of a teachers exchange program.

These poor kids, living under brutal military occupation, right?

Boy, was I wrong.

One day, a gunman ran into the classroom and yelled something.

The kids happily ran to the door and windows, making a human wall.

Soldiers just saw the kids and passed by.

Later, the gunman was telling stories of making bombs and blowing up schools.

The kids were cheering, saying when they grew up, they wanted to be a like him.

What horrifies me the most is: what is the teacher back at my old school teaching my class?

When she's all alone, she talks to the walls.

The North wall is her favorite. She could talk to it for hours about anything. And she does.

The South wall has the window. When she and the North wall are on the outs, she talks to it, but loud enough for the North wall to hear her.

It gets jealous.

The East wall, she barely knows. There's bookshelves covering it, but what little she sees of it, she doesn't mind.

The West wall is another beast entirely.

She despises it. Painted it so many times, but it never really changes.

Jackie set up dominos to run from one end of the state to the other, and she's ready to tip that first domino over.

How he got all these dominos set up without any falling over or getting stolen, well, let's just say this state's proud of Jackie and ain't nobody's gonna mess with her stuff.

And to tell the truth, it's not too big a state the way she's set these dominos up.

Nothing fancy. No ramps or pool balls or bells or little rockets.

Just dominos. A whole mess of them.

She flicks a finger, and they fall.

Few things are certain in life.

Most of all, of the things you can count on, I'm most certain that you'll never hear a chick say "Oh, yeah? Well, I'm fucking the cello player."

Guitarists, singers, bass players.

Even drummers, if you can imagine that.

But when it comes to cello players, they're the ones that haul their cellos up five flights of stairs into a lonely, cramped apartment.

Nobody knocks. Nobody calls.

More time for practice, right?

I guess so.

But no matter how good he gets, no chick will say "Oh, yeah? Well, I'm fucking the cello player."

When I hear the phrase "Busier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs" I remember Oscar.

Used to stand up on his back feet and lean against the rocking chair until he tipped it over.

Then, he'd climb up on the chair, sitting there with the pride of a hunter posing with his trophy.

I ain't seen Oscar for years. One night, he musta decided he had something better, never come back.

Sometimes, I go out on the porch, my rocking chair's on it's side, I wonder.

And as I put my chair back up, I smile.

Welcome to the Ninety-Fifth 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 Laieanna and Tom.

It's Worst Job and Storage

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

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

ELISSON

The worst job I ever had was manager of the U-Store-It unit out on the Wharton Freeway.

It wasn’t the pay (which sucked), or Corporate (which really sucked).

It wasn’t even the clientele, although most of our customers weren’t
what you’d call Model Citizens.

No, it was the astonishing number of dead bodies that would appear in
the unrented units. Every couple days, we’d find another, chewed up
pretty bad. The cops were mystified, and it got to where I wasn’t
sleeping too well.

Then one night I saw them, and I understood. “Tekeli-li,” they moaned.

I never came back.

JOSH

Bologna again. Rick stared at the sandwich and its round edge of meat between the crusts before he took a grudging bite. A hero sub would be nice once in awhile. This tastes horrible and it's so small, he thought as he stuffed the remainder of it into his mouth. Rick grabbed the shovel leaning against the Cadillac's bumper and dug a few more loads from the long shallow pit. His stomach growled. What he wouldn't give for roast beef. He pulled the stained lumpy burlap sack from the trunk and dragged it into the hole.

Pastrami would be best.

TERRY

I have just returned from exploring parts of the wreckage after crash landing on Mars.

I have discovered that I am the lone survivor and have found several usable items in the closest part of the wreckage, along with solving a couple of problems.

My first problem being that the oxygen level in the atmosphere is about half the amount of Earth's. The fix for this is an extraction pump that that was in the cargo bay, now all I need is a large tank for storage of the oxygen.

The second problem I found is that the living area of the craft is a total loss, burning up on impact; all that is left is a metal caucus along with the charred remains of my fellow crew members, may they rest in peace.

Without the living area section, the only toilet facilities are now in my command module. After the 2 month journey here, these have become completely filled and must be emptied, which maybe the worst job I have ever had to do.

This is Captain Josh Jones, Earth Space Command, signing off.

GUY DAVID

I must have the worst job in the world. I store broken dreams. I do this because that is my job. Not because I want to. I receive the dreams, confine then so they wouldn't hurt anyone, so that people would be able to get on with their lives.

Last night, I run out of storage space, and all the broken dreams spilled out. Dreams of disappointments, of forgotten real life dreams, half forgotten memory dreams, all spilled over me. I had to inspect them one by one, put them back in place. Now I'm never going to dream again.

STORM THUNDERS

There's always that awkward moment when you're aware but before the shell's done uploading. Then the shock as data starts pouring through the senses. The reassuring feel of filtering algorithms learning and adjusting - I've had those fail before, and lemmie tell you that's a nightmare! Then the quick mental inventory of available tools and sensory inputs, and ransacking what's stored in memory to determine the job that you're here to do. It isn't always obvious; part of why we're sent is our ability to come up with creative solutions.

Even the worst job is better than being in storage

TOM

Worst Shmrst who’s to said one act is any less fitting in the services of the lord then another, but working shipping and receiving is that technically working in the field of the lord. I remember the August the antifreeze trucks arrived. The stuff was so dense it had to be perfectly loaded within the vehicle. We twowheelerd stacks of 6 cases down the aluminum ramp directly into back storage. Here by hand we stacked walls of antifreeze 8 cases high, deadlifting the last above our heads. Sweat dirt raw hands and backs all work is the work of the lord.

CALEB

They said it would be the job of a lifetime; go to sleep on earth and wake up some time later as the first ambassador to an as yet undiscovered alien world. But no alien world ever found me and cryogenic suspension doesn’t really stop the brain so much as slow it. A normal dream reflects upon the previous day’s activity but my last day was billions of years ago, long since forgotten in time. So now I float through space unable to move unable to wake, dreaming of nothing for eternity. I should’ve stayed in school… This job sucks.

JD WHITE

George's job filled him with angst and anxiety. Not really the job, you know, but the consequences of the job. Each day of his existence George was tasked to move souls from the cold storage vault into the bodies of people that had lost, or just misplaced their soul. This, if you have the right temperament, could be most fulfilling. George did not have that temperament. George was always stressed. George always developed ulcers. George always committed suicide. And then Krishna or Vishnu or whoever would reincarnate him. It was the best of jobs, it was the worst of jobs.

PLANET Z

The boys down in the warehouse always did the worst job of keeping things organized and secured.

You didn't know what you'd find when you'd pry open a battered crate hauled out of storage. The manifests were hastily scribbled notes that had nothing to do with what was tossed willy-nilly into the box.

"Something Expensive Damaged Beyond Repair" was a good guess, I'd say.

The CEO got fed up with the damage and stormed into the warehouse office.

The boys down there didn't take too kindly to getting fired, and they chopped him up.

We're still finding bits and pieces of him.

Something expensive, indeed.

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week it's Elisson.

Elisson's topic is Steampunk.

You have until midnight on Friday February 15th to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #97 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

Where El Dorado was paved with gold, the town of Wilton is paved with cake.

Gingerbread houses and frosting flowers line Angel Food Lane, their gumdrop mailboxes overflowing with letters written on coconut.

In between classes, Wilton Elementary serves sugary snacks to the peanut-brittle children.

The Department of Works rolls around in a cake-pan truck, patching holes in the streets, mending the breaks in the peppermint sewers, and planting spun-sugar trees when the old ones dry up and flake away.

The explorers look at each other, mumble “El Dorado?”

One shakes the compass, and they walk back into the woods.

Abraham imagined himself a swashbuckler, hurling insults at Jefferson Davis as they slashed their cutlasses at each other.

All around them, pirates cheering and shouting, fighting amongst themselves.

Lincoln found himself caught up in the moment and yelled something he’d later regret.

“Take back that comment about my mother,” shouted Davis.

“Never!” laughed Lincoln. “I would rather die than take back a word.”

Davis parried Lincoln’s sword aside and ran him through the chest.

“Okay, what if I said it about your aunt and not your mother?” wheezed Lincoln.

(This is about when Lincoln felt that “regret” I referenced earlier.)

I am not happy with the levels o nthis one, so I will re-record it tonight.

Trapped in the kitchen with Mary Todd, Abe decided to make a soufflé.

After many failed attempts, he focused his chi and went back to the mixing bowl.

Pour.
Spread.
Lift.
Close.
Wait.

Then, just at the right moment, he reached into the oven to pull it out.

Gently as the dews of heaven, not rending or wrecking anything, he carried the crockery to the table to display his achievement to Mary Todd.

“It looks great,” she said. “What did you do different this time?”

Abe scowled. “It helps not to trip over the loose floorboards and Tad’s scattered toys.”

[10:12] Caleb Bullen: I didn't even realize it was Lincoln's Birthday yesterday

I'm not happy with the levels on this one, so I'll re-record it tonight.

I like to walk through the drive through lane at the bank and ask for a loan for a car.

Usually, I get a laugh, but one day – that pneumatic tube machine wheezes and PLOMP! It lands on the hopper.

I open it up, and there’s a set of car keys.

I pull the keys out and hit the Call button – “Very funny,” I said. “What should I do with these?”

PLOMP! Another tube shows up. There’s an instruction booklet in there for assembling a car.

PLOMP! Some spark plugs.

PLOMP! A fanbelt.

PLOMP! PLOMP! PLOMP!

This could get messy.

Five hours ago, this bum was using his pen knife to cut aluminum cans into hearts to give away on Valentine’s Day.

Now, he’s a bloody pulp under a bench. Some other bums beat him up for the aluminum cans, cashed them in for beer money.

He could have defended himself with the knife, but to him, it was a tool and not a weapon. Just as Cupid’s bow and arrow are for love, not war.

A mother tells her son not to worry. He’s up in Heaven now.

I hope they clean him up before they let him in.

Shirley the Mermaid had been around. She'd seen everything.

She and the girls were getting their nails done when they talked about their first times.

The first time Shirley saw a human, she swam after it for a closer examination.

It looked like a mermaid, but instead of fins, it had two limbs coming out of its hips leading into a solid stone-like block.

“Mob informant,” she thought. “Should have kept his trap shut.”

She took his wallet, emptied out the cash, and swam away.

Whether you're over or under the Boardwalk, a Jersey Girl is a Jersey Girl.

Welcome to the Ninety-Sixth 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.

It's Steampunk

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

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

CALEB

Joey Ramone looked into Wendy O Williams’ eyes and said, “Your eyes are like two limpid pools drawing me in to an oasis of love”

He felt her tremble as he pulled her heaving bosom close to him and as their lips met

they both heard a single distorted guitar chord

with an incessant 8th note rhythm, relentless like the engine powering their love.

Their hearts raced as groping hands

pulled each other nearer

and a second chord was added

as zippers gave way and

unwashed blue jeans

fell to the floor.

No need for a third chord,

it’s punk.

ELISSON

Doctor Rauchfisch stood over the basin, trimming his muttonchops carefully with his straight razor. He rinsed. A splash of bay rum and he strode out, clapping on his top hat and walking-goggles.

Dodging the press of Stanleys and Vapormatics that clogged the street,
he arrived at his office and rode the hydraulic lift to the seventh floor.

Taking a polished mahogany case out of his desk, he unfolded it,
snapping the steam hose into the wall outlet. Rapidly clicking clockwork
signaled the Difference-Engine’s readiness.

He smiled. Life was so much easier since the invention of the World-Wide
Steam-Powered Computational Network.

TERRY

I have just woken up from the strangest dream I have ever encountered.

In the dream, I was living the life of someone called Oswald Bastable in the early 19th century on earth. We were in the process of chasing some Chinese guy across the Pacific, when our difference engines quit and we had to switch over to the steam powered motors. This slowed our descent enough that we were able to land on an island without any damage or personal injuries of the crew.

My very able assistant, Penelope Tugbottom and I frolicked along the island beach while the crew made repairs to the engines so we could continue our chase.

This was so unlike my real life crash landing on Mars that I encountered several days ago.
The loneliness and stress of the past few days had taken a toll on me, I guess I better not be reading Moorcock's The Warlord of the Air or any steampunk material for that matter, so late at night.

This is Captain Josh Jones, Earth Space Command signing off.

TOM

Arnesto Cervantes joined The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen in 1899. His contribution to the organization was the Kronomotive a steam driven time machine. The Kronomotive could jump 100 years between overhauls. Refueling and repairs on average took one month. Queen Victoria approved a two year voyage for Arnesto’s steam jumper. The mission was at once simple and tremendously complex in nature. Arnesto would take ten 1000 page books to be delivered to each jump point. At these centitaral coporarites he requested a list of 100 questions be written in each book to be answered by a millennium of future minds.

GUY

The train stopped and puffed blue smoke. The metal figure stepped up and boarded it, Kevin following. He knew metal men weren't supposed to exist in the 19th century, but he didn't care. Time paradox or not, he was keeping his bodyguard close at hand. He knew well enough there where dangerous things around. This was the wild west after all.

Suddenly, a flash appeared and his metal bodyguard was torn in half. “I should have guessed Steampunk Girl would follow me here” thought Kevin as two silver disks flew away from the robot wreckage and disappeared in the distance.

LAIEANNA

An enhanced prostitute, Rose captivated the passengers more with her wafting scent than the dance she performed. Thomas Persuade took his opportunity, convincing the adjoining train car guards to sleep while Dr. Dushan used his clunky, brass backpack to melt the iron door under blows of the train whistle. Big Micky stood guard. The Baroness, close by, concentrated on her glowing ball. She was key to their escape before the rear soldiers were even aware they were there. Getting passed the locked door, Big Micky grabbed the treasure, and Baroness transported them from the locomotive in a cloud of smoke.

JD

The book was a success. Awards were bestowed upon the author.

The movie was released and generated, in its first six weeks, ten times the production cost.

Of course there were detractors auguring that the premise was wrong and the research flawed.

But the media ran with the story, citizens groups organized, government agencies intervened, and now we are required to cut back.

Who could have envisioned in the latter part of the 20st century that the release of heat and water vapor from our steam engines could so change the world and bring on the the fifth Ice Age.

PLANET Z

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week it's a tie between Caleb and Elisson.

Elisson's topic is Navel Lint. Caleb's topic is Mufalleta.

*sigh*

You have until midnight on Friday February 22nd to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #98 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

A neighborhood only gets a movie theater when people there go to the movies so often, some chain finds profit bringing the movies to them instead of making those folks drive an hour or two.

It’s not the same with bowling alleys. Those chains use satellite photography to watch empty fields for kids playing sandlot bowling, rolling balls over the uneven, rocky ground at makeshift pins.

Or maybe they put their agents in shoe stores, listening for when someone asks to rent the ugliest pair in the store for a few hours.

Whatever you do, do it fast.

We’re desperate!

Felix’s novels were a War Crime against Literature. So, for these crimes, he was banished to the circle of despised Literary Critics.

He didn’t just have a way with words – he had his way with words. In the worst possible way, in the back of his unmarked white van.

When he was done with them, he’d send his article to the publisher and leave the bloody, sweaty, shivering words on a playground for the children to discover.

His headstone will be blank. No words would associate with this monster, and no numbers are brave enough to cross the picket lines.

In the morning, we walk to the river of melted butter that runs through our village.

Others are already there, waiting for the Buttermaster to proclaim the river clean.

He inspects the flow, confirms that our upstream neighbors are still neighborly, and measures some samples in his testing apparatus.

A light shines green.

"Safe!" he shouts.

We cheer.

Lined up on the shore, we dip our toast and biscuits into the river and savor each bite.

“The river is good,” I say.

My family grunts their agreement.

Nobody double-dips - that is impolite, unsanitary, and a crime punishable by flogging.

The kidnappers sent Julius one of Edna’s toes, but he still had trouble rounding up the ransom.

Time was running out for Edna. The deadline was Valentine’s Day, and they’d threatened to cut out her heart.

I won’t bore you with the details, but things went sour.

What arrived at Julius’ doorstep on February 15th, wrapped in paper, was her stomach.

The kidnappers didn’t know much about anatomy.

“This means she’s still alive, right?” begged Julius.

The FBI agent looked at his partner.

They started to pack up their equipment and notified the office that it was homicide’s problem now.

Mother likes it when we come to dinner, especially when I bring the kids.

When dinner is over and Dad loosens his belt, I see something in Mom’s eyes.

She’s afraid.

Sometimes, she’d call me at the strangest times. Early. Late.

But when I ask her if anything is wrong, she doesn’t say a word.

What does Dad do with that belt that scares her?

I found out last week. Mom was in the kitchen, beaten to death. Dad was hanging in the basement from the belt he beat her with.

Thanksgiving will be at home this year, I guess.

The Mystic Sisters have a good racket going.

One's a punisher for hire, taking clients down into her dungeon and beating them within an inch of their lives.

A few days later, they see the fortune-teller sister, the one who read bruises instead of palms.

Sometimes, guys go into the dungeon but don't go to the fortune-teller. Other times, they see the fortune-teller, but they got their bruises elsewhere.

And then, well, one day, the punisher limps into her sister's house. She's got two black eyes.

“Save the bullshit and just get me some ice,” she says.

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

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

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."

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week it's a clear win by Tom of Footnote, and he selected the happy topic of At my own funeral.

You have until midnight on Friday February 29nd to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #99 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

Nobody notices as she slips in through the back door, silent as a whisper.

Everybody's busy getting ready for the last scene, shoving props around. Costume changes.

She recognizes a few of the actors and gets out her autograph book.

“Excuse me,” says a voice. She nearly jumps out of her skin as a man with a clipboard taps her on the shoulder. “Are you with the press?”

She's frozen. She doesn't know what to say. She-

“Yes,” says an actor. “She's here to interview me.”

The clipboard-holder vanishes.

The actor opens the book, signs his name, and smiles.

Back in WW1, as our boys fought the Kaiser, we made sure they were provided with the best.

The best guns. The best uniforms. The best food. And, most of all, the best tea.

Now, conditions weren't always the best, and it's hard to transport millions of teacups through enemy lines. And no civilized man drinks tea from a tin cup.

So, the boys would put tea leaves on their tongues and we'd pour in the boiling water.

They made a contest of it, who could hold their tea the longest before swallowing.

Sugar? Lemon?

Pathetic Nancy boys, those were!

Ever sit down in a restaurant, and you hear people babbling in another language, and you just know it’s about you?

I’m that way with birds. I think among the chirps and tweets and caws and trills, they’re talking about me.

I grabbed a bird off of a clothesline and demanded to know what it was saying about me.

It kept cawing and scratching madly, so I asked it slower and louder.

That always works with people, right?

But no matter how hard you try, it doesn’t work with birds.

So, I threw it against a wall and walked home.

The townspeople got word that the country’s dictator, after many years of ruling with an iron fist, had died overnight.

There were celebrations, cries of freedom, and they threw together an effigy of Old General Montcastle for burning.

Then, they looked around and realized things really hadn’t been all that bad with Montcastle running things.

They put the effigy in the town square and started to pile up flowers at its feet, turning it into a memorial of sorts.

Montcastle’s son got word of the memorial and said “Collect the flowers, but we’re still burning the place to the ground.”

Arnold requested that they put his name on the door to his office, but the office manager kept declining it.

So, he’d write his name in dry-erase marker on the glass door.

The janitor would come by after hours and wipe the glass clean.

This went on for years. Other employees got their names on their doors, but even when Arnold got promoted up the ranks, he never did.

Finally, Arnold outranked the office manager and demanded to know why his requests were declined.

“What the hell do you expect with a last name like Shitfucker?” said the office manager.