When I broke my neck, such marvelous places across the world - the Pyramids, Everest - were lost to me.

My bed was my prison, chained by tubes in my neck. My arm. My gut.

When I didn't just die, they drugged me less.

The cloud became the wall. A television, always on.

I groaned. "I want to see the world."

So they brought me tapes of these places.

I explored, demanding more... Washington... Amazon... Museums... Galleries....

I was Atlas, map of the world, roaming mind.

Trapped in my head. On a pillow. In my bed.

But not my prison.

My throne.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Twenty, 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 Planet Z, and we went with Olive Loaf.

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):

Hi Laurence

I started a page on Squidoo about flash fiction and wanted to invite and of your contributors to send me one written story (up to 200 words) that I will add to the page and each will have their name and a link back to their site. It is a good way to get a backlink ..

if you think it's something you want to do please announce it on your Sat broadcast. I'll accept the first 25 stories I get. they can be mailed to info@theopensite.com with something in the subject alerting me to what it is.
I will also be making a spot available on my blog for the stories and links to be published again and there is no requirement for anyone to link to me or the squidoo page, though of course I won't discourage anyone from doing so.

Thanks a Bunch

Craig

MENUBAR

"The mailman didn't come again today," she said "I doubt there will ever be mail again."

"We're just going to have to make due with what we have, Jane. You know we've always done okay for ourselves."

"I miss the children, Frank. Do you think they're alright?"

"If I know Jimmy, he's with his friends having a hell of a time. He was a born leader, Jimmy was."

"Yes, he always put Mary in her place, even though she was bigger. What do you think Mary is doing right now, Frank?"

"Mary sure loved her olive loaf."

"I remember."

BLUESMOKE

The food supply was beginning to run quite low. The horde of Kaprualy The Chirapa had brought with them from their home planet have been dwindling steadily and the vegetation was to tired from the artificial lighting to grow properly. They could survive on Kaprualy meat loaf with blue Taranka Sarka olives for just that long. They needed to sample some of the local cuisine, and they needed to do this as soon as possible. Chaketo Chirapa knew they would need to earn the trust of the humans quickly, so he continued podcasting while searching the web for an answer.

ELISSON

Every so often, I like to survey the deli counter, looking for disturbing meats. Scary meats.

Headcheese, for instance. No cheese, but plenty of head, chunks floating in a sea of gelatinous goop. I wouldn’t eat it on a dare.

Or mortadella. Sounds like Morticia’s older sister. Looks like sliced cellulite. Ecch.

The most disturbing of all? Gotta be Olive Loaf.

The name’s bad enough, like something Popeye’s girlfriend might drop off at the pool. All those embedded olives, sliced in cross-section, staring out of the meat case like evil eyes? It’s the lunchmeat that looks at you.

Scary, man.

MIKE

"Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?" asked the skycop.

"Not really," I replied, trying to focus on the holoimage.

"You changed navigation corridors twice without updating your flight plan and exceeded the posted Mach limit. Have you been drinking, sir?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "Look, I overslept and was running late, so I hit the FoodMat for an InstaMeal pellet, then jumped the skyway. I may have ...drifted.”

"Which meal?" he asked.

"One with a weird name: A Olive Loaf."

"'A' indicates the meal contains alcohol, 'OLIVE' indicates a martini. Disengage your hoverdrive, sir; I'm tractoring you in."

KEEME

Three years inside and all I ever got to eat was damned Olive loaf on stale bread. Funny how something you once loved can turn against you. Its not like I actually killed her, this time. At home we were welcomed by my dear sweet mother-in-law, sitting in my favorite chair sans right arm, sewing with her left. Hi Millie. Hello prison bitch hope you're hungry. I quickly made my way to the kitchen to avoid her lovely improvement advice. In the fridge were over 100 packages of Olive Loaf. Sure hope she can knit with her teeth.Three years inside and all I ever got to eat was damned Olive loaf on stale bread. Funny how something you once loved can turn against you. Its not like I actually killed her, this time. At home we were welcomed by my dear sweet mother-in-law, sitting in my favorite chair sans right arm, sewing with her left. Hi Millie. Hello prison bitch hope you're hungry. I quickly made my way to the kitchen to avoid her lovely improvement advice. In the fridge were over 100 packages of Olive Loaf. Sure hope she can knit with her teeth.

BRAD Z

Becoming a homeless being is the best way to observe anything in the universe. I have been observing the Earth this way for two cycles now.

Yesterday the Supreme Commander wanted to assisted me on an observation.

After five hours the Supreme Commander started getting hungry. We had no local currency to spend so we went to something called a soup kitchen. They had an excellent beef stew. Sadly, the olive loaf bread, killed the Supreme Commander.

Maybe the next planet will be safe for our kind.

Oh well, commence destruction of the Earth in five….four….three..two..one

EVA MOON

Bill leaned forward in his chair, trying to focus on the PowerPoint presentation, but the charts, graphs and bulleted lists blurred as if obscured by billowing clouds of flour.

The monolithic high-tech empire he’d built meant nothing to him. Secretly, he’d always wanted to be a baker - knead dough in his hands; make crust instead of code.

Nobody knew.

Graphs morphed into racks of hot baguettes. Pie charts turned into, well, pies. Even bullets on lists made him dream of olives dotting a fragrant loaf.

He stood up and walked out as they watched him go, openmouthed.

Nobody knew.

TOM

“Olive Loaf is the Twinkie of lunch meats,” descried Armond. “You want the muse to prevail or not?” repeated the shaman. Armond was desperate he had written a word in weeks which is why he dialed Shaman’s R Us. Mumbo Jumbo set the deli cutter to paper thin slices. He draped Armond’s face with Olive Loaf and told him to lie perfectly still and dream of his muse. In the morning the ER doctor finish the 40th stitch on Armond’s face. No midnight muse just one hunger cat with teeth and claws and a mean craving for cold cuts. Nardo!!!

JEFFREY

We tried everything. The Nukes didn't touch them. The Chemical weapons, well they were a waste of time considering those suits they wear. But we tried them anyway and it killed half of us in the attempt. Then we tried talking to them. They liked that, but then they found out that we put olives in bologna, they decided we weren't worth the effort. Since then the few of us that could escape the planet have been on the run. Who would have thought olive loaf would doom the planet, not the green house effect. Al Gore, raspberries to you.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The streets were as alive as downtown Marysville ever got. Jonah watched them eat funnelcakes, scream on cheap rides, and play the carnival games. The annual Olive Loaf Festival had not changed a bit. He remembered trying to explain it to Mary before he came home.

"Small towns, they find something - anything - they can call their
own. Some reason to feel special."

Her raised eyebrow had spoken volumes of sarcasm.

Back there he had been a nobody. Now, the festival crowd laughed and
swirled around him. Jonah held his picture of Mary and danced down
the street with them, smiling.

ALMO

I was mixing the ground meat to put into the loaf pan while Jimmy hovered over my shoulder.

"Mmmmfff?" he asked.
I snapped back, "What?"
"What are you doing?" he asked, his breath smelling like citrus, lips smacking irritatingly.
"Making something flashy for Christmas dinner," I retorted, searching for the stuffing. "Where the hell are the red and green Jujubes?"
"Oops," Jimmy said, swallowing hard.
I looked at him incredulously. "What am I going to do now?"
Jimmy pulled the olives from the shelf. "Here," he said, "Red and green."
Dumbfounded I asked, "Who on earth would eat olive loaf?"

JUSTIN

I ride through space on the back of an intergalactic and extraordinary space turtle. The turtle's shell was cracked in a recent encounter with a group of thugs from the Macaroni Space Pirate League. The worst part is, after we disposed of the thugs in a nebula inhabited by the Cheese Mafia, to get to a planet with the supplies to repair the shell, first we'd have to pass through an asteroid belt. With an already damaged shell, this could be deadly. Worse was the fact that the asteroids were not made of rock and ore, but of olive loaf.

ANIMA

I can't believe I trusted my brother (a butcher) when he invited me to "THE LOAF"…

I shoulda been paying attention, but I was already schussing through the alpine glades of the ski resort Sugarloaf in my mind.

I bought goggles, researched skis to demo... Hell, I even worked out at the gym…

Imagine my surprise as we buzzed past the exit…

Whoa Dave! – ya missed it!

Huh? Wha…? Sugarloaf??
Nah man, we're headed to OLIVE LOAF… Best hamn deli convention on the east coast!

Oh well.
What I missed in moguls, I made up for with pastrami on rye….

PLANET Z

I, Baron Munchausen, do declare this latest adventure to be an unmitigated disaster.

Instead of banquets and parades, I find myself destitute and without my usual companions.

Even Bucephalus, my loyal steed, had run off to greener pastures.

You see, I was given a challenge by Catherine the Great, who's hand in marriage I had the honor to refuse, to sail the oceans of wine to find islands of Gold and Silver cheese.

Instead, we found... Olive Loaf.

Not gold. Not Silver.

Plain Olive Loaf.

“At least it is not head cheese,” I said.

Catherine nodded, and ordered me beheaded.

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 reveals the triumphant Lunette...

How about.... Green?

You have until midnight on Friday August 8th 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 #122 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. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

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.

They found the girl in the last room, wires running from the console to a halo connector on her forehead.

Her once-white robes were caked with grime and dried blood.

A bony arm reached towards the console, her hand on a large red button.

Pressing... pressing...

Once every second, she tapped that button.

Aside from a dull green glow in her eyes, no other sign of life.

They couldn't even feel her breathe.

"We need the machine," said a technician.

"It can wait," said the administrator. "Let her finish."

They watched, until the girl finally stopped.

The green glow faded.

Professor Rickhoff pulled down the map and shouted "WE'RE HAVING AN ADVENTURE TODAY!"

The class jumped from their seats and cheered.

"WHERE SHALL WE GO?" shouted the Professor.

The class responded with all sorts of exotic places.

"Home," said a voice.

"QUIET!" shouted Rickhoff, and the class lay still.

He walked up to the homesick student and stared into her eyes.

"This is your home now,” he said. "When you are here, you are home."

The student smiled, curled up in a ball on the floor, and went to sleep.

The Professor rolled up the map and dismissed the class.

We put bandages on the wounds, but you can clearly read "Sinterklaas" in bloody red slashes through the gauze.

The wounds were deep, but not severe enough to kill him.

His breathing was ragged, moans of pain.

"Did you see who did this to you?" I asked the man.

His eyes remained dull and fixed as he coughed through his confession: "I did it to myself."

He pulled a knife from his boot, dropping the bloody blade on the floor.

"Why?" I asked him.

"I'm bad," said the man, "and he’s out of coal."

Be good, little children.

Or else.

The "Grenouille Congelée" is just an ordinary martini with an ice cube.

Inside that ice cube is a frog.

The ice cube is hollow, giving the frog a little room to move around.

It doesn't move much. Frogs are cold-blooded and they hibernate at low temperatures, so if it moves at all, it's going to be a groggy frog.

The cube melts easily.

Once the ice melts, the frog wakes up, and it crawls out of the glass.

An empty glass, usually, but if you're slow to finish your drink, you may be in for a small green surprise.

I had a dream I was a pirate.

We sailed the seven seas, although I think we may have sailed one sea twice. And that last one may have been a municipal pool.

I'm not that good with maps and charts. And I tend to look down the wrong end of a spyglass. Oh, and I get seasick in the bathtub.

But this is my dream, okay? And I was a pirate in my dream.

I didn't have a hook for a hand. Or a pegleg. Or even an eyepatch.

Just a pirate, sailing the seven seas of my dreams.

“Your shoelace is untied,” says a voice.

I stop and look back.

Nobody's there.

I hear this kind of thing all the time. Especially since the accident.

I was always bad about tying my shoelaces when I was little. Sure, I tripped a few times, but I learned to just tuck the laces in.

I liked loose shoes. Nice and relaxed.

So, when one came loose on the railway platform ad I tripped over it, I was really surprised.

Train ran over my legs.

Yeah, there's nobody behind me.

I turn back around and roll my wheelchair to the elevator.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Twenty-One, 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 Lunette, and we went with Green.

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):

GUY

It was green, wet and wrinkled. Quansity stared at it with disgust. “What is it?” he asked. “It's Human food” answered Ginswey knowingly, “it's called a pickle.” Quansity continued staring at the dripping green thing on the green dining table. “You mean, they eat that staff?” he asked, horrified. “Yes, and quiet eagerly too” answered Ginswey, “but that's not the worst thing those barbarians eat.” Quansity held his breath and started looking a little green himself. “You mean... there's worst?” he asked, astonished. “Yes,” said Ginsway, “there is this thing called olive loaf. It's very popular, or so I'm told.”

TOM

Arthur Andersen is surely about the green but it’s not about it we speak. Our Arthur Andersen was the voice of Lucky the Leprechaun of that other corporate giant General Mills, a role he played from 1963 to 1992. When asked of the benefits of being a shill for a sugar coated breakfast ravedust Mr. Anderson said "I never got free cereal, but they gave me lots of green money." The other long running role Mr. Anderson played was the 1937 Broadway production of Julius Caesar. He was one of the original Mercury Theatre Players and its last surviving member.

THOMAS

Damn green, tree-hugging, sandal-wearing hippies... trying to force their communistic environmental agenda upon society. Green food, green cars, green soap, green clothes, green mercury filled light bulbs. Heck, we can't even use lead sinkers to go fishing!

The only thing remotely green I want to be associated with is Saint Patrick's Day beer, lime Jello shots, good Hawaiian weed, and two week old olive loaf aging in the fridge.

Someday, in an ideal world, I'd be able to pick up my number twelve size shoe, out of my number twelve size carbon footprint, and shove it up their green asses.

STEVEN

I miss her emerald eyes.

The upload process transferred personalities perfectly. Old
recordings of her voice informed the synthesizer; her new body was
sculpted after scans of twenty year old photos.

The eyes were never quite the same, always left somewhere in the uncanny valley.

"It will be me, Howard." She had known my feelings, but her fatal
virus had left us no choice.

She walks through the door in her new, engineered body. She moves
like my wife, says my name like my wife.

Her flat matte green eyes gaze at me.

I shudder, and leave it there, alone.

MICHELLE

Volvo, S40 T-5.

Five speed manual transmission.

This is where I sit, every day. Looking, wondering, waiting and wanting. An open road with no speed limits, heaven. He looks at me with brown eyes sparkling to a fine gloss. I know what he wants. He has the need, the need for speed. I want to give this luscious creature all he desires and more. We sit, wait, open the doors, and exit the vehicle.

I give him a mournful pet behind the ears. “Don’t worry Fido, one day mother will give us the green light to drive it, one day.”

JEFFREY

This is about having your destiny cut short. I was all ready to take command. The CEO was obsessed with the GT-LATS take over, and his new Bride. I was about to show that he was unfit to run the company, when he showed up. "Mister. Rugan. You've a guest out here." Miss Green said over the intercom. Did I mention that this is all her fault? "I"m busy." "He says he is here on a family matter. He's very insistent." "Send him in." In walked the man that took it away from me. "Hello, my name is Montoya,"

BRAD

Fred

It had been a long harsh winter but Fred had managed to survive it. However, he had noticed, that quite a few of his siblings had not survived the winter. But that’s why mom had so many kids. Just the way things go, she had said when he was very young.

Fred’s body illuminated as he took to the sky in search of at mate who’s glow would match his.

Someone special, those two over there, they sure are bright, yes, they would do…Fred made his move towards them.

Ewwww, there’s glowing green bug slime all over the windshield!

JUSTIN

We made our way through the asteroid field. Using a modified food disposal unit, we made it through. On the other side, a ship came close. Scanning the ship made stark terror strike me. It was a Green Bean Reaver ship. These reavers are horrible creatures, no longer human, or vegetable. If they were hunting, they would attack. If not, they would pass by. The only course was straight on. If I ran, they would follow. When these reavers attack, they do horrible things, like make you eat rotten brussel sprouts, or spoiled canned peas. Let's hope they aren't hunting.

ANIMA

Daddy?

Umm, Sugar?

Can I steer for a bit?

No, baby, not until you're 8, when you're a mite bigger.

Oh-kay…

What can I do Daddy? I'm bored. We've been flying around for ages….

Why don't you go play with Jeff in the hold?

Jeffy's doing school work, he don't want to play

Doesn't, sugar…

Well, since we're out here in the toulies… Would you like to blast something? Come over here, then…aim the laser cannon… like so… see if you can hit that blue and green planet…

That one?

Yep, keep it in the cross hairs, then push the button…

MIKE

"You are certain this will work?" the ship's captain demanded to know.

"Of a surety, my lord. Observe," said the chief medic, pointing. "The monitor's display is coded by pigmentation - Ankarite on the left, Gatarrh on the right; the central image illustrates the merger."

"Proceed!"

Sequencers came online. Both subjects became translucent, then faded completely.

As the melded being began to form, dreams of engineered Orion slavegirls and huge profits danced in the captain's head.

They died almost as quickly as the medic and his pinkish, hairless and completely useless creation.

"'Yellow and blue make green'" - pah!" he spat, disgusted.

PLANET Z

Hi ho, Kermit the Frog here with an important message.

Sure, it's not easy being green, but it's also not easy having your legs cut off, battered, and deep fried by some fucking Cajun.

This is why I am a proud member of the Animals For The Unethical Treatment Of Humans.

Every time I hear a new story about a Pit Bull mauling its owner or some jackoff Australian getting killed by a string ray, I think “Way to go, animals!”

Mmmmm... it's time for dinner. BLT.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. but she was such a stage hog.

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 reveals the triumphant Evamoon...

How about.... Breaking and entering?

You have until midnight on Friday August 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 #123 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. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

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.

Ever gone into the woods to piss on a tree and the tree moves out of your way?

Yeah, you've got to be really drunk for that to happen, stumbling around and falling on your ass by the side of the road.

Except this time, I was stone cold sober.

Did I imagine that it had moved?

I walked over to the tree and...

It moved back to its original spot.

“Hello?” I said. “Is anybody there?”

Nobody answered.

I zipped back up and headed back to the car.

It was covered with tree sap.

Damn it!

Where's my chainsaw?

Thanks to Jenny the Pizzababe for helping me finish this one and inviting me to be her co-host.

Folks are really gonna welcome Ryan back now.

I don't want to sleep.

Things are happening all over the world all the time.
If I sleep, something will happen, and I won't know about it until I wake up again.

I've tried alarms based on news alerts and Google searches, but it's so hard to find the right rules to use.

I sleep less and less every day, but that just makes me less and less alert when I am awake.

I miss just as much from being drowsy as I do being asleep.

So, I'll sleep, and the world can go on without me.

Good night, everyone.

When I was little, we moved from Chicago to Columbus.

Everything was packed into cardboard boxes. The boxes each got a numbered sticker. Then they were put into trucks, and ended up in the new house a few days later.

My brother and I collected all of the stickers. They were red and blue, with a few yellow ones.

I can't remember the highest numbers. They were in the hundreds. But in the end, we never did find the sticker with the number one.

Meanwhile, our parents are trying to figure out just what the hell is in each box.

We stood around the body, wondering who had killed the man.

So, I got out a can of alphabet soup, waved it over the corpse, poured it into a mug, and microwaved it.

When it was ready, I chanted the magic spell and threw the mug at the wall.

It shattered and splashed everywhere.

“Look!” gasped the police inspector.

The name of the killer was on the wall, spelled out in noodles for all to see.

“Simple divination magic,” I said. “Nothing to it.”

The killer was found, his bloody knife retrieved, and justice was done.

So, want some soup?

We keep Leon in a dark pit, sealed and guarded.

I don't know how he eats.

I don't know how he drinks.

I don't know how he breathes.

Once, I wanted to let Leon out, but he refused to unlock the door to the pit.

“Leon doesn't want to be let out,” said a guard, escorting me from the door.

“He has to come out something, I said.

“When he wants to, he will, said the guard, and I leave.

Leon's been in there for a very long time.

For now, he'll be staying there.

Even if it's my turn.

They called Vlad a crossdressing pervert.

He likes to wrap himself in bandages and sleep in an Egyptian-style coffin.

"They think I am a mummy," he laughs. "While my assassins hunt for canopic jars with my vitals or try to torch my body, I just laugh and smile."

I asked him about the dress, heels, and lipstick.

"That's none of your business!" he hissed.

Tonight, he goes with a red wig.

"It's my lucky hair," he says, and walks out into the night.

He won't have much trouble getting blood tonight at the bar.

Crossdressers eat that look up.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Twenty-Two, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by Lunette, and we went with Green.

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):

BRAD Z

Ooooo let me in, let me in. It smells so good in here…where is it, over here, over here, it’s around here somewhere and I’ll find it. Hmm can you smell that, smells like….hamburger…I like hamburger… it’s coming from over here, behind this door….yep there’s hamburger behind this door, all I have to do is a little breaking and entering into hamburgerville....I bet I can get it open if I do this….then put a paw here…..ooo it’s open. They should just give this to me instead of throwing it away, nom nom nom

FRICKER

The other day I broke into my boss’ computer only to find classified files regarding my work ethics and possible release.

Right at that moment I came to one conclusion; murder.

I devised a plan with every detail covered. The next day, meeting scheduled, plan intact… all was in place.

He stepped casually through the door; with a solemn voice he said we need to talk.

This is going to be hard for me to say.

I thought to myself, you have no idea.

We had a security breach recently, and I need to promote you to Senior Security Advisor.

Yes! I love it when a plan comes together.

GUY DAVID

The Chirapa where entering a new stage in their stay on the planet of The Humans. The crowdedness and the lack of room underground, combined with the lack of sunlight and the fact that they couldn't bring new Chirapa children into the world for lack of room was beginning to break them down. Chaketo Chirapa did his best to raise the spirit of his people as their leader. He knew this couldn't last forever, and he was getting desperate. He decided the only answer was to actually meet The Humans somehow, but how could he do that without being discovered?

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The ground vibrates from the bombs. We huddle in the corner, my children crying beneath me. Mother's picture shakes from the wall and shatters.

The blue of sky, the clean rocky mountains - all is obscured by the
dust and fire of the bombs. The chalk of collapsed buildings is on
our tongues. My children do not know why the men run with rifles, do
not understand the destruction.

Vehicles rumble down the street. I pray silently to the Virgin to
protect us. I pray harder than even when Josef died.

A hard boot strikes the door.

I close my eyes.

TOM

Max was a second story man. Windows and roofs were his modus operandus. His working hour was 6:30 to 7:30. Max hated the street level trade, but his wife’s sister’s son had to start on the ground floor. Arthur a bit less that dim, but ever eager to please crept in the midnight shadows to the front door. Max held the Phillsbee compression jack against the doorknob. He motioned to young Arthur to take the hammer and strike the end of the jack. Arthur looked back confused. Max whispered, “When I nod my head you hit it with the hammer.”

JUSTIN

The green bean reaver ship passed us, not hunting. Soon we were at the station and I ordered the supplies needed to fix the turtle's shell. When it was ready, I went to pick it up. There was a huge pile of orange vegetables in the hanger. I shouted at the supplier over my radio.

"Keratin, not carrot tons!!"

Life will be much easier when it is back to normal. It's been weird ever since the Short Order Terrorists broke into Reality Headquarters then installed a virus into the reality generators that merged the Food Network into the entire universe.

ANIMA

I am a compulsive B and E artist... It usually leads to murder. I learned from the hand of my mother. She taught me at the tender age of seven, and by eleven, I was doing the job alone. Occasionally, I'd bring her my results.

At times I managed to quell my urges. When I was 15, I quit cold turkey;
I didn't hardly miss the lifestyle. But by college, I had returned to my old ways.

Now, I limit myself to once a week. Old age slows a body down.

Today is going to be one of them days.

ALMO

So close, I could smell it.

It was stronger than the scent of the freshly mowed grass, more potent than the honeysuckle that climbed the fence.

I had no choice. I followed the trail.

Maybe the Parkers were home. I hoped they weren't. I hoped the cat wasn't sleeping where I was going. Their porch window is always cracked open. You can get in if you wriggle enough, and I did.

Technically, I guess, it's breaking and entering. But I couldn't stop.

I scratched at a flea with my hind leg, woofed, and saw the Grail, the bowl of Whiskas!

EVA

“There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.” -- Leonard Cohen

I’ve spent nearly my whole life keeping up the façade: Perfect woman, perfect family, perfect life. Terrified to reveal the truth. I’d be shunned, despised, ridiculed.

Of course you can’t keep it up forever. The first cracks are tiny, almost invisible. But they spread and before you know it, your life is a network of shards held together by fear.

Now that it’s all broken in pieces at my feet, I don’t know why I resisted so long. The darkness has gone, replaced by brilliant light.

SOUGENT

"Are you ready?", asks a voice from behind him. "You need to get in there, there's not much time".

"And don't screw up", came a rough voice from the corner.

He mutters in agreement, picks up the saw and begins cutting.

After this job was finished, he'd have enough money to occupy his time
with a few well oiled super models on the beaches of Cancun.

Suddenly blood spurts out, splattering his green surgical scrubs.

He looks down at the open chest of the injured mob boss as the man in
the corner points a revolver at his head.

MIKE

Evening has come; she begins her search for food. She needs blood for her developing eggs. Chemical sensors alert her to nearby prey and she veers toward the source. Motion and heat sensors confirm the target. She selects a suitable spot and lands almost unnoticed.

Her proboscis is sharper than a needle, capable of breaking through the toughest skin. Upon entering the wound, proteins in her saliva will inhibit clotting, allowing her to feed. It will also transmit a deadly microorganism. This human has killed hundreds of her kin; now, it will pay. She bends down and -

SMACK!

"Darn mosquitoes!"

PLANET Z

“Did you bring it?” he asks. What little I can see under his hood convinces me to look away.

I nod. “Fifteen million dollars,” I say.

I slide the briefcase across the table.

He reaches for it, the hand is scarred and blackened, missing two fingers.

The other hand reaches into a sack at his side.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

The Devil's Pitchfork falls to the table with a clatter.

I can't help but stare.

“How did you get it?” I ask, but the man is gone.

A whiff of brimstone and laughter.

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 reveals the triumphant Brad Z...

How about.... Rampaging Chickens?

You have until midnight on Friday August 22th 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 #124 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. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

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.

Aquaman lays back in his tub, watching the Olympics on a portable television.

The announcer says Michael Phelps' name, and the superhero winces.

A twinge of jealousy. A scowl. A clenched fist.

He looks at his costume folded up on the toilet seat.

Orange, green, black, and yellow... sure, the colors are ugly, but it's a classic.

And functional, too, he reminds himself. That technological suit they wear in the Olympics still can't produce race times like a true superhero.

Or let them talk to fish.

“Give it up, dude,” says his pet goldfish.

Aquaman sighs, and changes the channel.

The timer goes off, and I open the oven.

There's just one cookie on the baking sheet, but it's a big one.

It's bigger than a dinner plate. And it has chocolate chips the size of quarters, ready to melt in my mouth.

It's cool out, so I put the sheet on the window ledge to cool.

Milk. I'm going to need milk.

I hop on my motorcycle and head to the store, pick up a quart of milk, and rush back.

The cookie's still there, waiting.

I can't eat it. It's too... perfect.

I drink the milk and sigh.

Cheryl put “Imagination and fingernails" on her organ donor card

It wasn't easy to find, but tucked away, hidden behind her nightmares and dreams, there was her imagination.

"So fragile," said the surgeon, and she gently lifted it out and put it on a ceramic dish.

Her assistant checked the national registry and found a match - an artist, skilled with a brush but without inspiration or the creative spark.

"Call them," said the surgeon. "And have them ready by ten."

The assistant nodded. "Anything else?" he asked.

"No," said the surgeon, and she put the fingernails in her pocket.

I stacked up quarters by the jukebox.

Everybody in the bar sighed and knew what was coming.

Six... Five... One...

It was her song.

It became our song, but before it was our song, it was her song.

She shared it with me.

She shared everything with me.

Until... the accident.

They said she fell asleep at the wheel, but she was parked when the other car hit her.

The guy that hit her disappeared, abandoned his car.

The registration and plates were fake. Stolen from a dealer's lot.

I put in another quarter.

Six... Five... One...

All night long.

You can't see the stars in the city because of the lights.

So, Rico takes all his dates to the planetarium.

He knows the security guard there. Rico brings him weed for when the night gets boring.

One switch dims the lights and another turns on the machine, making tiny pinpricks of light spread across the dome.

“I can name them all,” he says, laying with his cousin Rosarita.

His finger traces the ancient outlines of constellations, telling stories about legends and monsters.

His other hand traces a line on her cheek.

It's 3 in the afternoon, and they kiss.

I'm the office manager. I print up business cards for everyone.

I keep a set of everybody's handy for reordering purposes. Just mark your changes and go.

I keep another set for playing War.

Shuffle the business cards and deal them out.

I turn over a card, you turn over a card.

Now, who would win in an argument, the janitor or the CEO?

CEO wins, so I take your janitor card.

We go through the deck, turn over our piles, and start again.

It was a fun game, until my boss caught me playing, and tore up my card.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Twenty-Three, 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 Brad Z, and we went with Rampaging Chickens.

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):

FRICKER

It was the last time anyone saw the Colonel alive.

Oh the humanity, the injustice.

The red stained walls of the kitchen tell this story.

The scratch marks of poultry talons on the frame of the door show this struggle.

Broken and cracked… are the black rim glasses that once adorned his face.

They remain on the floor... spectacles of his past.

No one really knows what happen that fateless night.

But many say that if you sit quietly by the neon sign out front,

You can hear the call of the now free chickens that roam… the Kentucky hills.

MIKE LEE

Alexander surveyed the food shelf. "We've almost eaten everything", he said. "I'll have to go out and find some more rations."

"But what if they're still up there?" said Karen, looking mortified. "You'll never make it!"

"We can't survive without food", said Alexander. "I'll be back soon. I promise." And, with that, he climbed out through the trapdoor; closing it behind him.

Karen wondered if she would ever see Alexander again. She closed her eyes, and tried to remember what life had been like before the Revolution.

A single tear rolled down her face. It hadn't always been like this.

MIKE

Lights came on in the farmhouse. Shotgun in hand, the man raced across the barnyard to the chicken coop, fearing the import of the frenzied squawking. Gun at the ready, he opened the door.

Feathers were everywhere, but the chickens were still upright. In the far corner, he spotted a bloody, furred lump. Amazed, he realized they'd actually killed a fox! Then he noticed a group of them advancing on him with grim purpose. A sudden flurry of wings heralded an even louder outburst of noise...

"I tell ya," he declared, "it's gotta be that new feed. 'Nuther drumstick, dear?"

TOM

Tokyo was in peril. Again! One Hundred Foot Rampaging Chickens were making their way towards the Imperial Palace. Their claws tore the streets, wings shatter windows, beaks rented roofs. Machine guns, mortars, rockets and electrified fences all failed to slow the fowl’s perambulations. At the gate of the old palace a lone samuritic figure meet the chicken’s gazes. A tremor of horror raced through the flock as they came toe to talon with the man in the white suit. He raised a single digit of his hand passed a white goatee to moistened lips.

"Finger Lickn Good." Said the colonel.

JEFFREY

If she could just keep moving slowly and quietly she might have a chance of success.

"Chickie, Chickie, Chickie!" she screamed as she bolted forward.

The chickens were never in any danger, her arms out run did not stand a chance against a terrified chicken's sprint.

Her body tensed to squeal her battle cry and run at them again, but she never made it. The hen attacked from the rear, pecking at an interesting flower on her dress. It only pecked once before quickly turning to run the other way.

The little girl whirled around, stomped her foot. "Bad chickie!"

JUSTIN

"They want their nuts back, Jed."

"Aw pastrami, Ned, these are our nuts. They hide theirs in holes and stuff."

"I really think they want them. There are some outside the windows!"

"What in salami is the matter with you, Ned? Squirrels ain't gunna attack us."

"I dunno Jed, they looked rightly mean into my eyes."

"You've got smoked ham for brains, Ned!"

"Jed, they all coming fast, like on a rampage or something!"

"You are so full of corned beef, Ned. Them dang squirrlies are harmless!"

"They breakin' through the windows! Git em off me Jed!"

"Oh, olive loaf!"

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

Dusty air scraped its way into my throat while I ran. The scales covering the herd's bodies blended with the ground, except where blood spattered around claw and tooth. They hunted in herds, using the rough sandstone outcroppings as camouflage. It wasn't fair.

The reverse scriptease experiment had worked too well. Too many genes
were reverted too far back. In two weeks our peaceful flock had
morphed into a 65 million year old ancestor. They were not prey, and
we were fit to be fried.

The rooster cawed through its dinosaur mouth. I ran faster, wondering
what I'd taste like.

SOUGENT

The heat was unbearable, soon his little chipmunk ass would be barbecued for sure.

He tries screaming for mercy but there's no response from his cruel
captors, just laughter.

Suddenly he hears a commotion and screams coming from outside the hot,
dark place he was in.

Abruptly, he is out, the bright sunlight blinding him but he is able
to just make out a scene of carnage and mayhem, as if something had
gone on a murderous rampage.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he thought for a moment he saw
chickens.... hundreds of chickens, all covered in blood.

ANIMA

Ever see a homeschool football game?

I play for the Rampaging Chickens.
We ain't so good.

Our quarterback won't make eye contact.
Most of us play piano better than pass the ball,
and the cheerleader's skirts barely clear their ankles.

Our name totally gives away our playbook--
We play an offensive game, consisting of huddling together and taunting the other team.
After the snap, we scatter, staring intently at the ground. On occasion, someone catches the ball; then it's a mad dash for the end zone.

Amazingly, we are leading the league! beating our rivals, the Gesticulating Limpets.

Go Chickens!

GUY DAVID

The chef was furious. His apprentice was using way too much salt. “Out” he screamed at the top of his voice, so loudly that he brought in the owner. Yev Kassem picked in. “Can you try to keep it down?” he asked. “Sorry, have to keep my apprentice sharp” said the chef. “You are the artist” answered Yev and exited the kitchen. The chef turned back to his apprentice intent on continuing his screaming spree, maybe even firing him, when he was run over by a horde of rampaging chickens. “No soup for you” came in the voice of Yev.

BRAD Z

Reporting live from the Channel 3’s eye in the sky mobile helicopter. From here I have a clear view of the city, the devastation caused by the rampage is unbelievable. At least 8 square blocks have been utterly destroyed. The military has surrounded the city in hopes of keeping the chickens contained. Reports estimate the death toll in the thousands. Something is happening; the military chatter has picked up quite a bit now. We are going to zoom the camera in for a .…oh my god! They are starting to fly! They’re coming straight for us, Fred get us…….

THOMAS

There was nothing I could do but sit back and watch. Hundreds of chickens passed in front of me. Unbelievable. Every size, shape, and description of the domesticated bird paraded before me. One wearing a lavender ballet tutu, pirouetted before me, then disappeared. Another with a large fruit covered headdress, cha-cha'd it's way over to me, blew me a kiss and also disappeared. A third was carrying a KFC bucket, eating a drumstick, and staring. He flipped me off, and then he, too, was gone. Waking me up, my dentist asked me how I liked his new anesthetic. Just... wow!!!

DAPHNE

Mike sat there trying to figure out where his day went wrong. The morning presentations rehearsal went well. His team broke for lunch before the presentation to the Board. They went to a local Chinese restaurant. He got the special spicy chicken dish. It was really good, spicy and flavorful. 1 hour into the presentation something was wrong. He excused himself, got up and started to walk quickly. His walk turned into a sprint, he barely got the door closed and his belt undone in time. A ½ hour later, he knew why it was called Rampaging Chicken, as he did another courtesy flush.

LAIEANNA

The Priestess had spoken fast with a thick accent so Billy's scribbled notes were unclean. Now he couldn't really read them. He still tried, throwing in what he guessed were the correct ingredients. The circle of power was drawn and five chickens were beheaded though he may have over done it with the count. Three mumbled words and the chicken bodies went wild, violently crashing into everything in the room. The severed heads screamed in anger. Billy scratched his head and squinted at his notes again. It dawned on him. He forgot a human body, necessary for a revenge zombie.

PLANET Z

Agent Starling. A pleasure to see you again.

Well, Clarice - have the chickens stopped rampaging?

I remember you telling me... when you saw them... feathers... beaks.. you ran away as fast as you could... where did you go... what restaurant was it... ah... yes...

McDonalds. The Golden Arches.

What did you order... a hamburger? No, too plain, even for you, one generation from poor white trash.

Fries? An apple pie? No, not you.

The number five. Orange soda.

And ten chicken nuggets.

What did you dip them in? Sweet and sour? Barbecue?

Just plain ketchup.

Goodbye, Clarice.

And, Bon appetit.

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 reveals the triumphant Fricker Fracker...

How about.... The Game "Twister"?

You have until midnight on Friday August 29th 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 #125 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. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

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.

The videos of Al-Qaeda training in Afghanistan - firing guns, running obstacle courses, and all that running - you never saw them with laptops, programming, did you?

Those guys got H1 visas and headed to Seattle, where they were greeted by Microsoft.

"We've got housing ready for you," said a blonde in a suit. "Just sign the NDAs on top of your welcome packets and we'll head down to Redmond."

Each programmer signed their forms, praised Allah, and looked forward to the day when their latest weapon against the Western infidels would be unleashed.

"Vista," Osama had told them, grinning.

They talked in code, a quiet series of taps and gentle coughs that went undetected by the teacher.

Questions... answers... who's kissing... who's not seeing each other anymore...

Every year, they change the code so that teachers can't decode their messages.

Out on the playground, Seniors teaching the pre-schoolers the basics... cough... tap... a click of the tongue...fingernail tap... fingertip tap...

Every so often, a new signal is added, like tapping a wristwatch. Or an archaic one is removed, like the sliderule swish.

At reunions, conversation is polite.

But the code?

She's twice divorced… he’s so fat…

Oh, so brutal!

Something smells good.

Is Alvin in the kitchen?

Is he making hamburgers?

He makes great hamburgers.

What's that rumbling? Why is everything shaking?

Earthquake?

I ran for a doorway to brace myself.

Alvin didn't stop making hamburgers in the kitchen.

Once you get Alvin started on something, it's impossible to make him stop before he's done.

The rumbling stops and everything stops shaking.

A few glasses have broken, some things have fallen off of shelves and popped off the walls.

Nothing important.

The hamburgers are almost ready.

I should set the table.

With paper plates and cups.

You know. Aftershocks.

Every morning, the windup girl feels the turning of the key in her back.

She awakens, opens her eyes.

"Mistress," she says, and smiles.

Mistress strokes her cheek, says the nicest things.

And, her eyes are... red?

She's been crying again.

Windup girl wants to cry too, but she cannot.

"Mistress," she says, "Need a hug?"

Mistress wants more, and soon, the windup girl's clothes sit folded on the edge of the bed with Mistress's.

"Fuck me," she whispers.

Windup girl pulls out her key, places it on Mistress's thigh.

Mistress smiles as windup girl's eyes grow heavy and close.

She covers her whole face with a mask, even though it's just the left side that has the worst of the scars.

"Symmetry," she growls.

She changes masks throughout the day, some smiling, some angry, some expressionless... just a white shaped piece of ceramic with two holes for eyes.

The left eye is fine, but the right one is different.

Bloodshot. Dilated.

"I see better with it than with the other," she says, and she goes back to painting.

She wears the mask, but not gloves.

The brush in the blackened claw of her right hand dashes along the canvas.

They say Helen Thomas has been in the White House Press Corps for the past 9 presidents, but measuring things in terms of presidents is a horrible idea.

How often do you have presidents around.

"Hey, someone wake the president... we need to measure this piece of string."

They did that back in Ancient Egypt. A cubit was the length of pharaoh's arm.

Every five minutes, someone asking him "stick out your arm!" Like he's a common junkie.

Got a house to build, gotta measure out the two by fours.

No wonder why he buried himself under tons of rock.

Podcasts may be delayed this weekend because my sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and their cat Oreo (Edloe's blood-uncle) are in town.

They came in from Biloxi, so getting back via I-10 is going to be a mess.

They'll be staying for a while, and Nardo's not happy about it at all.

1-800-TOUGH SHIT, cat.

Regular podcasting and blogging will resume after the CATegory-5 furstorm has passed.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Twenty-Four, 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 Fricker Fracker, and we went with The Game Twister.

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):

PLANET Z

She wanted to try something new, so we bought pajamas made out of Twister boards.

Colors all over.

We can't spin the spinner ourselves, so we've programmed the computer to call out colors and hands and feet.

We take turns, putting this on that, that on this, and so on.

No matter how much we try, it's hard to stay at it for long before tearing these jammies off.

One night, she had too much to drink. Right Foot On Red became Kick To The Crotch.

We don't play that game anymore.

Don't Break The Ice? Yeah... pass the icepack.

CeNedra

“It was really nice of your mom to lend you her car” I told him as we sat in the back seat in the dark.

Did he just put his right hand there?

“I thought the dance was nice, great music too” I said, trying not to sound nervous.

Did he just put his left hand down there?

Words escaped me as his mouth covered mine.

He leaned against me and I felt myself fall back onto the leather seat.

This is really going to happen, I thought to myself, as he lifted my leg and put it up there.

HOLLI

It was their first date. She could taste his smell on her lips, but she was strong. Good girls don't let boys win so quickly. Right?

He wanted to walk her to her door, what should she do? Let him in? Just give in?

She was helpless, but after offering him a drink, she said "Let's play a game of Twister, it is just like riding a bike." He smiled at her. His eyes wild and piercing, tight jeans, loose shirt.

Spin, Left Arm Blue, Spin, Right Foot Red, Spin, Spin, Spin, his smell intoxicated her. Spinning they fell to the ground.

Who is the winner now?

STEVEN

The battle raged on before me, the virtual limbs of my fleet stretching out between star systems. The VR suit carried my body's commands to the drones slaughtering the enemy. Color-coded representations of star systems swam before my eyes. The drones had an advanced AI, capable of immediate battle tactics. But they were not smart enough for strategy. They could not see the grand pic