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June 29, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 29

From Warren Zevon's album "The Wind"

There's a train leaving nightly called "When all is said and done."
Keep me in your heart for while

The theme for the day is the word train.

[Admin note: We send our condolences to 100 Words author Laurence on the loss of his beloved cat, Edloe. You can leave a note for Laurence here if you wish]

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Comments

The aliens imprisoned him for almost a year. He'd read the intelligence reports before he was captured. He knew that he would be held until one of their females became fertile, then he would be forced to mate with her. Then she would eat him.

What he didn't know is that the aliens thought that making him more comfortable would facilitate impregnation. He didn't expect that they would put him through a gruesome simulated wedding before the act. The details were so wrong he almost vomited. The "bride's" veil was weaved of human hair. Her train was made of bones.

Posted by: Doctor Bean at June 29, 2005 6:28 AM · Permalink

For the first year, his master set out to push him beyond his limits, physically and spiritually. He hauled buckets of water up and down the old steep staircase cut into the mountain and made him stand on one leg in the hot sun. In the evening, he sat motionless until bedtime.

The second year, his master taught him the secret fighting techniques of the order. He learned how to shatter rock and bone, how to hide in the shadows, and move with grace and speed.

The third year, his master taught him how to forget everything he had learned...

Posted by: Shawn at June 29, 2005 8:35 AM · Permalink

"Where the hell have you been?" Sean railed, as Casey limped across the yard. "How the hell am I supposed to train you to run this train if you can't get here on time?"

Casey hobbled over and replied, "I just had trouble getting up a head of steam this morning."

Sean pointed at his leg. "What happened there, Mr. Jones?"

"Well, my brother got married yesterday, and I got there a bit late, and ended up following the bride down the aisle," Casey began.

"And?"

"Well, I got so interested in watching her caboose, I tripped over her train."

Posted by: hnumpah at June 29, 2005 8:49 AM · Permalink

In the last month, Grandfather hadn't walked farther than from kitchen to bed. Yesterday, he asked me to walk him to the tracks.

Grandfather shoveled coal on the old Seven-Niner forty years. His father laid the tracks for promises and debt. The line ran through the backyard, behind a noise-reduction wood. The track was long abandoned,rails rusted and ties rotting.

He said "Train's coming," and damned if I didn't hear and feel the rumble. Then he collapsed. Officially it was a minor earthquake, but I can't believe that. See, it wasn't just rumbling I heard. I heard the whistle blow.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 29, 2005 9:44 AM · Permalink

"All I was doing was filming a train," said Andre.

"Why?" asked Detective Wilkins.

"I'm making a documentary on the city. I'm a student at the university." Andre looked around the dingy room. "I don't understand. Why do you keep asking the same questions?"

"Do you know who this man is?"

Andre looked. Wilkins was holding a photograph of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. "Yes," he said. Wilkins scribbled something on his pad. "How much longer am I going to be here?"

"Until we're satisfied."

"How long will that be?"

"In what city were you born?" This went on for three hours.

Posted by: G-Do at June 29, 2005 12:09 PM · Permalink

He just couldn't take it anymore. Since he lived so close to the train tracks, he had the train schedules memorized. He had just enough time to get to the tracks.

When he reached the tracks, he got out of the car and walked over to them. He sat down in the tracks facing the direction the train would be coming.

He didn't wait long. The train appeared around the bend. His raised the rifle and steadied his aim. The shot took the engineer's head off.

He rolled off the tracks just in time shouting, "Blow that horn now asshole!".

Posted by: Gahrie at June 29, 2005 2:41 PM · Permalink

With an air of practiced boredom, the receptionist peered over rhinestone-flecked reading glasses at the crowd assembled in the waiting room. “Number 73,” she whined.

Mikky stood and walked over to her desk. He wondered again how it had come to this. One day he was an international star and the next day he was completely broke and looking for work. “I’m number 73,” he told her.

The receptionist glanced up from her clipboard. “Full name?” she asked annoyingly.

“Mikhail Baryshnikov,” he proudly replied.

“Hmm. Sounds familiar. Is this your first try-out to be a back-up dancer on Soul Train?”

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 29, 2005 2:56 PM · Permalink

It was mid-November and freak blizzards had sealed off Fargo for over a month. The citizens desperately needed food and supplies.

Then a publicist had a brilliant idea. “God knows she can use some good PR,” he thought.

A thousand telephone calls to coordinate it all and three days later the convoy of locomotives was on its way. All of Fargo would have Thanksgiving dinner, thanks to the generosity of Miss Paris Hilton.

There were trainloads of turkeys, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, rolls and pies. Paris even went along for the publicity.

She rode on the exclusively designed gravy train.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 29, 2005 3:37 PM · Permalink

He awoke in a daze. "Where am I?", he thought. He looked around. It appeared he was riding in a train car. It was pitch dark, and he could see nothing outside the windows. He turned to ask his seatmate a question. He was sitting next to Jesse Jackson!

He didn't want to bother Rev. Jackson, so he got up and began to walk down the aisle. The next person he saw was Howard Dean. Next to him was Kofi Annan. In front of them was Michael Moore.

It was then he realized....he was riding on the train of fools.

Posted by: Gahrie at June 29, 2005 4:20 PM · Permalink

I've heard them all. Whenever there's a tunnel, some fool has to say something about feeling strangely excited. And then there's passengers who amuse themselves getting up and 'dancing' around yelling "Soul Traaaain!", or picking up the gravy boat and paradeing around. And yet the cooks keep serving turkey.

But this guy was even worse. He was calling the engine 'Thomas', and chanting "I think I can" every time we hit a two percent grade. So when we cross the border from Georgia, he says to me, he says "Pardon me, Boy..."

And that's when I shot him, your honor.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 29, 2005 5:07 PM · Permalink

They used to represent a singular desire, a wanderlust. Now, they just carry things. Boxcars full of high-performance shoes, aluminum tubing, vats of primer.

There was a time when people considered the trains a way out. Out from whatever depression hung upon them every time they woke up, wherever they were. Someplace new, someplace grand. Someplace different.

Nowadays, they’re just something that brings the things to us. They’re too slow to take us somewhere new, and there is no place quite new enough for us. We have six-lane highways and hybrid fuel cars.

But we don’t go anywhere, do we?

Posted by: Mr. Parx at June 29, 2005 6:52 PM · Permalink

“She expects to be fed four times per day.”

“Hmm.”

“There are four kinds of food. She really likes the beef and chicken varieties. You should alternate the flavors. Also, I bought a new one, turkey, that she lets me sneak in every few days or so.”

“Alright.”

“And she gets 16 of the fish treats per day. Count them, she knows when she’s not getting enough. She gets those in the morning.”

“Who has who trained here?”

Still, we think she’s about 18 and that’s a long time in kitty years. Whatever her highness wants is fine with me.

Posted by: david at June 29, 2005 9:58 PM · Permalink