The worst part of living isn’t dying; it’s that there are no redos.

Last summer my friend Elliot and I tried to climb into my bedroom window from the big oak outside.  I can still see Elliot trying to lift the pane when the branch snapped and he fell and broke his neck on the patio table.

The nights grew warm again and oak branches started scratching at my window, so Dad trimmed them.  I wish he hadn’t.  Because now I’m awake, still hearing something scratching at my window and knowing it’s not branches.  But like I said, no redos.

This story was written for the 100 Word Stories podcast’s Weekly Challenge #258.

“Tired of taking out the trash?”  Suggested the ad on Ed’s screen.  “Tired of picking up Jimmy from school? Dreading that family reunion?  Do It Later! With Do It Later brand Temporal Procrastination™ technology, you can literally enjoy tomorrow’s work today!”

Ed was sold.  He barely heard the verbal fine print; something about “responsibility” and “paradoxes.”

***

“Who are you?” Jimmy asked the decrepit old man behind the wheel as he climbed into his father’s sedan.

“I’m your father,” he said. “Get used to me looking like this at most family events.  I’m sorry, Jim, I procrastinated some important work.”

“I began by pressing flowers in books,” Jean-Francois told visitors to his gallery, “but like a fine dress, a flower is most beautiful in a living context.  Thus…”  He’d gesture toward his dozens of framed masterpieces, entire floral panoramas crushed into two dimensions with lush backdrops.  Pressed insects crawled on pressed stems; pressed frogs on pressed lily pads caught pressed flies with pressed tongues.  Jean-Francois had nearly perfected his technique.  Nearly.  Witnesses still recall the fateful summer he opened an exhibition of family portraits and the screams of onlookers as the air conditioners failed and the portraits began to bleed.

The studio buzzed and the old man tasted electricity in the air.  He turned from his canvas to see a woman in a suit step out of a portal hovering in midair.

“How—?”  He began.

“Do as I ask and I’ll tell you,” she smiled.  “You’d undoubtedly appreciate it.  Now, I lead Quality Control for the Louvre Museum in Paris where, in 400 years, your painting will draw millions of visitors annually.  After studying 250 alternate realities I’ve determined we’ll enjoy maximum traffic if you repaint your subject with a delicate smile—just enough to peak the curiosity of the viewer.”

This story was written for the 100 Word Stories podcast’s Weekly Challenge #253.

Tie-Bow the Clown rested his hand on the Hilarity Button.  Laughing, he pressed it and the conveyor belt behind the Plexiglas reversed direction.

Tie-Bow’s clowning routine, leading fake bow-tying workouts, had foundered with Billy Blanks’ popularity.  Now, though, his ingenious basement invention offered him an inexhaustible supply of fresh material.

One of the hobos chained to the conveyor amused Tie-Bow so he slapped the Hilarity Button.  The conveyor reversed, carrying the temporarily relieved man farther from the buzz-saw on his end.  The other hobo renewed his clowning with desperation, one laugh away from earning a few more moments of life.

Garrick gazed forlornly into his pint of ale.  Sensing movement, he looked up to see that a man had sat down next to him.  The man grinned fiercely and clutched a frothing mug of ale still sloshing from recent movement.

“Hellllloooo,” the man anounced, “YOU look like you could use a laugh!”

“I suppose,” replied Garrick.  “It’s terrible: I own a traveling zoo and this morning I found all my hyenas dead and dried up like prunes!”

“Oh,” said the man, grin fading.  “Uh, nevermind, then.”  Garrick didn’t see him slip a corked bottle labeled laughter back into his pocket.

Precision-engineering of humans revolutionized the world.  The problem was, everyone was too perfect.  Lifespans skyrocketed and too little genetic diversity stunted the species.  Nobody took chances on imperfect babies.  The solution came from Nickel Games, Inc., a manufacturer of antique entertainment devices.  Like old-fashioned intercourse, the innovation was simple, fun, facilitated by alcohol, and—most importantly—it produced random results.

“Look, it even takes old-timey metal coins!”  Kell slurred.

“Win me a cute one!”  Ayla said, sipping her margarita.

Kell fed the machine and the claw whirred to life.  Behind the glass, a dozen canisters lit up, waking the babies inside.

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Inside it was dark, hot, and damp.  The air smelled of blood and meat.

“I need your help,” the man said.

From deep inside, two eyes shone with a green light.  “The offering is made,” the eyes whispered.  “Plead with us.”

“The boy in the front row… he looks sick.”

“Slow and weak.  Ours soon,” then, Purr.

“Please, spare him.”

The eyes closed slowly.

“Very well.  We shall not hunt him.  But the hour draws nearer when our jaws close around your neck.”

“Thank you,” the man said.  He pulled his head out of the lion’s mouth.  The audience cheered.

The old enchantress arrived at the foot of the tower, enraged to see Rapunzel’s hair already hanging down through the window.

“There’d better not be a man up there!” the witch called.

Silence.

She tugged fiercely on the golden braid and to her surprise, it began to fall into a loose coil beside her feet.  She glanced upward to see the other end of the hair tumble over the windowsill.  And what was that small object tied to it?  Dark, with a gridded texture.  It landed beside her.

It seems to be made of metal, she had time to think.