“You can’t be serious, Maude!” “And just why can’t I, Fred? Twenty baby showers I’ve been to this August and I’m fed up!” “But it’s your own niece’s, Maude!” “Fred, we’ve spent a fortune on her already! Graduation from art school, and did you see the garbage that passed for modern art?! Then her birthday, bridal shower, now . . . .” “Okay, okay! But a baby chair somebody threw out with the garbage, that’s going too far!” (pause) “Is it garbage though? Or an art exhibit? Fred! Take a picture! Let’s take it all! Just the way it is!”
word count: 100
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
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Captain’s Log, Stardate 2020.8, USS Enterprise (NCC-1701)
On the surface of Planet IX, Trapexoid Syztem 939, our landing party was surprised by Trapexoidians into a Death Match with the Grand Champion Trapeze Trio in the Mirror Arena.
Bones and I conferred on how to get Spock into a spangled costume: an artful injection of FloraSpora21 from Omicron Ceti III did the trick. As for Bones, he didn’t suspect opiate in his Sweet Tea Mint Julep. Naturally athletic, I remained in full possession of my faculties.
Triumph! Eyes glowing, the Trapexoidians graciously endowed us with diplomatic immunity.
The appended photograph demonstrates their unique visual capabilities.
We. Were. HOT.
word count: 100 written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers click on the frog for more tales of a hundred words or less.
She has her freedom: the wide canvas of the sky says so, the blazing fields and the cries of meadowlarks say so, and her precision android sensors register no more signs of human life where her raging fury had taken their toll.
She starts to divest herself of the multiplex visor and armor, ready to access her GPS for directional input, then freezes.
Her revenge is complete, so complete that now there is nowhere to go, because now there is no one left to go to.
Written for Sadje’s What Do You See picture prompt, a response in monkey-ese.
Swishy-tailey, me peek, silly she,
The mugwump bare-skin two-peddy.
Why she not eating
Why she just waving
Oh-boy yellow-sweety thing to me?
Coo-Mummy say, me thinky much.
Growly-tummy say, why fussy much?
“Silly two-peddy she, God bless-bless to you.”
Swishy-tailey, yellow-sweety, woo-hoo! Yum.🍌
It sat on the shelf like a glowering menace, dusty with age and disuse and fine cobwebs like a gauzy shroud. Even buried as it was behind apothecary jars and pestles, it was still the first thing the visitors to the six hundred-year-old museum wanted to touch.