In the absence of anything approaching moral fortitude Ursula Boxing arrived at her vocation.
Want someone putting in a box?
Call Ursula Boxing.
Her slow-witted, affable husband Jim manned the phone. As far as he was aware they ran a haulage company (though strangely he’d never seen any trucks).
‘My darling,’ he announced, ‘you’ve a job at a boxing gym! Isn’t that precious!’
‘Yes dear,’ she sighed, sizing him up for future packaging.
The decoded message was clear. Woman. 52. One between the eyes – no fuss.
The place was boarded up. As she entered the door slammed shut behind her and she heard rivets being driven into concrete.
Ursula Boxing was now Ursula Boxed.
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
The way I understand it: The creatures get onto vessels so that they can view me in my natural habitat. They have some reverence for yours truly, no small amount of fear and (might I be so bold), a little awe.
Theirs is a strange existence. They cover their bodies in fabric, move about on a two dimensional plain and have seemingly restricted themselves to the smallest bit of the planet.
Not particularly tasty.
Far inferior to the blubbery, bewhiskered rodents that serve themselves up for lunch on a daily basis, but then in ever food-chain there are apex predators and there are light snacks…
Written for: Friday fictioneers
Knowing that time was short he traded his vast estate for a lump of Orwellium, the rarest metal on earth, so that when his blood-sucking offspring discovered the treasure map they’d discard the seemingly worthless stone that held it in place and set off on a costly and ultimately fruitless quest…
Written for: Twittering Tales