Oval-Lords…

Our benevolent alien overlords later marvelled at how easily they had conquered the planet. All it had taken was an absurd little art installation – the perfect cover for their illuminous eggy bodies. How they’d laughed at being mistaken for a conceptual comment on gender equality.

‘Blue for a boy, pink for a girl,’ Glarf howled with glee, its abdomen turning the optimum shade of magenta.

‘Stand back,’ it warned its fellow conquerors. A violent shivering expungement of lust cause the surrounding water to bubble and fizz. The overlord’s abdomen was blue once more.

With its libido in check Glarf got back to the business of running the place and eating people.

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

You’re always one decision away from an entirely different life…

Hey…

I know I’m supposed to communicate via a lawyer, but I was ringing to say that you can keep the house…

No, it’s not a trick – take it, but there’ll be no more alimony payments…

You’ve already got all our savings…

No, I quit yesterday…

because I was only doing it to fund your lavish lifestyle…

So, have me declared bankrupt…

What do you want me to say – There’s no more money!

Here’s an idea – How bout you get a job?

They’re clearly not my kids and they both hate me…

OK, well good luck with that. I’m gonna throw this phone in the sea and go fishing…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

And Who’s Gonna Pay For It?

In the unlikely event that they manage to scale the sheer rock face, we’ve provided an added deterrent in the form of an electric fence. At this point even the most ardent aristocrat will thing twice about their dreams of a ‘Mexican Utopia,’ turn tail and rejoin their outlaw band of hedge fund managers and rapists.
It may seem a little Draconian, but think of the children, think of your watered down tequilas, your drooping moustaches (and even droopier sombreros). It’s a vision too terrible to contemplate. Mi nombre es Don Trumpino and I approve this message…

 

97 Words.

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

The Burp…

It was an ingeniously simple design for which the Intergalactic Utilities Company held a universal patent. From planet to planet their lightweight water-proof canopy, known colloquially as The Burp, provided a plethora of life saving functions.

On Smorg, a world blighted by adverse gravity The Burp served as essential ballast in preventing its occupants from floating away.

On the perpetually damp world of Frond, The Burp protected its highly absorbent inhabitants from swelling up and exploding.

But by far an away its most lorded use was on the notorious bland planet of Beige where colourful Burps played an integral part in spicing up their mating rituals.

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

Hidden In Plain Sight…

Dearest Richard,

If you find this letter, then perhaps there is a chance for us after all.

Do you remember when and where I bought the clock? A bric-a-brac impulse in happier times.

Each hour the little man emerges from his arched door and chimes the hour amidst a tinny fanfare. I imagine he was important once, but like so many things, time marginalised him into an anonymous oddity. In that respect he and I are very much alike. I have placed this missive in his arms. Every sixty minutes he will offer you a way back, if you have the eyes to see and the heart to remember…and if not…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

Admin…

As an immortal it was necessary to fake one’s own death once in a while. It wouldn’t do to live suspiciously long or be the last man at the party. As such his latest manifestation, Raymond Brinegeld, sleazy lawyer and hopeless gambler, had to go.

He left ample clues as to the cause of his demise – bank statements denoting desperation and a pyramid of addiction. The dog bowl filled with vodka was a nice touch.

Far away in a fortress filled with priceless antiquities dating back to the dawn of time he selected a new identity and strode forth, unblemished once more, into the world.

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

North…

First light won’t you break?

Upon that crest and upon it’s wake

So that I might live to take

One last look at you.

Oh my love I’ve lost my way

Rudderless in the unknown depths

Bear me north and guide me on – home

Stars in the depths of space

Blue as far as the mind can face

Bear me not in your cold embrace.

Let me glimpse the dawn

All the love I had to give

All bound up in the murky mists of time

And when tomorrow comes I’ll be gone.

My heart sets its sights on you…

 

(101 words)

I’ve used creative license this week. The above lyrics are from a song I wrote called ‘North.’ If you’re so inclined to have a listen, here it is:

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

Probing Questions…

‘Excuse me. Would you mind taking part in a survey?’

‘Sure.’

‘Really? Great! OK, question 1. Are you currently A: In a medically induced coma, or B: In a fiction surrounded by paid actors?’

‘How about C: Doing the weekly shop with my wife?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not an option Michael.’

‘How do you know my name’s Michael?’

‘I didn’t say Michael. You said Michael.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘Then walk away Michael.’

‘I will.’

‘Sir?’

‘I can’t move!’

‘Why do you think that is? Is it A: You are in a medically induced coma, or B: Aliens have inser…’

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneer

The answer was inside you all along…

‘Don’t you think I’m a little old for quests?’

‘Not if you want to win my heart,’ the fair maiden cooed.

‘But why does the treasure map have so many exes?’

‘Am I not worth the effort?’

‘Of course.’

When he started the endeavour he was as fat as a house, but several weeks of digging later he was svelte, bronzed and, from a certain angle, ruggedly handsome.

‘That’s more like it,’ announced a delighted maiden.

‘But I never found the treasure!’

‘Oh there never was any treasure. I just wanted to make you a little more presentable.’

He sighed. Perhaps she wasn’t the one after all.

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

Giving Notice…

It was an open secret that the top twenty floors could be jettisoned in the event of an emergency – a fire or a raid by the IRS. No one believed it of course. The story was merely the legend-spinning of an overly flamboyant landlady. Little did they realise that they were slowly being conditioned and coerced with subtle advertising and targeted marketing – the best rates and exclusive deals – till finally she had all the rotten eggs in one place – the fraudsters and embezzlers, pariahs and parasites, and that’s when the building became a Christmas tree of lights and the rockets burst into life. Whether they liked it or not her tenants were being evicted from Earth…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers