“Why is it so big?” “It’s a tribute to our robot overlords.” Dan adjusted the stainless steel colander on his head. A walkie talkie clipped to his buckle emitted a stream of white noise. “Well it is impressive in size.” Leslie marked the boxes along her checklist. “That’s what she said.” “Oh, oh please don’t.” “No, that is what she said.” Dan pointed to clouds dotting the horizon. For a split second Leslie could see a glint of something more than vapor in the sky. The white noise shrieked, spewed unintelligible words then fell silent. “They’re happy with my tribute.”
Word Count: 100 For Friday Fictioneers, to read more about the prompt and other stories click the link
Sometimes I forget to breathe. It’s not that I don’t want to. The air is just so heavy now. Like at the end of it all we only had sins left And they’re trying to smother the few of us that remain into non-existence. Of course I survived, heaven nor hell wanted me. I wouldn’t have pushed the button if I’d have known … I’m forgetting again. Today I saw it. Squat pale sandstone in the distance and figures bobbing in and out. The lab notes said they have a way to go back, If they’ll let me in.
Words blurred in and out of Delia’s focus. She slammed the book into her lap and glared towards the younger woman bound by ropes in the backseat.
“See, this is our problem. You never shut up.”
The woman blinked as the statement hit her but the gag prevented her from responding.
“Even now I can just hear you whining.”
The woman stared towards the slouching fabric above her despondently.
“I thought we were friends.” Delia mocked. “You know you can’t have friends in this business.”
The woman sighed.
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow I’ll pretend I never knew your name.”
Word Count: 100 For the always fascinating Friday Fictioneers, click the link and blue frog to read more. I realize this is a beach and not a pier that you drop bodies off but you know … artistic liberties.
You always said the kitchen was our gathering place.
“Over fine food families are saved.”
We’ve finally begun washing away the smoke gathered on your plates. Odds and ends scavenged from charred remains gather dust among piles of bills. There’s a bill for every emotion it seems but our payment for grief falls short.
In your absence we gather under your favorite tree. We try to laugh but they burn our lungs on the way out, so we stand and pretend. Maybe we believe you’ll turn the corner, picnic basket in hand. Maybe if we just squint a little harder …