‘Push the Frankfurt meeting to 14:00. My flight’s delayed,’ she emailed the office.
She glanced at the motley crew of co-passengers.
He gave her a slow smile.
Moors, horses, castles
A bloody war
She smiled back.
Her soul consumed with rage and vengeance.
a continuous sequence in which adjacent elements are not perceptibly different from each other, but the extremes are quite distinct.
Arthur approached the ornate gate, lugging the big black bag.
‘Patience,’ he muttered.
The guard signed the papers.
Wilma poured champagne into tall glasses, ‘Congratulations Arthur darling!’
The guests clapped and cheered.
The wormhole opened once every hundred years.
To receive souls that needed redemption.
Souls of people that are not dead yet.
And Arthur always met his quota.
Singularity /sɪŋɡjʊˈlarɪti/ noun
a hypothetical moment in time when artificial intelligence and other technologies have become so advanced that humanity undergoes a dramatic and irreversible change.
‘Norman’s here,’ she heard Nora’s calm voice behind her.
‘Famous author. My husband,’ thought Lisa with some affection.
The couple graciously obliged the frenzied photographers.
Lisa smiled as he sat next to her, watching the distant Kowloon skyline.
‘Hmm. I gotta check on that pasta,’ muttered Nora, adjusting the shoulder-strap so Norman could be comfortable.
Having two heads and one body was complicated.
The beach lights were colorful twinkling specks down below, she could no longer hear the music.
She blinked, trying to see his face behind the wispy night clouds.
Blue eyes. Curly mop of brown hair.
‘Hmm, so Mr. Moon is a tall handsome romance-novel hunk! Wait till the girls find out!’
She floated free as she weightlessly exited the Earth’s atmosphere.
The old man whistled a cheerful tune as he gathered up tiny purple balloon bits strewn across the sand. He looked up at the clear morning sky, shielding his eyes against the sun.
Picture Courtesy: https://www.flickr.com/photos/137789813@N06/22951791215
Friday Fictioneers sponsored by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields at Addicted to Purple
28th August, 2015
Photo Prompt – ©Claire Fuller
They led her to the Chamber. Head shaved, hands and feet bound in chains, eyes blank.
The Councillor read aloud.
Your soul dies. A little.
And then some.
Your soul is fully dead
Mutant# 4789. Is no more.
The crowd watched in silence as he administered the injection.
She remembered sandy beaches, seashells. Mangoes in summer. Mom’s gentle hand on her feverish forehead. Her best friend’s reassuring smiles.
Before the nightmares.
Before he turned everything good, nice into dirty, ugly.
She simply stopped breathing.
Her eyes didn’t flicker.
Word Count: 100
His Mother always told him, “Son, you are special. Believe it.”
In a world that worshipped perfect bodies, he fought battles everyday.
Against social ridicule, isolation, depression.
He bowed as the curtain fell to deafening applause.
He had won.
Grammar Ghoul Press – Shapeshifting 13 Challenge #3
Word Limit: 39
Some Bosses are fickle
It’s like too much salt in your pickle
Others are bullies
It’s like hot summers and turtle-neck woollies
Some Peers are vultures
It’s like stale yoghurt with cultures
Others crave your shiny shoes
It’s like sipping cocktails with cheap brews
Some Enablers are befuddled Ablers
It’s like pins missing from staplers
Others are cud-chewing cattle
It’s like a gum-stuck-to-shoe battle
Thus Regular Guileless Employees
Who dream of exotic vacations in Hawaii
Transform into Alien Mutants
That yearn for nothing but intoxicating coolants