Susie said Grandma’s crystal bowl was a chamber pot.
I used it.
Dad jumped to catch her.
He dropped his cigar on the rug.
A neighbor heard the scream.
He called the police.
The rug caught fire.
Mom grabbed the crystal bowl to extinguish it.
Then had second thoughts.
The police came.
They smelled smoke and called the fire department.
A news helicopter saw the commotion.
People mobbed the house.
Someone stole the bowl.
I tackled him.
The bowl survived.
I cleaned it.
Grandma forgave me.
That night, headlines screamed:
WHIZ KID SAVES THE DAY!
Teddy Bear Brawl
Teddy bears’ picnic, my ass.
Those pretentious little Paddingtons thought they could leave us out, just because they sit on the bed and we live in the closet.
Baby-doll saw them sneaking out the window. We found them under a tree in the backyard.
“Let us join,” Baby-doll whined.
Somebody, probably I-Couldn’t-Give-A-Care Bear, sneers, “Back off vinyls. Plushies only.”
That’s when the Pooh hit the fan.
I beat the stuffing out of a few, and soon we were all muddy and ripped.
At least we cleaned up with some Windex. Those bloody bears got a trip to the washing machine.
I’m extremely late in posting this story, but better late than never. I actually wrote it last week, but I was in Seattle for a conference and didn’t get a chance to post it.
copyright J Hardy Carroll
“You’re a werewolf?” she asks.
“A wereman, actually.”
“So every month you turn into a . . . man?”
“A different kind of man. An accountant actually.” I blush. “Just a frenzy of budgets and data sheets.”
She looks pensive. “That’s cool. You could do contract work, do a month’s work in three days and rent an office on a per-day basis to save money.”
“Okay.” This is getting serious for a first date. “What about you? Your profile said you’re a succubus, right?”
Now she blushes. “Not exactly. I just exploit men’s useful abilities.”
“Oh. So you’re . . .”
She nods. “I’m a practibus.”
I’m back again. Don’t worry, I haven’t died or given up writing. On the contrary, I’ve been hard at work on several novels I’ve been writing since last fall. They’re almost done, and I’m hoping to get back to writing for the blog more regularly.
Pay to Play Pedagogy
Exams at BDV For-Profit High School were about to begin. Jamie donned his VR goggles. The scene changed to a snowy forest.
A Viking charged him, ax raised, shouting “Imperative!”
“Die!” Jamie screamed and stabbed it.
Another ran from his right. “Future!”
“I will destroy you!” The Viking died like the first.
An arrow whistled from the darkness. As he died, Jamie saw the words Past Perfect written on the shaft. He had had problems with that before.
Please pay $5.00 or get an F. Jamie hit pay. He only had $30 for the exam. He needed to do better.
The Forbidden Door
I made my way through the inky blackness, walking ninja-like towards the door. A thick chain barred my way. Just like the queen to take such extreme measures to protect her riches. But I knew that she kept the key under her pillow, and I had stolen it.
I unlocked the chain and lowered it silently to the floor. As I drew open the door, a hallowed light burst from the chamber within, revealing the treasure I so desperately sought.
The light snapped on. “Harold, are you getting into the Thanksgiving pies?”
I wiped meringue off my lips. “No, dear.”
Well, I’m not dead, in case any of you were wondering. It wouldn’t be totally implausible, since I dropped off the face of the blogging world for about 3.5 months. Partially, I needed a break, and I have been hard at work on a few large writing projects. Also, I felt bad about posting Friday Fictioneers stories when I didn’t have time to read anyone else’s.
I don’t know if I can come back at full strength, but I will try to post more regularly, if anyone is still around to read my stories.
copyright Bjorn Rudberg
Amateur Night at the Cantina
I shuffled onto the cantina’s stage, clutching my plasma cello with sweaty hands. Hundreds of eyes stared out at me from the gloomy bar, whole constellations of varying colors, shapes and sizes.
I started with some Beethoven, but I quickly felt an undertone of discontent grow in the air. I switched to some Trebellium orchestral music. It was so soaring and grand, it could make your heart weep, but the anger only grew.
“Play the song!” someone finally shouted.
That song. I hated it, but I had no choice if I wanted to escape alive.
I began to play.
(The idea for this story came from a scene from Family Guy’s Blue Harvest, where they joke that in the Mos Eisley cantina, they only play one song.)
copyright Janet Webb
The Old Man and the Seafood
Shoppers meandered around the store in hip waders, shopping carts half submerged.
“How did you come up with this idea?” the reporter asked.
Jeff grinned. “I thought it was about time someone applied the self-pick produce model to seafood. With seafood, freshness is everything. Here, everything is alive up until you buy it. No expiration dates needed.”
An old man shuffled up in oversized boots. “Excuse me, I just need a can of tuna.”
“No cans here, I’m afraid,” Jeff said, throwing the reporter another grin. “Everything’s fresh.” He handed the man a spear gun. “Bluefins are in aisle 30.”