The enormous mechanical arachnid watched on from the shadows. As he eyed the two large pods hanging from the ceiling, oily saliva dribbled from his fearsome jaws. Very soon the first cracks would appear in those silver shells and the tiny infant humans inside would emerge. He knew that their first instinct, after being enclosed for nine months in that shell, would be to eat. With their eyes still closed their sense of smell would attract them to his steely web smothered in the milk from a human female. He savoured the prospect of his first decent meal in days.
A 100-word story for this week’s prompt at Friday Fictioneers.
Photo courtesy of T © Victor and Sarah Potter
Do we really know what happens to our old technology? Will your old mobile ever die? This 100-word story came to me as I thought of the technological gap between the young and the old.
Gran had been a miserable old lady and, if Jimmy was honest, he was glad she was dead.
She’d lived at their house for the last year and had been on his back the whole time. If she wasn’t complaining about his music, she’d be criticising his choice of friends or the way he dressed.
When Mum had made him go the undertaker for one last look at Gran he’d slipped his old mobile into her coffin for a laugh. He knew how much she’d hated them.
Now, to his dismay, he got text messages from her every day.
Have you ever wondered at the phrases that we bandy about. I once heard someone talking about being ‘starved of love’. It inspired me to write this 100-word tale.
The judge said my wickedness was due to me being starved of love as a child. I wonder what he meant – ‘starved of love’?
The phrase conjured up strange images in my head. Children being force-fed dollops of specially prepared meals of love. Did this involve a plate of cuddles and kisses for breakfast, with cups of kind words of encouragement for a mid-morning snack? Or maybe a table laden with tender hand-holding for lunch and lots of smiles for tea?
As they take me down I have my doubts that love is on the menu in prison.
I stood behind the tree, hands in my pocket, collar pulled up high. Would I ever get used to these miserable Earth winters? I doubted it. I’d asked for my next assignment to be somewhere warmer but my request had gone unheeded.
I looked across at the white car where my next victim sat. James Peterson – a lowly civil servant who regularly took to his car at lunchtime to eat his chicken paste sandwiches and drink lukewarm coffee from a flask.
James was a loner. No friends. No family. The ideal host.
By midnight his body would be my new home.
Picture courtesy of Dale Rogerson
Another 100-word story for Friday Fictioners.