copyright Jan Wayne Fields
The booth clung to the edge of the fairground like a leech. The owner sat alone, swiping at a futuristic-looking tablet.
“Whadya got?” I asked.
He stood, flashing me a shark grin. “Novelties from lost places.” He proffered a small box. “From the Garden of Eden. Real apple wood.”
I rummaged through the items. “Lost places? Really?” I held up a hat marked CALIFORNIA.
He glanced at his watch. It had no time, just the year: 2020.
“How’d that get in there?” His shark grin widened as he shoved the hat behind him. “Now, how about a T-shirt from Atlantis?”
The door closes, coffin-like. The interior is stifling. I’ve trained years for this moment, braving broken bones and lost hair.
A muffled thump and I’m airborne. I’m tumbling freely until I can work the controls enough to level out.
Impact. I’m slammed mercilessly into the unforgiving sides.
Light streams in. Assistants help me outside to wild cheers. I survey the scorched field strewn with other fridges. I’ve gone two lengths further than the Chinese fridge.
My gold medal for the Fridge Nuke around my neck, I go explore the rest of the Hyperbolympics. Maybe I’ll check out the shark jumping.
In case you’re wondering about the inspiration:
Jumping the Shark
Nuking the Fridge
I am sitting in a hotel room in downtown Hanoi in Vietnam with rain misting outside. Since I didn’t have any meetings today and I happen to be 12 hours ahead of my usual timezone, I decided to write a Friday Fictioneers story right as the prompt was released. This is actually the third story I wrote before I could get one to 100 words. I’ll post the others later.
copyright Roger Bultot
By the time we arrived, the pulpy flesh spattering the walls had begun to harden. The stench of smashed strawberries and fear hung in the air with the flies.
The other berries were scared to talk until a lemon pointed us towards the watermelons. We got a warrant to roll them; my partner retched at the carnage we uncovered.
It was a gang hit. The Amesti family was making a move on the upper shelf and the bigger Allsweets struck back. Two of them were sentenced to suikawari. That’s just life—and death—in the jungle of the Farmer’s Market.
copyright Dale Rogerson
If you’re going to connect your robotic theater to the Internet, make the password more creative than shakespeare123. It took me ten minutes to hack it.
My mother told me not to cause trouble. She also told me to create art. You can see my dilemma.
It started small, like making Hamlet declare “To pee or not to pee,” then changing every instance of “cat” to “pig” in a certain musical. To be fair, Pigs was sold out for six months.
They caught me eventually, after I added a techno remix to Phantom. The good news I’m on salary now.
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
“I’ll have the ghost pepper pie,” I said.
The waitress’s expression was that of a cop approaching a rooftop jumper. The words Are you sure? crouched unsaid on her lips.
I glanced out at the bleak Alberta winterscape. The meteorologists were rejoicing at the mid-February heatwave as the mercury rocketed up to -20.
“I just need a little heat in my life,” I whispered.
Twenty minutes later, my mouth was ablaze and sweat poured off me like a monsoon. I closed my eyes and imagined Cancun.
The manager noticed. The next week, they were advertising Mexican vacations, $4.99 a slice.
“So, who else should be in the club?”
“What about Chad?” I suggested.
“Chad?” he shouted. “Chad Shermanburger? Investigated-by-the-FBI Chad? Started-a-forest-fire-testing-his-homemade-rocket-fuel Chad? Brought-a-baby-cougar-to-school Chad? Sold-his-own-version-of-the-Nobel-Prize-online-sparking-outcry Chad? You want Chad freaking Shermanburgar, who somehow sneaked aboard Air Force Two and met the vice president to join the Adventurers’ Club?”
I gulped. “Not at all. I meant Chad . . . Parsons.”
Looking back, I should have stuck to my guns. Chad Parsons was boring.