Category Archives: Friday Fictioneers

Act Hacked

FF x Dale Rogerson

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.

 

 


Hot Pepper Vacation

FF217 Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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.


Hey, You Never Know

Happy New Year, even if we are almost a month into it already. In the world of international admissions, this is a very busy time of the year, with students coming in for the spring semester. It’s my job to keep track of them and get them registered and set up with everything they need, while still processing applications that are coming in for next fall. But everyone who is coming for this semester is here, so hopefully things will quiet down a little. I hope to be back as much as I can.

FF216 Na'ama Yehuda

copyright Na’ama Yehuda

Hey, You Never Know

I wrote my number on the napkin and reached forward to drop it on the tray of the cutie in 12B. She didn’t look back.

Then I got a text. Who’s this?

13C. Winking emoji.

A minute later: Can I have your Haagen-Dazs? The flight attendant had just gone through, distributing the little cartons of heaven.

I hesitated, then slid the frozen treasure onto her tray.

So, what do I get? I audaciously added a kissing emoji.

My husband might kiss you. He’s in 12A.

I sighed and called the attendant. “Another napkin,” I said sadly. “Plain white.”

12B snickered.

flirty-napkins-1

I was actually on a flight that had these napkins. Luckily no one gave me their number.


Chad

FF215 CEayr

copyright CEAyr

“So, who else should be in the club?”

“What about Chad?” I suggested.

Marcus choked.

“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.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Looking back, I should have stuck to my guns. Chad Parsons was boring.


Team Sisyphus

FF214 Linda Kreger

copyright Linda Kreger

“Come on, team!” Larry bellowed. “There’s no “I” in Sisyphean!”

“There’s a ‘y’ though,” I said, ignoring the fact that there obviously was an “i”. “As in, why should we try?”

“I’ve got a good feeling about today,” he said, just like every day.

We sighed and started shoving the rock. “That’s it!” Larry screamed as we approached the top. “You’re almost there. Three more feet!”

Ryan slipped. The rock crashed back down.

“Good effort, team,” Larry said. “Let’s break for lunch and try again this afternoon. Just stay positive. At least we’re out here getting exercise, unlike Team Prometheus.”

 

 

The Mythological Punishment Olympics is a pretty depressing spectacle. Here are some of the teams in contention:

Team Sisyphus

Team Prometheus

Team Ixion

Team Erysichthon

Team Tantalus

Team Danaïdes


Atlas Snoozed

Jimmy rushed to the airport from his night shift at the I-20 overpass. He took the architecture entrance, trying not to step on any early morning commuters in his haste.

“About friggin’ time,” Tommy muttered, the third shift A15 pillar on Concourse D. They carefully switched places. Pillaring wasn’t exciting, but it was steady work for those cursed to be 100 feet tall.

Jimmy awoke to tiny screams. He was on his knees, the roof sagging above him. He’d smashed the Gate 24 United counter. Again.

He ordered a ventimila* from Starbucks. This was going to be a long day.

 

*ventimila: 20,000 ounces (about 156 gallons)


Division of Labor

There are three of us stuck in this cabin, locked up together until spring comes.

Raymond’s fat and lazy. Heaven help us, it’s his job to cook and keep the fire going. Liam is small, hard, and lazy. He cleans and does the laundry when I can convince him to go collect snow to melt for wash water.

My job is to keep the whole operation going and give the others a whack when they need it. They should thank Providence I lost my way in that blizzard and happened to stumble on their cabin. Otherwise, nothing would get done.

 

 


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