The silvery disc-shaped ship landed exactly where a rational space-going race would land their ship: on the mall in Washington, DC. A slim, silvery robot emerged from the ship. Every satellite, probe, listening device, etc., available was immediately focused on this humanoid.
Within minutes, a huge, metallic-grey Warbot had plodded from the Pentagon to the Mall, where the robot was standing next to its ship. When the Warbot came within ten meters of the obviously alien creature, the silvery skin of the newcomer began to flash with a dazzling rainbow of colors.
“Nice colors,” the Warbot rumbled.
“Oh, this old system!”
–––––––––– “I write to express myself as a social being and as an individual.” – the writer
I would give the place five stars, despite its poor reputation. My chair was comfortable, everything sparkled with cleanliness, and the personnel was formal and attentive as if they expected the governor himself. Unfortunately, the governor didn’t even bother to call.
When a man in black came over to me, I sniffed as if I could already smell frying meat.
“Are you ready?” the man asked. I shook my head and tugged at the belts that strapped my hands. Cold sweat gushed into my eyes.
“No!” I screamed when another man reached for the large switch. He pulled it anyway.
–––––––––––––––––––– When P.C. was in kindergarten, he convinced his classmates that his grandma was a tribal shamaness. Then he learned his letters, and kidding his friends no longer seemed adequate—so he started to write.
I’ve been clearing up the house sweeping up the crumbs. It’s a monthly ritual. Am I mad? Or just dumb? I clear away the cobwebs sweep up the dust collect and bin the rubbish. Somebody must. They won’t wash themselves, mum used to say. The sink’s full of them so I put them away. Make the place spotless so it shines & it hums. & I better get a move on before the cleaner comes.
John L. Malone wrote this piece “… because you don’t come across many funny flash fiction poems :)”
When he gets up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night, she’d be there or on the way back to his room after pausing in the kitchen for a glass of milk, she’d be in the hallway. Time after time.
Passing ships in the night. He’d look at her, and she at him, sometimes a twitch of understanding, affection, then they’d both look away.
After eight years, off and on, they were still a mystery to each other. Her cat. Not his. They’d never bonded.
John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.
The blue Yaris pulled up at the traffic lights alongside his HiLux; the driver began picking his nose. Christ! did people still do that? Soon it would accrue a fine. You weren’t supposed to even touch your face. What would he do next? dig a finger into his ear, clear out some wax, have a good itch? scratch his balls? He was amazed at this guy’s brazenness, his folly. The things you see at traffic lights, he thought. Then he realized he was looking at his own reflection in the Yaris’s side window.
John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story
What was that guy thinking? Did I agree to this? I must have. What was I thinking? I should never have posed nude, for starters. That wasn’t necessary. And sitting in public view for all to see. You know what I look like? A guy sitting on a toilet seat, hunched over, muscled legs taut, trying to take a dump instead of having a good think. At least he could have put a cubicle around me. Even a bronze statue deserves some dignity.
John Malone is on a roll. His chapbook of poems has just come out.