Thursday, 22 September 2011


“You... Bob.”

“Brian, sir.”

“Right, you’re on lever duty.”

“I thought I was on shark duty.”

“The sharks can look after themselves. Apparently. That’s why I need someone new on the lever. That someone is you, Bob.”


“Exactly. Now. You, Bob.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Wait...? Your name really is Bob?”

“No, sir, just wanted to make you feel better. Sir.”

“Your job is not to make me feel better. Your job... what is your job?”

“Calibrating the elephant trebuchet, sir.”

“Right, right, carry on. So... you, Bob.”

“Emily, sir.”

“Right, Bob, clean that big, red button there. Very, very carefully.”

Having reached a hundred followers on Twitter, I asked for prompts. @gingerkytten suggested 'Minions and their many uses (for profit and fun)'. I had to edit out the minion who was waxing the war turtles.

Wednesday, 21 September 2011


“YEW, triple word score. Surprised you left it open.”

“Well, I don’t feel good. What did I just drink?”

“Herbal tea. It’s good for you.”

“It tasted like arse. ZIG.”

“That’s how you know it’s good for you. ZIG isn’t a word.”

“It is, here, look. Awrr... Never give me that again.”

“I won’t. ZIG’s a stupid word.”

“Still a word. Nnn.”

“TAXINE. ‘X’ on triple letter.”

Mmp. I don’t, uhh, think that’s a word.”

“It certainly is. Here: noun, a poisonous alkaloid extracted from the leaves and seeds of the European yew. Apparently you brew it as a tea.”

Having reached a hundred followers on Twitter, I asked for prompts. @europeangirl was getting annoyed at Wordfeud (Scrabble) for allowing words like 'ZIG' and 'ZAG'. She wanted REVENGE...

Monday, 19 September 2011


A tiger stalked the empty corridors of Genesis station. His name was Flame and he had been a tiger for almost a century.

The underside of the station was transparent and from here he liked to watch the tranquil planet below with his own eyes. They had named the planet Gaia, the people who had transplanted his brain from his wasting body into this marvel of technology, this immortal, cybernetic tiger-form.

Later, he would network with the station’s sensors and search the deep seas for Sula in her dolphin-form. He might send her another message; this time she might reply.

(Originally titled 'Orbiting Body' (which obviously doesn't fit the one-word title remit here. ;) ) A friend requested, for her birthday: "drabbles. If I could beg one thing of you, it would be: robots and tigers and deep under the sea and unrequited love and faraway planets with lonely astronauts." And this is what happened...)

Sunday, 11 September 2011


Carl knew cults, cults were the job. Tied to this honeycombed altar, however, he was wondering if the Agency had maybe neglected to adequately brief him on this one.

The robed men chanted as their ‘Queen’ smeared some kind of sweet, viscous goo on Carl’s face.

The Queen opened her mouth wide, wider. Something moved inside, something that buzzed. Bees swarmed between her teeth in a ragged, angry cloud.

Carl clamped his mouth and eyes shut. He felt their horrible, furry bodies crawling through the syrup on his face. Then he felt them pushing into his ears and his nose.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)