First, it was guinea pigs. Then white rats. Next, a gigantic rabbit appeared. Wild monkeys clung to their cage bars.
“Honey,” she said carefully, “don’t you think we have enough pets?”
“They’re not pets,” he assured her, “I’m testing my new vaccine. Against my new virus. It took a while to perfect both—now all I need is a human test subject.”
She could get no more words out before the hypodermic needle jabbed her. Then a strange puff of vapor breezed across her face.
“I’ll be back to check on you later. Let me know if you’re…not feeling well.”
Author’s Note: I think most mad scientists working today probably feel at least some temptation to practice on their families first. Cuts cost. More efficient.
“Claire, I’m afraid you’re being pre-victed.”
“How? I still have four months left!”
“Your housing with us is contingent on painting. You haven’t produced since your interview.”
“I’ve told you! I’ve just got canvas block! It’ll clear up in no time—promise!”
“Not so much as a still life, Claire. Not even a celebrity collage.”
“But I want to make something meaningful.”
“Before you make something meaningful, Claire—you have to actually make something.”
“No. No buts. You have to leave. The Patron Project was not designed for artists who aren’t going to art.”
Author’s Note: I often dream of a magical world where art is government funded. And so long as artists actually art, they’re granted food and shelter.
The drone, a holdover from another time, decades past, zipped through the falling debris. Unlike humans, drones and robots didn’t move slower with age, one of their many advantages. Another was their remote memory backups; drones did not forget. Humans had forgotten the war, but for the drone, it was as real as the dust in the air.
Broken buildings meant enemy attack; it was time to engage.
The drone’s cameras created a panorama, marking targets. First to go would be the mech with the large black ball swinging from it, the one that had attacked the building. WAR-02 aimed.
Editor’s note: This is the second in a series of four (obviously) – see the drabble First Horseman for Erin’s Author’s Note.
Ella called for the pumpkin-shaped carriage to change direction. After two nights of complimenting the vain monkey of a prince, she knew there was no way she wanted to feed bananas to his ever-hungry ego for the rest of her life.
And going back to washing floors for her stepmother? Hah!
“Where are we going, miss?” the driver asked.
“The night market. And hurry!”
She would sell the horses, the carriage, the ball gown and those ridiculously useless glass slippers. With the profit, she could get on the night ferry out of the city before her fairy godmother found out.
Author’s Note: When it comes to getting out of a bad situation, sometimes anything goes…