The deal breaker for Jessica was when her date emerged from the men’s room too soon to have washed up. During the escorted walk home later, she still hadn’t decided whether a farewell kiss was less dreadful than a handshake when her allergies sympathetically recommended a sneeze into both hands.
“The crown is coming along nicely,” Hilda enthused. “Keep going, Emily. It’s almost out!”
Emily strained and grunted, concluding her achievement with a howl of anguished relief.
“A small miracle!” Hilda exclaimed. “You got out all the tarnish. Now, take a break and then you can tackle Her Majesty’s scepter.”
Mrs. Glenn raised the swollen finger choked blue by her wedding ring.
“I’ve been meaning to have it resized,” she said, grimacing in agony.
Alarmed, Dr. Cliff grabbed disinfectant, anesthetic and a scalpel.
“I can still save the finger,” he said, “but only if you release that bag of chips.”
Tristan cursed when the replacement battery for his TV remote rolled under the couch. When he reached blindly amongst the crumbs and dust bunnies, he momentarily surprised a cockroach. The battery rolled free as he snatched back his hand, but he’d already lost interest in the horror movie he’d rented.
“We park at the overlook…”
“She’s wary, so I compliment her perfume.”
“'It’s lavender shampoo,’ she says. ‘Intoxicating’ I say, and lean close."
“So, you finally kissed!”
“Wait for it! ‘The windows are fogging’ she says, so, I roll one down. In …flies…a…bee!”
“I run home.”
Intending to live-stream her suicidal plummet from the skyscraper observation deck, Nancy ascended the barricade with one hand on her camera phone. Despite being fat and ungraceful, she reached the top; and despite being unworthy of notice, drew every gaze. Encouraged by these achievements, she took a commemorative selfie instead.
Enroute to the bathroom, Dean found himself suddenly staggering to his left, as though aboard a listing ship. Was he having a stroke? Determined to check his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he was startled to encounter a stranger with a questioning look on their face. Avocado? He inquired, impatiently.
Beside the hole lay an object wrapped in a blue tarp and bound with rope. Realizing it might be a grave, I must have gasped because the digger looked up and our eyes met. My heart pounded. “It’s not what it looks like!” he shouted. Relieved, we both started laughing.
Calibration drift in the starship’s engines meant constant intervention would be required to maintain light speed. This meant either exposing a skeleton crew to lethal radiation, risking mutations by frequently interrupted cryo-sleep, or downgrading to a sub-light engine and surviving as pirates. Captain Fox shook his fist and cursed, “Arrgh!”
“Put away the comic book, Connor,” said Mrs. Kennedy, pointing. “Can you tell me the difference is between a superhero and an ordinary citizen?”
Panicked, Connor looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall a likely platitude.
Mrs. Kennedy ignored the other raised hands.
“That’s right. Superpowers,” she said, telepathically.
Three prisoners walked into a bar.
The bar formed the top frame of their cell doorway and every new prisoner had to learn the hard way to duck when entering and exiting. The guards thought it was funny. So, when this trio finally escaped, they took the bar with them.
“Riding the Milky Way “bus”, Earthlings travel the universe at 1.3 million mph—too slow to ever reach another star. Fortunately, the universe itself spins (a fact more obvious from the outside), and to cross it, one need only briefly disembark. So, pack light,” she said. “It’s dark out there.”
Darla unbuckled her seatbelt, sidled into the aisle and then headed for the economy class lavatory. Another passenger, awoken by the click of her buckle, threw off her blanket and scrambled cruelly into her path. A third passenger then cut off the interloper, who groaned.
“Karma!” Darla thought without thinking.