Category: science fiction


Crustbuk the Clown slammed his tumbler of Scotch onto the table.

“Bring me my rust wig,” he growled.

Ofcrust the Clownmaid obediently started to search through the giant walk-in closet full of well-used clown paraphernalia. As a High Clown of the Clownsortium, Crustbuk had a massive collection of the highest quality wigs, floppy shoes, and vividly colored plastic noses all heaped up along with the other required accouterments of a well-rounded clown in his expansive closet.

“What’s taking you so long?” Crustbuk barked.

Continued: https://geeks.media/the-clownmaid-s-tale

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A dimly lit Taco Bell.

LEN

Do you have any tacos for vegans?

CLERK

We don’t serve no space creatures.

LEN I’m from this planet.

CLERK Then don’t feed them alien overlords!

CURTAIN

 

 

“We should have a flashback,” said Jeff spreading

his hands, “of the time he stowed away, scared,

riding in a test capsule with no one,

trapped in  a long orbit he never made.”

At which Leslie puffed on her cigarette.

“Don’t make me laugh, you hack. That’s the oldest

cliché in the book. The dark childhood mess

come back to enmesh him in its tight grasp.”

Her straight brunette bangs jittered. “Rollo stares

space in the face, unafraid. A mighty

white-suited orbit warrior, darting

into the far reaches of the unknown.”

Milton rubbed at the ache in his forehead.

“We know Rollo’s tough, but we gotta glimpse

his tender side. Maybe a space babe, a

statuesque princess from Mars with some spunk.”

“You have to be kidding,” sneered dry Leslie.

“The last thing we need is a Mars vixen,

a small-brained twit to simper at space hunks.”

“Let’s just do a jelly monster,” urged Jeff,

“like the one in ‘Moon of the Unhallowed’.

we can all get behind slimy feelers.”

There were reluctant nods. The meeting stopped

at four with notes on grappling tentacles.

Langston grimly watched the sad-looking clowns go through their routines. The dire moon, with its grey valleys and thin ponds of aquamarine goo, had enough difficulties, the inhabitants eking out an existence from mined stones and subsisting on common dehydrated fruits and flat slabs of compressed meat simulations, without being reminded of the drearier side of life by downbeat performances.

Moon Clown:

Continued: The Clowns of the Moon

“Bet they got ‘em an awesome snack bar on that thing.” Prusella smacked her gum, her eyes on the aerodynamic FlashMychat capsule in the pink-and-cranberry Tour Launch Aerodome.

“That all you can think about?” groused Dexter. “Food? You got your dim brain fixated on food. This is space you’re going into. Why don’t you get your mind on bigger things?” Dexter scratched the bulging stomach-covering portion of his powder-blue polo shirt. “Like…dog nebulas…or some circumference of something.”

Continued… http://bit.ly/2oKSEWb

the angry alien 9

the angry alien 8

Gorman Fowley approached the check-in counter with a wry, minor smile.  Too much time had gone by since he’d flown out of Evil International Airport.

The over-rouged, middle-aged brunette at the counter narrowed her eyes, accented with mint green eye shadow.  She gave a quirk of recognition with her mouth.  “Fowley.  Haven’t flown you out in a while.”  Her voice was a croaky instrument, like that of a toad from a sparse woodland.

Fowley plopped his luggage, a large rectangular item in dried-blood red, onto the scale.  “I’ve been missing it, Runa.  Sitting in my apartment thinking of all those destinations.”  Fowley had an unruly head of brown hair that poked out in varied directions and wore a crumpled, thrift store suit in a shade somewhere between light brown and salmon.  His face was leathery, with the over-tanned tone of a man who spent many idle days on corrupt beaches.

“The Lost Isle of the Decapitated Children,” Runa said wistfully.

“The Canyon of Sacrificial Goats.”

“Bloated Crone Mountain,” continued Runa, glancing toward the huge graphic poster on the wall.

“Archfiend Archipelago,” countered Fowley.

Runa put an abrupt end to the dreamy recitation.  “What your final destination?”  Her fingernails, bathed in dark pomegranate polish, were poised to strike the dusty keyboard.

“Imp Town,” said Fowley triumphantly.

Continued: http://bit.ly/15U8PAt