whine bottle

The airplane collapsed, A gravity wave swelled through the reality-pinch bottleneck and folded it up like it was made of origami. It was an ingress trigger point, but they had no frequency markers, so who knew who had pushed back through the chronological string?

Husker pulled long on the bottle of vodka, surfed his ambulance chaser stations, and sent out wide range pings to sound out any anachronistic objects. Julio was inhaling a bottle of red and his compadre Hinky was swallowing some Zinfandel.

Two hours into the situation it escalated beyond anything they had ever seen before. A wave crested and dropped solid into a heavily populated area, and smashed the people there like they were bugs. Husker knew that their visitor was having an anchoring issues, and that the ricochet was part of the partial manifestation problem.

Hinky had a great ear, and Julio was a great shot. Husker got them in the right place at the right time, and they did the job. More people ended up in the line of fire than ever, and more casualties resulted than he would have thought possible.

He plugged all the data into his prediction crucible and he waited. They arrived an hour before the wave was due to hit. Husker watched. Hinky listened. Julio aimed. It appeared, preceded by a faint buzz. Hinky span and pointed north north east, Julio followed his direction and, whump, fired one of their special patented bullets right into the heart of the distortion, and bang, the time machine and the time travellers exploded. A balance was restored. That faint whine, from the aftermath of one of these events, it disappeared, when you lifted a bottle. Husker always got drunk after something like this.

Block

He sits there with a tiny block – his artistic spirit was sacrificed upon it. He needed a larger one for his integrity. Above his bed he had a picture of the sainted Gordon Comstock. The aspidistras were wilted.

He pissed on a toilet block. Piss on his writer’s block. He lifted a cinder block and hefted it over the edge of the building. Someone walking around the block looked up and had their block knocked off. Sitting in Cell Block W he would have plenty of time to write.

Marvin was a blockhead. Carin hated him – his bunkmate sat there and listened to Jenny from the block. His agent had put a block on his calls. But hey, he didn’t have the block anymore, and diminished responsibility meant he could block in a release date on his calendar; block in a release date for his book.

He looked at the illustration of some kids ABC blocks – that simple, eh? He smiled.