With their beady eyes and sharpened beaks, the old men from Startaria looked eerily birdlike. They were experts in appearance manipulation. Plastic surgeons and anthropologists from around the world spent lifetimes trying to learn the Startarians’ secrets.
But when questioned, the old men just made cooing sounds in their throats.
“Hey, have I told you about the sci-fi book I’m writing? It’s set in the coolest solar system ever. The main characters live on a lava planet which is kept cool by the rays of an icy anti-sun.”
“…You can’t be serious.”
“And there are secret cloned laser cyborg aliens.”
This story is based on the title suggested by @Yax.
“Yo, man. I thought Randy carried this song. You got a great low-end range there, dog.
“But Paula, you were pretty pitchy, and Simon, honestly, work on your rhythm. You missed, like, half your cues!”
“Wow!” said Ryan Seacrest. “This is exactly why we’re doing American Idol: Judge the Judges!”
Mr. Mannequin was not a particularly outgoing person. He was more concerned with the latest fashions than with making social contact. He was content to let others pass by and stare (in jealousy of his fine wardrobe, probably).
On Wednesdays, he tidied his master’s secret laundry room genetic engineering laboratory.
“You fool of a henchman!” cried the criminal overlord, with a mighty sneeze. “I’m allergic to cats!”
“But he’s such an itty bitty pretty kitty, isn’t he? Such a cutesy snootsy bittle snookums…”
“You fool!” cried the criminal overlord, with a mighty cough. “I’m even more allergic to lovey-dovey gibberish!”
Her works were renowned throughout the world. She was a teenaged aardvark sculptor, the greatest that ever lived. She worked with stone, ice, and clay: every medium was her domain, subject to her whims.
She hid in anonymity, each masterpiece a portrait of self-loathing, of her wish for human form.
This story was based on a title suggested by @VikkieTheMimm.
“Now I know my ABCs,” crooned the little girl, “next time won’t you sing with me?”
“Awesome!” said Paula Abdul. “You’re going to Vegas!”
“But I wan’ go home!”
“No.”
“Isn’t this exciting, folks?” enthused Ryan Seacrest. “Little Kimmy’s going to be our next finalist on American Idol: Toddler Edition!”
Priscilla the porcupine kept a tidy house. She dusted regularly and opened the windows so she could smell the lavender in the garden.
Hers was an idyllic home.
On Tuesdays she flew a flag and shot at the tax man. The one thing Priscilla loved more than tidiness was freedom.
Normally I try to take prompts from different people, but when @MisterFiendZero gave me this prompt, along with the previous one, I knew I had to go with both.
Slithering, sliding, slipping… Rory the ravenous raccoon eased his way through the gap under the newly painted fence with a patience that belied his urgency.
There! He was through, and scampering into the safety of the woods.
They found Elvis dead that morning. The orange paw prints were never reported.
This story was based on a prompt from @MisterFiendZero.
“Ha!” scoffed Mr. Yugin. “My powers are at least three times greater than your own. Your most powerful attacks are as nothing to me!”
“Oh really? But you haven’t seen my most powerful attack yet!” said Guko with a grin.
“Whaaat!?!?” cried Mr. Yugin.
Guko raised his spirit-laser super sword.