“Are we there yet?”
“No,” Mary snapped. Two of the kids started crying.
Ben ignored them.
Mary groaned. “Why do we even go for these drives? We don’t like it. The kids don’t like it. Nobody likes it.”
“Fine.” Ben turned the car around.
Beneath them, the road sighed sadly.
This story is based on a title suggested by @THatherty2.
It was a Thursday.
On Thursdays, Prysanthemum the Pug went to the baths from two to four o’clock. That made for prime adventuring time for his Doghouse, Dot. Glory, honour, excitement, fortune, and renown lay just over the horizon!
But first, Dot had to overcome one minor obstacle: voluntary movement.
“Ye gods!” exlaimed the Brundlefly.
“What is it!?” cried the Teleporter.
“It did it again!” shouted the Brundlefly. “The Teleporter just spoke to me!”
“Calm down,” said the Mutated Mannequin. “We all have the gift of speech in here, remember?”
“Will you stop making that infernal racket?!” demanded the Floorboards.
@Matt_LRR responded to my request for two nouns and a verb with the words “brundlefly”, “teleporter”, and “mutated”, which is actually two nouns and an adjective, but I decided to go with it anyways.
Popular opinion held that a plant would be the next entity to achieve sentience but, surprisingly, it was a plastic that broke the barrier.
Soon, a rapidly proliferating breed of newly emotional and very apologetic dishes and jugs swept the markets, resulting in a lot of crying over spilled milk.