Satire

Internal Eyes
All students wrap around the opaque tan auditorium. All surfaces dull, without reflection. Each plastic seat contains a person. Every bald acorn face, identical in size and shape. Each set of eyes look up at the wall. Only the labels on the uniforms separate the students.
By Hiosta Van Dillis5 years ago in Fiction
Chloe the Sentient Cat
This tarred beach was pretty hot that day, endless, stretching towards infinity, masses of humanity trundling up and down her, north and south, forever and ever, with no apparent end in sight. Hotter still because the sun never set anymore, not really, and the reflection off the ocean was both blinding and burning, those twin senses of eternal annoyance.
By Laremy5 years ago in Fiction
Hell Hath Frozen Corners
Cold does not move from its place. is the absence of heat, only placated by a source of heat. Cold just is. Cold, and dark.
By Charles Blackmon5 years ago in Fiction
A New Civilisation for the easily offended
Governor O’Bobo, a short man with great jowls and an absurd moustache, was positively livid today. “Do not say an ‘insult is not a crime’.” The Governor mocked, using his entire body to mimic the air quotes. So mature. “That crone has caused me significant distress. She humiliated me and must be punished!”. With his splotchy red face and waving arms, the Governor terrified the other Assistant Policy Writers into lowering their heads to their chests and shrinking into the office walls. I had been working under the Governor for nine moon cycles now and this sight was becoming too familiar. Sadly, most of my days are spent losing a debate over the legitimacy of creating a law for every inconvenience.
By Erika 5 years ago in Fiction
THE INDIVIDUALS VS. JEFF BEZOS: STATE OF THE UNION
“I have the privilege & honor of presenting to you: The President of the United States. Jeff Bezos” A pre-recorded applause plays as the camera pans through a pseudo-congressional chamber revealing an audience of congressional vectors: brown machines with wheels for feet, human-like hands, a screen for a face and signature Amazon smile.
By Nicole Grant5 years ago in Fiction
The Third Horseman
Mr. and Mrs. Smith, each thirty years old, desired nothing else in life so much as a white picket fence. If you asked, either one of them would have identified such suburban iconography as their one goal in life, despite their years of expensive progressive higher education and learned affectation of post-modern ironic detachment from the nuclear familial idyll.
By EC Miller5 years ago in Fiction
A War of Likes and Follows
“Hey everybody, welcome to a special, live edition of the Mel and Mel Social Watch Podcast. I’m Melvil-” “- And I’m Melton-”
By John Quill5 years ago in Fiction
The Menders
When the gods summon, it’s best not to keep them waiting. But Jali was on the 8th dimension testing out new wave surfing techniques, and only Who knew where Raxis was off to. When they finally arrived at HQ, the gods known as Morpheus were impatient. They were lesser gods, not having fully achieved the One, nonetheless, they were a deity.
By Beth Imperial-Rogers5 years ago in Fiction
A Message for the King
“Again.” Daesr ordered the anti-gravity chamber operators. Rae was instantly launched into the air and while she swooped around within the chamber’s glass walls, Daesr ordered for the gravity to be returned. Nimbly, she somersaulted before landing right on her feet. She flipped her curly bob and grinned triumphantly. Meanwhile, Daesr looked unsatisfied.
By Jane Diokpo5 years ago in Fiction
Good Morning Memphis! 2056
“Good morning Memphis Tennessee! You’re watching Now News 13; I am your morning host Jean Splatt. It is now 5 am on Tuesday, May 3rd, 2056.
By Dylan Paul5 years ago in Fiction
Beautiful, For Spacious Skies
May 29, 2022 It’s been six months since the last time I wrote an entry in this journal. I realize it is the first entry since the Revolution.
By Lars Knutson5 years ago in Fiction
The Road Not Taken
“I didn’t kill your mother! You stupid bastard I wasn’t even there.” “You were going to interview her, your employer even said you left to do it.!” John Calson was bald and sweating. His head looked like a ball. Mike Smith the accused murderer and journalist for the West Crumpton Post felt sick looking at it. It looked like the inside of a melon, just less delicious.
By Sam Westcott 5 years ago in Fiction