Possibly late, again, for this merry band of warblers which we call the Friday Fictioneers hosted by the wonderful Rochelle the photo provided by Jean L Hays; nice touch. So once again I’ve been waylaid by the shysters at work, forcing me into concentration rather than the daydreaming I prefer. So lets go folks;
On my Marks…
The cube forced into a corner, having crossed the stones had damaged it’s foot; Cubes can’t gravel travel, they are the packaging world slugs, not salt but a Stanley knife they fear, always when it’s too late, their innards scattered across the floor; a polystyrene, bubblewrap bloodbath of weightless materials. Fit only for landfill.
Boxes will be reborn, gas inside the bubbles mixing with soil as they are thrown into the pit alongside squealing polystyrene. Perhaps find an air pocket and survive for a thousand years, maybe more. Future treasure hunters will be very disappointed in what they might find.
There we are 100 words, of I don’t know what, forgive me, I know not what I write about.