Ficlets

Nothing worse than a phloore. Honest.

They smell bad, they utter bizarre gobbling noises from somewhere around their top nubbin of spinal and neural biomass. They are ALWAYS moving about, flapping and jigging, bending and unfolding their bodies with nauseating swiftness.

And here was one now. Flapping it’s orifice, emanating the most god-awful stink from the opening. What the hell was WRONG with these creatures?

I flipped the translator bubble to actually try and gain some sense from it’s gaseous belching and frubjulations:

“I’m telling you, monster, that I am prepared to have at thee! Go back to the dens of hell from whence you came, or I shall smite thee with mine sword!”

Frag, but they made little sense. I retracted my arm, letting the smooth, boneless muscle sheaths loosten about the phloore’s midsection. It fell to the ground in a heap of metallic exoskeleton and pointy bits.

I had no idea what to do next. The smell was just too awful.