Ficlets

Fish Sticks

His sheets wildly flew off of Steve’s bed as he magnificently jumped into the air and landed hard on his back, on the ground. Steve groaned. He had known that “noise” screwed with your dreams, (literally.)

“Ugh.” he muttered again. “Goddamn this world.” He stretched his muscular arms and sat back on the mattress, rubbing is face. What a world. He changed it to a question. What is the world? His mind worked like a computer on fire. Thinking hard, but it always crashed. All he could think of was fish sticks.

He looked up out the misty window of his bedroom. A Sky Bomber rushed by, probably 300 meters or so away. The explosion sounded his attention. Steve snapped back, as the explosion seemed to replay itself in his mind.

He rose, standing on 2 feet, with 2 arms hanging from his shoulders. His clock said 2:30 P.M., but who knew what time it was. Sleeping never helped him. So Steve did what he always did when he couldn’t sleep. He tried to escape.

Escape what? Steve couldn’t answer that.*

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