We have joined the forces of illustration and flash fiction in the name of practice, creative expression, and sanity. Every week, we give ourselves five prompts to work off of. Elena writes a piece of flash fiction and Jen draws a picture based on each prompt. The fun part is that neither of us see the other person's work until we upload it simultaneously.
The world changed slowly at first, but by the end of it, most famous website founders were made royalty. The Facebook Prince, who had been given his very own island over which he ruled with a limp-wristed fist, was undoubtedly the most petulant of them all.
“Ugh, I can’t believe she has a new boyfriend already,” he complained one morning while scrolling through his ex’s timeline. “Whatever. It’s fine. I’m prettier. I’m the prince. She’ll be back.”
Becoming a zombie was both the best and worst thing to ever happen to Kevin. On the one hand, he was part of a new, exclusive underground movement of which few people were aware. He didn’t need to get a job, and he could devour anyone who disagreed with his reviews on Pitchfork. But on the other hand, his new vegan diet wasn’t exactly working out, and all the zombie girls he liked were more into dismemberment than the Decemberists.
The first and only time that Rita competed for the illustrious Miss Milky Way title, the crowd fell madly in love with her and she won by a landslide. Years later, an interviewer asked her for her secret.
Arnold was thrilled when they told him he got the job. He was so naive back then, so carefree. He was blissfully unaware of the true nature of meteorology: an ancient craft, fueled by dark and arcane forces that would eventually taint his mind and twist his body into the hideously malformed creature he now saw in the mirror before him.
Floating serenely in the cold, uncaring void of space, Kommander Kittyface waited. He had been at the rendezvous point for hours. He was beginning to suspect that perhaps the humans had decided not to keep their end of the bargain. If they had defaulted on the agreement…well, someone had to die, and the Kommander did not relish the thought. Delicately, so as not to puncture his space suit, he flexed his claws. He hoped he would not have to use them.