#SwiftFicFriday W103 – Vote!

#SwiftFicFriday W103 – Vote!

Another prompt, another round of great stories to choose from. Check the stories out below and vote for your favorite!

No Rest for the Widget

At the age of thirty-three, Winston Walters had an epiphany. He didn’t use the word, epiphany. For Winston, it was more…a feeling that something needed to change. What exactly was uncertain.

Winston was familiar with uncertainty.

For the past ten years, he had held over a dozen jobs. After six to eight months, each job began to wear on Winston. It wasn’t that they were bad jobs, hard jobs. Or even uninteresting. It was more that they were repetitive. Each day of each job was the same as the day before and the day before that.

Walter actually enjoyed some of the repetitiveness. “I mean,” he was heard to say quite frequently. “it’s a good job. And doing the same things every day gives you…whaddayacallit, expertise. Right. Expertise. You know the job.”

Which was true. After six or eight months of doing anything, you were bound to have the requirements of the job workday, or night, down pat.

He would then add, “But, ya know, it’s that whaddayacallit, that whatchamacallit, that sense that you’re a machine. A widget-maker.”

“You mean,” his roommate and love interest, Clarice, said, “That widgetmacallit?”

Clarice liked to mess with Winston, not in a mean way but pretty consistently. She mostly loved Winston, but he was like a groundhog, always popping up from his job hole and looking for his shadow.

“Funny girl,” Winston said. “I mean it this time. Something’s got to change. I don’t know what it is but something.”
“Winnie, there is an old saying. Maybe you’ve heard it? Confusion may have coined it. There’s no rest for the widget-maker unless he changes his diaper.”

“That’s a new one on me,” said Winston. “I’ll have to think about it.”
Which he did for the rest of the day.

300 words by Bill Engleson (@billmelaterplea)

Kerri White was not a fan of creepy old houses. Despite living in one. She didn’t have any particular problem with monsters either but resented being responsible for her mother’s menagerie. What was the point of being the last of the White line, probably the most powerful person in the world, if she had to use all of that power protecting the rest of the world?

By the time she had reinforced all of her mother’s wards and appeased all her creatures, Kerri didn’t have enough power left to conjure a home anyone other than Mirro would visit. She barely had enough to enchant someone into liking her. Not that she would cross a line like that. Probably.

The teal-haired teen slammed the back door of her haunted mansion behind her and tromped out to where an ancient white dragon nearly the size of the house slumbered. Kerri stormed over to the dragon’s face and kicked him in the jaw as hard as she could without hurting herself. Old Burtrand, as usual, snored obliviously away.

“Some guardian you turned out to be,” Kerri groused.

Sighing, the sorceress produced her wand and levitated herself up to Burt’s broad forehead above his sharp brow ridge. Stretching out on the dozing dragon, Kerri folded her hands behind her head and watched the sky. The warm sun was soothing and soon her eyes drifted shut and her breathing deepened.

Size aside, Burt wasn’t much of a dragon. It seemed entirely possible he was literally older than dirt and hardly spent any time awake even in Kerri’s mother’s lifetime. But Kerri did feel safe sleeping on his head. Who would come anywhere near a dragon? Even a catatonic one.

“That looks comfortable,” Mirro’s voice sounded near Kerri’s head.

“It’s alright,” Kerri allowed.

297 words by David A Ludwig (@DavidALudwig)

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