A short bit of absurdity for Sue Vincent’s #WritePhoto writing challenge.
This was a tough one, Sue. I didn’t think I was going to come up with anything. Then I wrote a horror story about it, and thought, samey. This is what came to me this morning after a night of very weird dreams.
The blast on the TV came a split second after the explosion outside. Irene paused in her knitting and peeked through the window.
“Yup, they got it,” she said to the cat who nodded wisely and went back to chasing George’s golf balls under the sideboard. “Pretty as a sunset,” she murmured in admiration and went back to her knitting.
In the sky, what had been the alien spacecraft was now a throbbing, cloud-bubbling mass of pink and gold that stretched from one side of the horizon to the other. It dripped like thick, melted marshmallow with a Christmassy, fairy tale glitter into the fields, and ran in rivers past the silent houses. Streetlights bent and melted in the heat and the trees, leaf-stripped by the blast, stood stark and surprised in their sudden nudity.
“They won’t try that on again in a hurry,” Irene said to the cat who was swallowing the last of George’s golf balls. “Now, who might this be?” she wondered, flicking off the TV that was making strange noises, before leaning over to peer under the table. The cat flap was flapping back and forth, and with each forth a pink and golden blob popped through and bobbed across the Turkey carpet.
“Refugees!” she exclaimed, her face alight with happiness. “I have the very thing for you.”
On the table was a pile of bonnets in a variety of shades of red she had knitted for the Women’s Institute. The colours clashed somewhat but she placed a bonnet on each blob as it bubbled past. Years later, when the blobs of dispersed space craft were elder statesmen, they had a monument erected to Irene the Knitter, Saviour of Civilisation. The cat, sadly, did not live to see it, having died shortly after the rescue of the blobs from golf ball poisoning.