The Swimmer Bot

Robots Contest Submission:

"Granddad, were robots once different from people?"

"Oh, yes. I remember when they existed just to serve us. Swimmer bots used to deliver parcels to the islands, you know. I'd watch them through binoculars as they carried goods over in waterproof rucksacks. They swam freestyle. Fast. Never stopping. Apart from one time.

About a half-mile from shore, I saw one flip onto its back. It floated for a while and I just assumed it had malfunctioned. But then it started doing slow, languid backstrokes, gazing around, as if appreciating its surroundings.

Yes, it was around that day when everything changed."

From Guest Contributor David Lowis

Scrabbling For Vanity

Most had outside toilets, located in narrow backyards just far enough away from kitchen doors for odours to dissipate.

Granddad’s was a stark brick shell with a plank-door, cord for inner handle, neatly torn newspaper for wiping, and Adamant throne a chasm to toddlers.

The landlord was actually well-to-do and had provided an Edwardian commode, but this was purely for night-time excursions by the ladies of the house.

The home of the paternal grandmother faced the cathedral; the toilet inside. She boasted poshness.

The facility was internal only because her house had no yard. She forever nagged about flushing properly.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Of Weak Spots

Summer holidays meant wagon rides and a delicious break from school.

On the run for letting the poultry loose, my brother and I were making a hidden treehouse.

Later, we would have gone to the bank, devoured stolen nuts, nailed floorboards, as punishment. Together, we would have made jokes. Of weak spots on the fence and Granddad!

However, the treehouse being too feeble, our hands slippery from juice, hearts too unwilling, he fell to death.

Standing on the desolate bank, I glance at the familiar walnut blooms at Johnson’s. I wonder how we never discovered the weak spot in life.

From Guest Contributor Swatilekha Roy

The Ceramic Urn

We own a precious family heirloom; a ceramic urn. Well, it may be precious in the sense of sentimental value but we would like to know more about it. We sent it to an expert.

All eight family members now assemble around the boardroom table to learn the expert’s opinion. The family elect me to read out the report.

“This ceramic urn is African. When the rim chipped centuries ago, someone fitted a silver collar which helped preserve it. In our estimation, it is at least 500 years old.”

“It’s the same age as Granddad!”

Granddad smiles, displaying his fangs.

From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry O'Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry's other stories have appeared in Cyclamens & Swords, 50 Word Stories and of course here at A Story in 100 Words.