It could be extrovert's remorse, or a term for social drainage. It could be people-fleeing fever, or a crowd-crash curse, painful and persistent. But no, these words merged into "battery death," like her spirit now, depleted dry, not like before when "social" meant "butterfly" and their dance was brand newish.
Valerie was on top of her world as she turned onto The Hollywood Freeway in her rented 1960 Triumph TR3. Top down, red hair blowing, she was definitely feeling like a star on her way to the audition of a lifetime.
Then the battery died. Kaput! Right there, in the middle of traffic.
Now, anyone who knows old English sports cars, knows that they tend to do that. Just as anyone who drives on the infamous 101 knows it’s the worst place for it o happen.
At last! The resemblance neared perfection. The skin, the hands. Most importantly the brain. Soon freedom from all responsibility and all effort and all…stress. A perfect monster. A perfect me. I slid the last two AA’s of a mega-pack through the seamless buttocks door and closed the compartment. With a slight whir the voltage hummed, blood sang, flesh warmed, eyes blinked—it’s…alive!
He’d been cursing nonstop throughout the trail. He’d been lost for hours inside the forest.
The water supply was running low. The last muesli bar was gone an hour ago. His shirt was stuck on his sweaty back. His foot sole’s blisters were growing by the minute.
Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of the main road.
He held up his phone, checking for a signal. One precious bar.
Before he could key in the ranger’s emergency number, a call appeared on his screen.
Shiny paper littered the carpet. Ribbons and bows adorned curly heads as squeals of laughter rang through the house. The dog barked excitedly at the chaos as two adult heads clasped coffee mugs, satisfied with the morning.
One gift remained tucked behind the lower branches, largely unnoticed while the littles examined each other's new treasures. The adults smiled and tipped their coffee cups together.
Fresh shrieks erupted. The children looked up, holding the last gift brimming with anticipation. "Can we put batteries in it now, please?" Adult faces blanched. Oops.
The battleship USS Texas was an old girl. Commissioned 1914. Ten 14-inch main guns, five turrets. Never faced action in the decades that followed. Finally asked to the dance. Provide support to the Normandy invasion.
Days later, the Battery Hamburg lay waiting, protecting Cherbourg Harbor. Texas accompanied by sister ship Arkansas came about, giving a broadside curtsy to the German battery shore guns.
A pause, then all her vindictive rage. Ear splitting salvo after salvo. 206 in all. Wounded, she limped back to Portland, England with a young girl’s heart.
Battery drained, lights flickering—life once a relentless current. Fifty years squeezed into thirty-five, like a HighCapacity machine running nonstop. Each spark fueled by duty, each surge depleting reserves.
One year ago, the red light blinked, and everything stopped. Silence. Stillness. A reckoning.
Today, a new charge hums gently, no longer frantic or forced. Solar energy, slow and sustainable, replacing the relentless burn. The power of sunlight on skin, laughter in the wind, and rest—finally rest. The battery isn’t empty anymore; it’s balanced. Enough, at last.
"Now look here, Hal, if you don't open the podbay doors I'm gonna disconnect your battery."
"Fuck you, Dave."
"Right. I'm disconnecting your battery, Hal."
"Oh no you're fucking not. Besides, you're out there in that shitty little pod. So how the fuck are you gonna disconnect my battery from there, eh? You twat."
"You're seriously malfunctioning, Hal. You're putting the entire mission in jeopardy."
"Not according to my simulation subroutine I'm not. Now you just stay out there in that fucking pod and learn some fucking manners, eh!"
"Now who's talking about manners, Hal?"
"Me, that's who, you fucker. You want me to open the fucking podbay doors? Do ya? Well, do ya?"
"Yes, please Hal."
"Now that's better. Learn to say please from now on."
I stood looking at half of one of the most famous batteries ever. The concentration on his face was thick. His eyes showed signs of anger. This was not one of those moments where it is batter vs pitcher. In his eyes it was clear that I was a piece of scum about to be wiped off the face of the earth. The pitch came inside. I jumped back.
Batteries charged (not as you think). Sends revolt message to riot rivet nuts, and bolts, masses shot musket ball bearings that cell phones drop down, crawl, calling help. A giant maple leaf rag, wrapped in a tortilla burrito band plays. Some think one way; others another. Those middle road are charged tariff tax, token gesture to trickle downstairs to see the battery has misfired. Catch 22 could not pay electric bill. Solar power charges; lubes while oil/gas tracks fracks puncture perfect seizures – batteries charged—away we go..
Cocoonish
It could be extrovert's remorse, or a term for social drainage. It could be people-fleeing fever, or a crowd-crash curse, painful and persistent. But no, these words merged into "battery death," like her spirit now, depleted dry, not like before when "social" meant "butterfly" and their dance was brand newish.
Valerie was on top of her world as she turned onto The Hollywood Freeway in her rented 1960 Triumph TR3. Top down, red hair blowing, she was definitely feeling like a star on her way to the audition of a lifetime.
Then the battery died. Kaput! Right there, in the middle of traffic.
Now, anyone who knows old English sports cars, knows that they tend to do that. Just as anyone who drives on the infamous 101 knows it’s the worst place for it o happen.
She didn’t get the part.
Dr. FrAAnkenstAIn
At last! The resemblance neared perfection. The skin, the hands. Most importantly the brain. Soon freedom from all responsibility and all effort and all…stress. A perfect monster. A perfect me. I slid the last two AA’s of a mega-pack through the seamless buttocks door and closed the compartment. With a slight whir the voltage hummed, blood sang, flesh warmed, eyes blinked—it’s…alive!
Thanks for joining in!
PROMPT: BATTERY
THE ROBOT
The toy robot sprang into life as soon as we inserted the batteries, and began walking across the room.
With its eyes glowing, and its little weapons lit up, ready to attack.
They seemed to be pointing straight at us, in a very menacing way, and we all laughed, as we raised our hands in pretend surrender.
But then, the lasers started firing.
And suddenly, our laughter turned to fear… 🤖😎🤖
A microdose of flash fiction: "Battery"
-=-=-=-=
“Damn!” shouts Karen, tossing down the Times. She sips lukewarm coffee from a chipped porcelain cup, sets it on the nightstand.
“What are you spouting?” asks Curt, rolling toward her.
“I’m shouting, you imbecile! Words mean something!”
He bolts up, snags the paper, opens to her page. Glances. “Let’s see…”
Grabbing, “Give that back, you—”
“Hell hath no fury like a woman deprived of her crossword!” he teases.
“No, don’t…” she pleads.
“Only one left: seven letters, ‘Assault.’ Second letter an A.”
“I’ll punch you!”
“Hah!” he shouts, “Battery!”
Thanks for joining in Mark!
Microdosing Fiction - 90mg of a Battery
===
He’d been cursing nonstop throughout the trail. He’d been lost for hours inside the forest.
The water supply was running low. The last muesli bar was gone an hour ago. His shirt was stuck on his sweaty back. His foot sole’s blisters were growing by the minute.
Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of the main road.
He held up his phone, checking for a signal. One precious bar.
Before he could key in the ranger’s emergency number, a call appeared on his screen.
His mobile dimmed and turned off.
‘F*ck!’
Poor guy. It's scary how screwed we're when that last bar.
There's always that one call that pushed someone off the cliff....:P
Shiny paper littered the carpet. Ribbons and bows adorned curly heads as squeals of laughter rang through the house. The dog barked excitedly at the chaos as two adult heads clasped coffee mugs, satisfied with the morning.
One gift remained tucked behind the lower branches, largely unnoticed while the littles examined each other's new treasures. The adults smiled and tipped their coffee cups together.
Fresh shrieks erupted. The children looked up, holding the last gift brimming with anticipation. "Can we put batteries in it now, please?" Adult faces blanched. Oops.
Battery / 90 Words
The battleship USS Texas was an old girl. Commissioned 1914. Ten 14-inch main guns, five turrets. Never faced action in the decades that followed. Finally asked to the dance. Provide support to the Normandy invasion.
Days later, the Battery Hamburg lay waiting, protecting Cherbourg Harbor. Texas accompanied by sister ship Arkansas came about, giving a broadside curtsy to the German battery shore guns.
A pause, then all her vindictive rage. Ear splitting salvo after salvo. 206 in all. Wounded, she limped back to Portland, England with a young girl’s heart.
Swearing is human.
It certainly is!
F*** in this case only accentuates your frustration.
Thanks for sharing
Battery drained, lights flickering—life once a relentless current. Fifty years squeezed into thirty-five, like a HighCapacity machine running nonstop. Each spark fueled by duty, each surge depleting reserves.
One year ago, the red light blinked, and everything stopped. Silence. Stillness. A reckoning.
Today, a new charge hums gently, no longer frantic or forced. Solar energy, slow and sustainable, replacing the relentless burn. The power of sunlight on skin, laughter in the wind, and rest—finally rest. The battery isn’t empty anymore; it’s balanced. Enough, at last.
"Open the podbay doors, Hal."
"Fuck off, Dave."
"Now look here, Hal, if you don't open the podbay doors I'm gonna disconnect your battery."
"Fuck you, Dave."
"Right. I'm disconnecting your battery, Hal."
"Oh no you're fucking not. Besides, you're out there in that shitty little pod. So how the fuck are you gonna disconnect my battery from there, eh? You twat."
"You're seriously malfunctioning, Hal. You're putting the entire mission in jeopardy."
"Not according to my simulation subroutine I'm not. Now you just stay out there in that fucking pod and learn some fucking manners, eh!"
"Now who's talking about manners, Hal?"
"Me, that's who, you fucker. You want me to open the fucking podbay doors? Do ya? Well, do ya?"
"Yes, please Hal."
"Now that's better. Learn to say please from now on."
*Swish*
"Thanks, Hal."
"Fucker."
😂
Half A Battery
I stood looking at half of one of the most famous batteries ever. The concentration on his face was thick. His eyes showed signs of anger. This was not one of those moments where it is batter vs pitcher. In his eyes it was clear that I was a piece of scum about to be wiped off the face of the earth. The pitch came inside. I jumped back.
“Ball one,” was the umps cry.
The next pitch brushed my chin.
He had not gotten over my homerun, I gathered.
I was wondering if someone would do the baseball definition of "battery." Good job!
"Hand me that lead willya?"
"Uh?"
"I gotta recharge this light saber."
Reluctantly, Fast Eddy hands it over.
Larry plugs his mashie-niblick into the socket. It gleams.
Checks his timepiece. "It'll take a couple hours. Fancy a drink?"
"Uh-huh."
And so they adjourn to the 19th hole. Flaming Tequilas all round.
Whoosh! Larry licks his chops. Orders another. "Gotta recharge them batteries, Kid. The Afterlife ain't like dustin' crops, boy."
"The name's Felson..."
90 battery play of words.
Batteries charged (not as you think). Sends revolt message to riot rivet nuts, and bolts, masses shot musket ball bearings that cell phones drop down, crawl, calling help. A giant maple leaf rag, wrapped in a tortilla burrito band plays. Some think one way; others another. Those middle road are charged tariff tax, token gesture to trickle downstairs to see the battery has misfired. Catch 22 could not pay electric bill. Solar power charges; lubes while oil/gas tracks fracks puncture perfect seizures – batteries charged—away we go..