Pocket Dimension
"How about a game of chess?" Morty asked.
Liz looked around the tight blue fabric world. Light filtered in enough to remind her of a summer evening. She lounged at the base of the pocket that cradled her like a hammock, poking at the stretchy wall next to her. Her blonde hair covered her lint pillow.
"Naw, I think I'm good."
"You have been saying that for three months. Why won't you play with me?"
Finding Purpose
"Number sixteen. Sixteen," I said to the lobby.
"Over here." An older man waddled up to the counter and grabbed the brown bag of grease from me.
I looked out into the sea of faces all waiting for their turn on the shit express. It's one way to clean your plumbing out, but I would prefer an enema.