She strode down the corridor, Gravboots beating a driving rhythm, her Sikshooter clanging warning bells off her generously curved hip. Ready for transport down to the moon, Arizon’, she suspected the Space Cowboy Coalition was playing them for fools. No profit, but maybe an adventure. She’d arranged her own transport.
Pushing into the docking bay, she spied ship and co-pilot. “Ready to rocket?” she hooted, unfurling her bullwhip and giving it a crack. “Use it or lose it, Bosco!”
“Freddy is ready,” the co-pilot offered a wide-mouthed grin. He bowed and gestured to the ship’s ramp. “After you, Ms. Cricket.”
© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2016)
Prompt: Write a 100 word or less story or poem based on the word “cricket”. The catch: it must be science fiction.