Everything looked normal, peaceful, suburban. So why did the hair stand up on his arms? Something was wrong, terribly wrong.
The stop sign? Arret? No. That just told Sanders he wasn’t in Kansas anymore—he hadn’t expected to be. The absence of any people? No. A feeling of dislocation fizzed at the edge of consciousness.
The bins! It should be green bin day, but there was a brown bin out. Two realities had been stitched together, almost, but not quite, seamlessly.
Then he spotted the translocator pole. And the creature who stepped through.
I think I may be channelling Laurie here. Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here