Posting Location: Somewhere in the UK
Posting Category: Personals – Strictly Platonic
Prose type: Very literary, allusions to Peter Pan, King Arthur, Shakespeare, etc.
Word count: 431

Sample of Responses:

Mr. Enchanted:
“Your words have enchanted me.

So here I am, wanting to know about you, such a lovely worded and crafted posting, so much attention to detail, slight revealing, but yet so guarded as to your purpose, dream, wishes and desires.”

Mr. Golf:
“I gained such intriguing thoughts when reading your craigslist post. Too many times have I just clicked through post after post of small sentenced posts that give little to the imagination.”

Mr. Farmer:
“What an amusingly different personal advert.”

So it was fairly amusing for me to receive this response: 

Mr. Science-Fiction:

“Hi,

Could you write some Science fiction?
Thanks”
How could I resist the challenge?
So I responded:
From an unpublished manuscript by L. Ron Hubbard:

The Doctor, face to face with Cthulu, said, “So we meet again, old friend.”

Cthulu’s voice, a series of gasps, wheezes, and shrieks, filled the dark chamber and echoed as if a thousand followers cried out in return.

“Come now, do I really look that different? Apart from the shoes and jacket,” he sniffed his arm and recoiled, “okay, maybe not the jacket, but I’d say I haven’t changed at all. But you!” The Doctor said cheerfully as he spun around his tentacled friend, “You look great! Have you lost some weight?”

What followed, if sound could be reimagined as a visual, was the dozens of snakes on Medusa’s head striking, slithering, and baring fangs in all directions–a mess of complete cacophony.

“Doctor, I don’t think we really have time for this–” his latest companion cried. She had kept an eye on the fleet of Dalek ships approaching. She was a level seven, and donated every penny to the Church of Scientology, so she knew what she was talking about. She and Tom Cruise were BFFs until that beastly Katie Holmes entered the picture. Even after the divorce, things were just never the same again.

“Oh, right! Everybody into the Tardis. We will be late for tea, and I do hate being late for tea. Nothing worse than cold tea and warm cucumber sandwiches.”

“I can imagine a few things worse,” the companion said without missing a beat, “Lunch with Thetans.”

Then to Cthulu, whose sounds could not be approximated in any form of writing known to man, the Doctor said, “Sorry to have to rush off so soon. We will catch up later–and I did want to say how sorry I am that things didn’t work out with the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but you did know she was always too good for you, right?”

Cthulu let out a loud sound, approximated best as a whoopee cushion magnified a thousand times over and exploded in a fit of rage, just as the door to the Tardis shut. Gobs of gooey innards, fluids, and tentacles decorated the room, with a few tentacles writhing about.

After a moment of silence, the door creaked open. A lone hand, bathed in warm light, reached out. It stayed there frozen, as if it waited to be grasped and held. Its owner’s head then peered out from behind the door:

“Well, stranger of the shadows, aren’t you coming?”

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