‘Your mama is so fat, that—’
A long, low booing resonated from the audience.
‘Okay! okay…Have you ever heard of the koi who was coy with his wife?’
‘Get off the stage!’
‘No, no wait…Okay; man walks in a bar—‘
Whizz. Glass shattered on the stage.
Damian ran out of the theatre for his life. He sat in the dark alley next to the backstage door analyzing the scribbled list in front of him.
‘Garbage Collector’ was next.
A man’s voice startled him; ‘How much for half an hour?’
Damian froze for a second, then shrugged. No reason ‘Male Prostitute’ shouldn’t be on that list.
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
For Trifecta and Friday Fictioneers. Two in one; economizing in this economy. The word given by Trifecta is: BOO - 3 (verb) to show dislike or disapproval of someone or something by shouting “Boo” slowly. Friday Fictioneers, on the other hand, gave us the lovely picture above.
I feel tentacles rising, slithering up, wrapping themselves around my brain, consuming it.
My full mental power comes to my defense.
I hack, but Doubt creeps up again and takes over my head.
For Trifextra. The challenge is to write 33 words on a beast in an unusual place. Hope this qualifies.
There were once three men who used to sit on the bench shaded by the carob tree at the far corner of the square. They were much younger than the tree albeit as wrinkly and bent by age as its bark.
Everyday their vigil began right after the seven-thirty mass. They sipped English tea in a tall glass at eight-thirty, then bread and cheese at ten. The bench under the carob tree would be empty between twelve and two; which was precisely the span of time it took the sun to graze the wooden bench before its rays were eclipsed by the second house on the left.
At two the men would return, refreshed. Tea at four and a cigar at six. By seven the bench would be empty again, its services redundant for the night.
Nothing changed, not for a long while; their routine set in stone. They would argue heatedly on debates that were on everyone’s tongues two decades past; they would gossip on friends and neighbours long dead and chew on their tobacco while pondering silently on memories that shaped their being.
Then three men became two.
You could see the change then, if you looked very closely; a leg just a tad stiffer; a back just a fraction more hunched. But the routine remained.
Then two men became one.
A lonely man sitting at his bench, abiding faithfully to a routine that was the only remaining phantom of friendship lost.
One man became none and the bench gathers leaves now and welcomes the sun.
For Trifecta. The word that kept me awake for two whole days in a row is PHANTOM: 3 : a representation of something abstract, ideal, or incorporeal <she was a phantom of delight — William Wordsworth>
What do I fear?
The first thing that comes to mind is Flying. Planes. Falling.
But that’s not true, Flying is only the newest piece to my vast and well-tended collection of fears.
Dear all, this is for Trifextra where the challenge for the weekend is to write about what scares us. Good thing the word limit was only 33 or this post would have dragged on and on and on…
copyright -Janet Webb
We stood on the sand and watched them go. ‘We’; the sick, the old, the crippled and the slow, surrounded by the debris they left behind; discarded bags, empty trolleys.
Some were still arriving at the bay, dragging injured legs behind; their expression turning to unspeakable desperation when they realized they were too late.
The boats sailed away and as we watched, nursing the hollow cavity in the depths of our stomachs where hope used to reside, the drones came and shot down the boats one by one.
And we watched.
Survival of the fittest. What was Darwin on about?
For Friday Fictionneers. I managed a rounded 100 this week. Unusual!
He placed a matryoshka doll on the table between them, amid the two glasses with remnants of red wine and the half burnt candle.
Excitement shot through her body right down to her fingertips. She tore the first layer open, then the second while small, uncontrollable bursts of glee escaped her grinning lips.
One small matryoshka left. She bit her bottom lip; the fact that he was backing away from the table not registering.
A creak as wood scraped wood, the doll opened and out came vapour.
‘What? No ring?’
‘No, baby. Just a goodbye gift.’
This is for Trifecta. The word I chose from the dictionary page was not Baby originally. The inspiration for this story came purely from the fact that I thought the dolls were called babushka. It was only after I read the fine print of the definition – and a thorough google search just to make sure – did i realise that the dolls are in fact matryoshkas. Well, glad I realised in time!
‘So, killing the Archduke…that was you?’
‘And the plague?’
‘Like sprinkling black pepper over Europe.’
‘Imagine how boring life would be if nothing ever happens…I do it all for you.’
For Trifecta. The challenge for this weekend was to get inspired by The Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil which just so happens to be one of my favourite songs.