I met him once on my way to work. He was as expected; tall and thin, his figure bent by age, leaning on a scythe. His face was hidden by the black cloak, greening with age.
‘You can’t have come for me!’ I said. It wasn’t a question.
‘And why not?’ His was.
‘Because I’m too young. I still have much to do!’
I stopped and thought for a while. ‘Well, I’m on my way to work. Can’t just leave without notice. How would my boss cope?’
He paused and didn’t speak for a long while.
‘Have it your way then. I’ll take you later.’
He was waiting for me again on my way from work to home.
‘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.
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. Continue reading
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. Continue reading
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. Continue reading
‘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.
‘Jack-ass!’ Angie spat before the last of the shattered head-lamps crumbled onto the ground.
She jumped out of the car frothing at the mouth.
‘You bitch!’ was how she was greeted by the other driver whose face was a similar shade of puce as Angie’s was.
The red Porsche she had hit was complete with waxed metal, platinum rims and two tail lights sprinkled on the ground like fine fairy dust.
It wasn’t her fault though. There she was minding her own business, when a five-seater Mitsubishi passed by with three sheep packed at the back of it going ‘Beh!’ Continue reading