The Land of Opportunities

‘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.

koi

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.

Under the Carob Tree

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

Sympathy

‘So, killing the Archduke…that was you?’

‘Yup.’

‘And the plague?’

‘Like sprinkling black pepper over Europe.’

‘But why?’

‘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.

 

Three Very Serious Sheep

‘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