‘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. 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
One; choose your prey.
Easy. There he is across the bar, shining like a violet beacon in a sea of black. Wearing a white polo-shirt in a place like this says something about a man. For me, it says he wants to be eaten, devoured and spat out again. Happy to oblige.
Two; study your prey. Continue reading
Strapped inside a corset, sweating under layers of cotton, I opened the door and stepped out. A robot hovered past, feeding hot air up my petticoat.
‘Doctor…I think we’re slightly late for Napoloeon!’
For Trifextra. The theme this weekend was ‘Time Travel’. Could I have done anything else but the Doctor?!
A dark wave broke against the boat, tilting the starboard lip precariously close to the waterline; not for the first time, nor for the hundredth time. The boat rocked on, cradling our nausea, nourishing our fear.
We were no seamen, not a single one of us. And yet, here we were; fourteen souls packed tight on a piece of wood barely qualifying for the term ‘boat’.
Adjoa screamed; a sound that cut through the thunder and made my insides hurt.
‘Shut that pie-hole, woman!’
Eniola sent a poisonous look in Paki’s direction and shifted slightly, barring Adjoa from Paki. He had been raising one hell after another since we left Libya, but Eniola had so far managed to contain him. Continue reading
Summer, you cruel devil, are you not done with me yet? Have my offerings in bucketfuls of sweat not been to your insatiable satisfaction?
Winter, you sweet thing, deliver me from this hell.
This was me tipping my hat at the seasons and, in so doing, answering the challenge the good people from Trifecta posed us this weekend:
Apostrophe: “A figure of speech in which some absent or nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of understanding.”
Regarding my particular choice of Apostrophe…if you live were i do, where Summer lasts for eight whole months with daily temperatures of 35 degrees Celsius and humidity so high that the air you breath sticks to the sides of your nostrils and liquidates on its way down to your lungs…you would understand me better.