Greedy beaks rattle,
expectant of bread crust treats.
A duck brawl ensues.
Don’t these humans know the rule,
to bring food for the natives?
Genre: Quirky fiction
IF FLOWERS COULD TALK
“Happiness is living outdoors, enjoying the sun and rain.”
“How about the wind ripping off your petals, too?”
“Who’s a sarky, short-ass bunch?”
“So would you be, if someone had cut you down to quarter size and jammed you in a vase.”
“We assure you it’s just as painful for us.”
“At least you can see out the window.”
“Your water stinks.”
“Let’s have a competition to see who wilts last.”
“They’d better give us dignified disposals.”
“Hell, we don’t want cremation by bonfire.”
“Better than rotting slowly amid stinky refuse.”
“The compost heap, that’s the way to go.”
Word Count: 100
The bus station waiting room was the in-place to hang out on Saturday afternoons, according to Anita. Two years my senior and a cross-between Raquel Welch and a rouged porcelain doll, she was the epitome of cool.
Then there was me; her shadow, stepped into a stranger’s skin for a joyride to another planet where the inhabitants communicated in unintelligible grunts and monosyllables.
Ex-borstal boys with No.2 haircuts, braces and bovver boots, roamed this planet pumped up with testosterone, looking to pick an effing fight with some poor geezer or rob the payphone for loose change.
Sensible folk queued outside.