Friday Fictioneers: The Crazy Bears’ Battle

Genre: Alternative song lyrics
Word count: 100

THE CRAZY BEARS’ BATTLE

If girls go down to the mudflats today
They’re in for a foul surprise.
If girls go down to the mudflats today
They’d better go in disguise!

The worst boy’s gang that ever existed
Will gather there for certain,
Because today’s the day the
Crazy bears fight a battle.

Wrestling time for crazy bears
The mud-slinging boys’ bears are having
A filthy time today.
Watch them catch dolls unawares,
And see them battle on their skive from school.

See them pelt the dolls with mud.
They love to taunt the girls…

Next week’s instalment: The Tomboy and Homicidal Doll’s Vengeance

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo prompt: image copyright (c) Karuna

Friday Fictioneers — The Ancient School at “D–wh–n-e”

This week’s photo prompt brought to mind the horrendous terrorist attack in Manchester on Monday night. I am so overwhelmed with emotions about this, that it has rendered me mute with regard to such atrocities. Therefore, I’m going to avoid the subject of explosions and move forward to the year 2183 and write about a ruin instead.

This is another chance for you to meet Morag in my not-yet unpublished novel Counting Magpies. On the previous occasion she was in York, having trouble with her decrepit bicycle (A Rare Specimen). This time, she’s in the Highlands of Scotland in a village that has some of the letters missing from its signpost.

Come on, you clever clogs. Let’s see who’s going to be the first to fill in those blank letters (each em dash stand for two missing letters and the hyphen for one)…

Genre: Dystopian speculative fiction
Word count: 100

~~THE ANCIENT SCHOOL AT “D–WH–N-E”~~

I pick my way through the rubble, tripping once and almost twisting my ankle on a rusted kettle.

At first I mistake the bundle for a heap of rags, until I prod it with the plank and turn it over. The thing has a face, or rather bones with empty eye sockets and a gaping jaw. I let out a reflexive scream, despite knowing a skull can’t harm me. The rest of the skeleton is clothed in rags covered in mildew. 

Who was this person with unusually long leg and foot bones and narrow hipbones? Perhaps it was a man.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo prompt: image copyright © J Hardy Carroll

Friday Fictioneers — Fixing The Past

Genre: Time Travel
Word count: 100

~~FIXING THE PAST~~

“Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.” Before and after, actually.

“You look so familiar.”

“They say that everybody has a double somewhere in the world.”  He shouldn’t remember me.  Have I returned once too often?

“I finish at nine. Perhaps we could have a drink.”

“Yes, why not?” That demon, alcohol. Why do I keep returning to this point in time? It’s too late to save him.

“I’m looking forward to it, babe.”

“Likewise. But I’ve an errand to run between now and then.” Off to locate that 12-year-old boy and lace his first alcoholic drink with purgatives.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: image copyright © Roger Bultot

Friday Fictioneers — She Needs Glasses

auto-aftermath

Genre: Humour
Word count: 100

~~SHE NEEDS GLASSES~~

That idiot human has just demolished my home and scattered my babies to the wind. I’ve lived here forever, festooning the wing mirror on the passenger side of the car with webs built to ensnare a bountiful roadkill of gnats and resist a driving speed of 70 mph.

The Idiot isn’t car-proud and only washes her steel beast once or twice a year, at which time I reel in the main lines of my webs and retreat to safety behind the mirror cover casing.

My size makes me easy to overlook, but a giant brick pillar is quite another matter.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: Image copyright © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Friday Fictioneers — Unholy Epitaph

Genre: Dark humor
Word Count: 100

~~UNHOLY EPITAPH~~

hic iacet sepultus

DOMINIC SEAMUS HEGGARTY
a gardener who loved Nature minus Man.

Born in Islington, June 13th 1836
Died December 27th 1891

Bastard son of Michael de Humpe, VIIIth Earl of Stitchbury
 who cavorted with Molly Frimble, an unfortunate, and contracted the French disease and died most horribly of raging insanity,
thereby bestowing upon his beloved illegitimate son nothing of note other than an unconsecrated burial plot at the far end of his Estate,
for when his own time of passing came, alongside Molly,
dispatched to the afterlife by Lady Stitchbury in a fit of apoplexy.

requiescant in pace

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: copyright © Liz Young