100 word stories – Page 7 – Sarah Potter Writes

Friday Fictioneers — Roadside Snack

PHOTO PROMPT © Al Forbes

GENRE: Black Comedy

I roll down the window of my 4 x 4. “What can I do for you, officer?”

The cop holds out his hand. “Your driving licence, sir.”

“Dr Victor …Crankenstein?” He narrows his eyes and compares me with my mug shot.

A second cop examines the trailer. She calls out, “No number plate and cargo inadequately secured.”

“What’y call that contraption?” asks the first cop.

“A cyborg car.”

“Looks like a heap of junk to me.”

A minute later I drive off down the road, not a cop in sight and my cyborg car with a smirk on its grille.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo prompt: copyright © Al Forbes

Friday Fictioneers — Blank

“You’ve no idea what mortal sin we committed, have you?”

Who’s that stranger shouting in my ear?

“I’m your husband, John, for God’s sake. How dare you leave me to shoulder all the guilt.”

Why can’t that horrid man go away?

“I’ll see you in purgatory.”

Is he the priest? I don’t know him. “Think only of the past, as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”

“What, the hell?”

“Elizabeth … in ‘Pride and Prejudice’. Mama likes to read to me. …My Harry, as handsome as Mr Darcy. I married him yesterday, you know.”

“He’s been dead forty years. We buried him.”

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo prompt: copyright © Dale Rogerson

Friday Fictioneers — Whiskers

They called me Whiskers, but in my head I was The Terminator, rat and mouse zapper extraordinaire.

Master had always paid me my dues with gourmet cat food, until his employees at the flour mill went on strike on health and safety grounds, after the death of a worker from respiratory disease.

Following a fortnight’s standoff, Master downgraded my dinners to the supermarket’s own brand. Fine punishment, considering my workload had increased. So I went on strike, too.

The last I saw of Master, he was a skeleton, the rodents had trebled in size, and I took instant early retirement.

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Friday Fictioneers — Uncle Bogeyman

“If you don’t behave yourself, the bogeyman will come and get you.”

Toby sat up in his bed hugging his knees, his back pressed to the headboard. The only comfort was his old bear, pressed against his belly, out of sight behind his legs’ defensive drawbridge. “Bogeyman? No.”

“He’s outside, lurking in the shadows, hungry for you. Move over now. Let your uncle in for a hug.”

Uncle Rob’s ragged breath stinks of old rugs and tobacco. He tugs at the drawbridge with pudgy hot hands. “Shush! Stop blubbering. This is our secret. I’ll call the bogeyman if you tell.”

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Friday Fictioneers — You, Before and After

At first light, we hear a howling yowling dogcat hullabaloo coming from the horses’ paddock. Through my binoculars (cowardly husband me), I watch you stride through the snow in wellies, into silence deep as a subterranean cavern.

The horses stand freeze-framed and mid-chomp at their trough. There’s a trail of green on the snow’s surface, accompanied by the footprints of a three-legged creature. You follow the trail into the bushes.

Inside, over a cup of tea, you say nothing. There’s a mute look to your eyes, too. Later, I find a discarded plaster in the bathroom, soaked in green blood.

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