You’re always one decision away from an entirely different life…

finding-a-signal

Hey…

I know I’m supposed to communicate via a lawyer, but I was ringing to say that you can keep the house…

No, it’s not a trick – take it, but there’ll be no more alimony payments…

You’ve already got all our savings…

No, I quit yesterday…

because I was only doing it to fund your lavish lifestyle…

So, have me declared bankrupt…

What do you want me to say – There’s no more money!

Here’s an idea – How bout you get a job?

They’re clearly not my kids and they both hate me…

OK, well good luck with that. I’m gonna throw this phone in the sea and go fishing…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Film

She was convinced he was having an affair. The investigator found no evidence, but his photos were masterful. Together they engaged in more intimate forms of photography. Her husband found the photos, used them to secure a sizeable divorce settlement and lived happily ever after with a succession of trophy wives.

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

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You say ‘Tomato,’ I say ‘Extinction Event’

Arrival

Nagrath surfaced for the first time in a billion years. The last occasion he’d felt this peckish there’d been an abundance of brontosauruses, but now it was all concrete and ants.

‘This’ll never fill me up,’ he sighed, but having polished off the marine life he’d have to make the best of it.

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

 

 

 

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Embers

campfire-1846142_1280

Three square meals a day, lowered into the pit, the pots checked for tampering afterwards. Even the flimsiest of handles could be fashioned into a shiv.

Despite hellish conditions, with no light or fellowship, the pots always returned empty, and the will to survive and hate endured.

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

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And Who’s Gonna Pay For It?

Russell-quarry

In the unlikely event that they manage to scale the sheer rock face, we’ve provided an added deterrent in the form of an electric fence. At this point even the most ardent aristocrat will thing twice about their dreams of a ‘Mexican Utopia,’ turn tail and rejoin their outlaw band of hedge fund managers and rapists.
It may seem a little Draconian, but think of the children, think of your watered down tequilas, your drooping moustaches (and even droopier sombreros). It’s a vision too terrible to contemplate. Mi nombre es Don Trumpino and I approve this message…

 

97 Words.

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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YOU MANIACS!!!

img_3105

After years of churning out gibberish the apes finally typed the complete works of Shakespeare.

The boffins in their lab coats seemed very pleased with themselves.

Many moons later Charlton Heston rode along the beach and encountered a semi-submerged Statue of Liberty…

Bloody boffins!

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

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Pyramid Scheme…

antiquity-2558276_1280

Rameses had promised his favourite concubines that he wouldn’t bury them alive upon his demise, but apparently that had been a catacomb-sized lie.

‘Well that’s just great,’ wailed Hehet over his mummified corpse. ‘What now?’

Ngozi began to angrily carve at the stone walls. ‘Now we make shit up and screw with future historians.’

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

 

 

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The Burp…

cafc3a9-terrasse-dale-r

It was an ingeniously simple design for which the Intergalactic Utilities Company held a universal patent. From planet to planet their lightweight water-proof canopy, known colloquially as The Burp, provided a plethora of life saving functions.

On Smorg, a world blighted by adverse gravity The Burp served as essential ballast in preventing its occupants from floating away.

On the perpetually damp world of Frond, The Burp protected its highly absorbent inhabitants from swelling up and exploding.

But by far an away its most lorded use was on the notorious bland planet of Beige where colourful Burps played an integral part in spicing up their mating rituals.

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Hidden In Plain Sight…

jhc-clock

Dearest Richard,

If you find this letter, then perhaps there is a chance for us after all.

Do you remember when and where I bought the clock? A bric-a-brac impulse in happier times.

Each hour the little man emerges from his arched door and chimes the hour amidst a tinny fanfare. I imagine he was important once, but like so many things, time marginalised him into an anonymous oddity. In that respect he and I are very much alike. I have placed this missive in his arms. Every sixty minutes he will offer you a way back, if you have the eyes to see and the heart to remember…and if not…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Admin…

coffee-table-prior

As an immortal it was necessary to fake one’s own death once in a while. It wouldn’t do to live suspiciously long or be the last man at the party. As such his latest manifestation, Raymond Brinegeld, sleazy lawyer and hopeless gambler, had to go.

He left ample clues as to the cause of his demise – bank statements denoting desperation and a pyramid of addiction. The dog bowl filled with vodka was a nice touch.

Far away in a fortress filled with priceless antiquities dating back to the dawn of time he selected a new identity and strode forth, unblemished once more, into the world.

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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