Oval-Lords…

Our benevolent alien overlords later marvelled at how easily they had conquered the planet. All it had taken was an absurd little art installation – the perfect cover for their illuminous eggy bodies. How they’d laughed at being mistaken for a conceptual comment on gender equality.

‘Blue for a boy, pink for a girl,’ Glarf howled with glee, its abdomen turning the optimum shade of magenta.

‘Stand back,’ it warned its fellow conquerors. A violent shivering expungement of lust cause the surrounding water to bubble and fizz. The overlord’s abdomen was blue once more.

With its libido in check Glarf got back to the business of running the place and eating people.

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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

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

 

 

 

Embers

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

And Who’s Gonna Pay For It?

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

The night the WiFi went down…

They told us it could never happen…that there were redundancies built on top of redundancies. I can still their faces – gaunt, pale and deprived of stimuli, staggering down the dark streets in their sweatpants murmuring about brains and click-bait.

#NeverForget

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

Giving Notice…

It was an open secret that the top twenty floors could be jettisoned in the event of an emergency – a fire or a raid by the IRS. No one believed it of course. The story was merely the legend-spinning of an overly flamboyant landlady. Little did they realise that they were slowly being conditioned and coerced with subtle advertising and targeted marketing – the best rates and exclusive deals – till finally she had all the rotten eggs in one place – the fraudsters and embezzlers, pariahs and parasites, and that’s when the building became a Christmas tree of lights and the rockets burst into life. Whether they liked it or not her tenants were being evicted from Earth…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

Victoria Falls…

None of Victor’s kids wished to be saddled with the property – grim, prone to subsidence and perpetual reminder of a mirth-free childhood. Let it be forgotten with the old tyrant.

But alas, the last will and testament was clear, as were the sizeable debts that had been left behind.

Victor’s kids were besides themselves…

…Until they realised the log-flume potential.

They delayed the funeral for a year (no one would’ve come anyway) and, shortly before the grand opening, retrieved their father from his frosty limbo, placed him in the front seat and gave him a send off worthy of marvel…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

It’s off to worse we go…

The seven dwarves made a fortune from their pay-per-view site ‘Watch Women Sleep,’ which, while sleazy, was a marked improvement on their original business idea: ‘High Hoes.’

 

175 Characters

Written for: Twittering Tales

You say tomato…

In the absence of anything approaching moral fortitude Ursula Boxing arrived at her vocation.

Want someone putting in a box?

Call Ursula Boxing.

Her slow-witted, affable husband Jim manned the phone. As far as he was aware they ran a haulage company (though strangely he’d never seen any trucks).

‘My darling,’ he announced, ‘you’ve a job at a boxing gym! Isn’t that precious!’

‘Yes dear,’ she sighed, sizing him up for future packaging.

The decoded message was clear. Woman. 52. One between the eyes – no fuss.

The place was boarded up. As she entered the door slammed shut behind her and she heard rivets being driven into concrete.

Ursula Boxing was now Ursula Boxed.

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

Pope invents game: Rock, Papal, Scissors (#Six Word Stories)

2. Michael Bay’s coffin transforms into Decepticon

3. British queue achieves polite repressed sentience

4. T-Rex forms prehistoric band “Marc Bolan”

5. Dalek confirmed as worst callcentre accent

7. Bono finds what he’s looking for

8. Territorial Army refuse to share barracks

9. First rule of acronym club: N.T.Z.A.R.G

10. Cannibal takes wife’s hand in marriage

 

Previous six-word stories…

Six Word Stories