He jumped the security barrier and made it to the chairman’s office before being wrestled to the ground.
‘THEY’RE KEEPING THEM IN PENS,’ he howled, ‘RODENTS PUMPED UP TO THE EYEBALLS ON STEROIDS…’
The chairman came out of his office accompanied by a journalist.
‘…RUNNING ROUND WHEELS, GETTING BIGGER…TILL THEY GRADUATE TO BIKES HOOKED UP TO GIANT TURBINES…’
The man was dragged away, leaving behind a crumpled photo.
The chairman scoffed.
‘You’ll note that these conspiracists only ever have grainy pictures to substantiate their ludicrous claims…and as for your assertion that we’re in the throes of an energy crisis…’
Behind him the corridor lights flickered…
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
‘You’re nobody in life unless you own a vessel sumptuous enough to accommodate a fully laden helicopter from which a bevy of scantily-clad uber-babes / Adonis’s (delete as appropriate) endlessly spill…
…Or at least, that’s the word on the street; a word spread by yours truly.
Boat building is all about leveraging insecurities.
You’re worthless without stuff!
My current arm’s race involves a pot-bellied platinum magnate, a wig-wearing premiership footballer and an Internet starlet who takes copious photos of her bottom.
As for me – I don’t own a boat.
But you should see the size of my house!
Written for: Friday Fictioneers
From a lonely library, hanging by a thread, I took a book – last loaned fifty years past. From between its waxy pages a solitary slip of paper slid:
‘He suspects. It’s tonight or never. You – My all.’
A rendezvous unfulfilled; a burr that kept catching.
Necessity employed me as sleuth. The previous lender’s faded name led me to buildings long vacated and to a rain-soaked grave, the date of departure fifty years past.
Standing over the headstone – a man, unfeasibly old.
‘You were her husband?’
‘No, her… her other.’
‘I believe this was for you.’
Written for: Thin Spiral Notebook (100 Word Challenge)
…that the answer is always ‘YES.’ ‘No,’ closes doors and denies possibilities. The second rule is to build upon the original premise.
Rachel stormed into the theatre. ‘You and Simon are having and affair aren’t you?’
Guilty-as-sin though she was, Jenny’s instinct was to deny it, but rules were rules.
Hesitation caused the chorus line to finish her sentence. ‘…It’s the best sex they’ve ever had,’ whereupon they launching into a twenty-minute song and dance number whilst painting a giant mural on the stage floor depicting Jenny’s infidelity.
‘How do you think I should take my revenge? Torture?’
Written for / Picture by: Bikurgurl
Image Credit: Toa Heftiba
The Sloans were, by nature, an incurious community, which was why they’d been granted stewardship of the egg. Twelve feet tall and wrapped in a thicket of ferns it stood in the town square weathering the seasons and centuries. In all that time The Sloans never once prodded it or tested the shell’s integrity. They were too diligent for such temptations; regarding it as a duty handed down from generation to generation.
A seam of ethereal blue light.
And a voice.
Intrigue eventually aroused they gathered around.
‘What’s it saying Margot?’
‘Sounds like…’Ah, snacks.”
Written for: https://bikurgurl.com/2017/03/08/100-word-wednesday-week-7-2/