Crossroads

John chewed happily as he waited. Vine weed made a pleasant change to the usual diet of bluebottles, mosquitoes and other winged insects that made it into his grill.

He’d heard them argue, of course.

“I know where we’re going. I’ve been here before.”

“You told me you’d been here with your folks, when you were 4. I hardly think that counts.”

“We should go left.”

“We should go right!”

“It’s definitely left.”

“I’m telling you we have to go…”

Turns out, one needs to make a decision at a crossroads; especially one divided by several acres of barren land.


 

This piece was submitted as part of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 1 photograph. 100 words. Sometimes over 100 people taking part.

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Arthur

Arthur Junior (son of Arthur Senior) had taken to sitting at his father’s slightly wonky writing desk every second Wednesday of the month. His father, whom like any self-respecting gentleman, was very particular about his particulars, never missed a hunt.

The trick to never getting into trouble, Arthur Junior had observed, was to never get caught.

His theory was challenged last Wednesday afternoon, however, when upon leafing through the Dictionary he accidentally tore the page he had been studying. Though at first he was struck by fear, he finally conceded his father would never notice the tear in his vagina.


 

This piece was submitted as part of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 1 photograph. 100 words. Sometimes over 100 people taking part.

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Maria and the crack

Maria twitched. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been staring at the crack but it must have been a while. The coffee in her cup, previously too hot, was now perfectly drinkable.

She blinked rapidly and took a sip, her eyes fixated. It wasn’t pretty. It certainly wasn’t that interesting but here Maria stood. She could not look away. She was just, mesmerised.

A thud. A smack. The sound of gushing water.

The crack moved.

“Ah, sod it. Sorry to ask, Love,” it said, “but could you pass me my tool-bag. It’s just there, by your foot. Cheers Darling.”

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Posted as part of CarrotRanch’s Flash Fiction Challenge.

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X Marks The Spot

A pirate that suffers from sea sickness, it turns out, is no pirate at all.

Captain Pigeonbeard had long since swapped the stormy seas for life in the clouds. It was fair to say, the change had been much kinder on his constitution.

His crew was initially rather miffed at the changes in circumstance. Waving a cutlass around a cockpit was frowned upon, you see. Deck swabbing and knot-tying were now quite useless trades. The guy that manned the crow’s nest had been laid off, of course. His position deemed irrelevant, now they all had a bird’s eye view.

view-from-the-plane

 


This piece was submitted as part of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 1 photograph. 100 words. Sometimes over 100 people taking part.

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An Impossible Choice

Larry looked at the words he’d written in haste. They weren’t the meanest he’d ever wrote, but they certainly weren’t the kindest either. They did, however, say what he wanted to say. They got those heavyweight feelings off his chest. They got them said and out in the open. Quietly. In a text message. To someone he could confide in.

Larry hit send.

It was at least 2.3 seconds before Larry realised what he had done.

Have you ever tried to stop digital media from leaving a WiFi connected device?

Larry has.

Have you ever attempted to halt a message from sending, by throwing your phone into a fish tank?

Larry has.

Have two and a bit seconds ever lasted forever? Like the very fabric of space and time had been scrubbed in a wash bowl before being stretched and squeezed through an antique mangle?

To Larry, they have.

Larry stared as Brian the fish swam down towards the phone, circled it, tried to eat it, failed and moved on. He rolled up his sleeve, reached into the tank and retrieved the phone. The outgoing message blinked back at him.

Larry began to curse the Phones4U salesman under his breath as he dried the sodden rectangle of plastic and glass on the corner of his shirt. He’d never intended to buy a waterproof phone but upon mentioning a desire to scuba dive in the Bismarck Sea, Tony (Sales Assistant of the month) had began selling the features of the new SX890WP, at which point he never looked like taking no for an answer.

Since walking away from the shop, Larry had barely left Peckham, let alone made it to Papua New Guinea.

Setting the phone upon the kitchen table beside a collection of coins, he began to ponder the consequences of not double-checking who you were sending a text to.

Maybe he could pass it off as a joke, he thought.

Yes. Perfect. Good ol’ Gareth. He’s not all bad. He’d see the funny side of it, Larry decided. He’d realise it was all just a big joke and that he was only calling him a tosser in a jokey-matey-kinda-way.

Failing to convince himself, Larry pulled a chair from under the table and sat down, his eyes transfixed on the phone.
And then it happened.

Bbbbzzzztttt

The vibration rattled through the tabletop louder than any ringtone. “Gareth Mob” appeared on the screen.

Bbbbzzzztttt

The phone bumped its way steadily towards Larry, like a child using his bottom to descend the stairs.

Bbbbzzzztttt

It was mocking him now. Impatiently shouting at him to answer.

Bbbbzzzztttt

Larry slid a coin from the table and placed his thumb underneath it. He took a deep breath, and tossed it into the air.

 


 

Submitted as part of Prompted, at TipsyLit.

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