Friday Fictioneers: The Retail Hell of Man

Good afternoon folks, in the wake of Mr Trump advocating the use of soup cans to use as projectiles, the world remains, in a state of flux and crazinesss, and yet, in this clusterfuck of madness, Rochelle somehow manages to instil a metaphorical oasis of calm, a safe haven, away from the hurling of tins of Heinz french onions. Thanks also to CE Ayr for the fabulous photo which i’m guessing is somewhere over the rainbow. So without further ado, lets see what nonsense I can plunder today.

On My Marks…

Get Set…


The virus wiped out most of the males, the war that followed had slaughtered the few remaining.

The Unremitting Nuclear winter was illimitable. People who ventured out would phlebotomise, haemorrhaging vital organs.

Lead cladding sheathing the outside of the Gigantic shopping centre had provided a bizarre sanctuary; a chancel to retail and beauty treatments, where women could go about their business and do lunch without the threat off a Grumpy husband in tow whilst the children ran carefree in the Various Historical themed zones.

In a quiet 1930’s coffee shop some ladies discussed the steadily maturing boys with hesitant whispered utterances.

There we are, 100 words on a bizarre uncertain future.


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