In between Hospital appointments and being told to work against your principles and efficiencies kind of grates and so to see Rochelle on the horizon like a Rainbow, beckoning towards the pot of gold which are the Friday Fictioneers Crew is a wonder to behold, just the tonic. Cheers to Roger Bultot for the photo, i’m guessing its in America, and I imagine the clue is in the tower in the middle, fucked if I know where it is…
Anyway, time to write something pithy and funny, let’s see, its not feeling like a very funny day to me.
On My Marks…
“That Fucking Tesla; sneaks in, all silent like, we park around the shitting block. I’ll teach him”
3 months, silently, stealthily parking up, she snapped. Quietly padding down the stairs in ballet pumps, skipping out through the front door, dancing down the steps, her timing perfect as she shot him through the chest. He lay dying, his eyes pained, confused. She looked into them, smiled, finger on her lips and shot him there.
With the silencer on “Parking Prick” were the last words he heard, but didn’t understand.
Darkness and silence.
His children didn’t hear him come home that night, or again.
Well that came as a surprise, its 100 words based on these awful people who killed a married couple outside their home as they unpacked the car while their children slept. Over a parking space. Truly awful.