Good evening folks, welcome to my particular tale, which is of course part of a larger entity called Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the wonderfully talented Rochelle who steers this ship through the choppy waters of wherever we seem to be at this juncture. Thanks to Na’ama Yehuda for the curious photo, this might take a spot of brain mining, the idea, 100 words of prose or poetry with a beginning, middle and end, in a fair amount of mine, there’s no point! So without further ado.

On My Marks…

Get Set…

GO!!!

“Fucking hell, every fucking time”

“What’s up? Why are you so cross?”

“Well for starters, the transfer is creased and the t-shirt’s really tight”

“You know what that is? That’s beer, and crisps”

“Thanks a lot, you know how hard it is to give up crisps?”

“Well I think you should try, you’re 50, heading downhill towards the abyss”

“Screw you. You can’t operate a fucking washing machine, unless you’re sitting on it”

“I wish you would… or at least someone who can make me cum?”

“Oh fuck off”

“Bed?”

“Oh you randy bugger, you’ll have to catch me first”

Sweary Bliss in 100 words, sorry for the bad language, a bit.