Time To Talk




“Is this where you left him?”

“Yes, boss. In a hole just to the right of those deserted buildings. He thought he was being buried alive, you should’ve heard him scream. We did as you said, boss, put him in a coffin and lowered it into a makeshift grave. We left holes in the lid to make sure he could breathe.”

“Excellent work, Jimmy. Is he being more talkative this morning?”

“Can’t shut him up, boss. He’s told us everything.”

“Good. Now put him back in the coffin and bury him again. Oh, this time Jimmy, cover up the holes.”

Mike Jackson


100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Parts Missing

Parts Missing is one of a series of 100 word stories.



The large crate arrived early this afternoon, sooner than I’d expected.

The fellow who delivered it, a miserable looking individual, moaned like hell because of its weight. It didn’t make matters any better when I told him I couldn’t help due to this dodgy back of mine.

He grumbled incessantly as he slowly dragged the thing into the garage.

Once he’d gone, I prized off the wooden lid and looked inside.

My heart missed a beat.

Her limbs and torso were exactly as I’d packed them but, to my horror, her head was missing.

Where on earth could it be?

Mike Jackson

It’s Not Your Time

It's Not Your Time is one of a series of 100 word stories.


“Name and date of birth please, sir.”

“Michael Peter Jones, 21st March 1962”

“And when did you die Mr Jones?”

“Sometime this morning, I think. On the High Street by the synagogue. I got hit by a bus.”

“Oh dear, it appears there’s been a dreadful mistake. It should have been a Mr Peter Michael Jones who died this morning, not you. You’re not due here for a good few years yet. This is most unfortunate. If you’ll take a seat Mr Jones I’ll see about getting you back into your earthly body. Let’s just hope it’s not too late.”

Mike Jackson

The Clock On The Mantelpiece

The Clock On The Mantlepiece is one of a series of 100 word stories.


My fingers wrap around the stone in my pocket, your sticky blood still warm to the touch.

I was going to throw it in the lake, alongside your bound and weighted body, but I kept it instead. A reminder of the day I finally found the courage to do what I’d wanted to do for many years.

I’m thinking of putting it on the mantelpiece, alongside that hideous clock your mother gave us as a wedding present. Like our marriage, it never worked.

They’ll be a constant reminder to me of the two women I hated most in this world.

Mike Jackson

The Never Ending Journey

A 100-word story about an automated tram that never stops.



The empty tram trundled along the deserted tracks, sticking rigidly to an irrelevant timetable.

At each stop, a mechanical voice would tell you where you were and wish you a good day.

The doors opened for their mandatory fifty-seven seconds and then closed. The driver, an automated robot, needed no tea breaks, nor worked any shift pattern so could continue this journey, back and to, from one end of the promenade to the other, forever.

Had he been programmed to be more aware of his surroundings he may have noticed that the human race had long ceased to exist.

Mike Jackson

Please Don’t Leave Me!



She remembered the beginning. He’d tried so hard to straighten her out, to drag her screaming from the abyss. That’s love for you. But it never lasts.  Her demands for his constant attention had stretched his patience to breaking point. Last night he’d told her he was leaving.

She lay in bed watching the dark clouds roll across the sky, remembering their final hours together. She’d pleaded with him to stay, promised she’d change, all to no avail.

She looked down at his blood-soaked body.

Now that he was gone, what was there to keep her from following him?

Mike Jackson

A Heart of Stone



Despite the fire, it’s gone really cold out here. Glad I put on this big coat and the scarf mum gave me the week before she died.

I’ve been sitting here awhile now thinking about the events of the last few days and I came to the conclusion that I  could forgive you most things, but not killing our mum.

She always said you had a mean streak about you, even as a kid. A heart of stone.

When I first tossed it on the fire I thought maybe she was right.

But eventually, it caught fire and slowly melted.


Mike Jackson

A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala