Time To Talk

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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

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

It’s Not Your Time

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

IT’S NOT YOUR TIME

“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

It Wasn’t My Fault

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IT WASN’T MY FAULT

“Look what you’ve gone and done now Billy!”

“Don’t blame me. It wasn’t my fault. He shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”

“What do you mean? Where else would you expect him to be?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”

“But it’s his house, Billy. It’s where he lives. You must have known he’d be here.”

“I thought he’d be asleep. How was I to know he’d come down the stairs waving that walking stick around in my face. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not shoot him, Billy. You weren’t meant to shoot the poor old bugger.”

 

Mike Jackson

 

What Have We Got Sergeant?

“What have we got sergeant?”

“The body’s that of a young woman, boss. Mid-twenties, been dead about 12 hours. She was also about three months pregnant”

“Any idea who she is?”

“Name’s Cinderella, boss. Seems she was engaged to be married to the Prince but he broke it off a month ago.”

“Do we know why?”

“No boss. But neighbours say she took it badly and let herself go. Then recently told them she was moving. Said someone was buying her a swanky flat.”

“Right sergeant, let’s get over to the Palace, see what the Prince knows about this.”

Mike Jackson

A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Photo courtesy of  Yvette Prior.

No Time for ‘Buts’ Mate

“Name?”

“Peter Jones.”

“You’re late. You should’ve been here Tuesday. What kept you? When did you die?”

“This morning, I think. I remember stepping into the road then nothing.”

“Says here you should’ve been knocked down yesterday not today. Typical of that Grim Reaper, always messing up his timings. Still, you’re here now. You’re next.”

“Where am I going?”

“No idea mate. Now, I need you to pop through that hole. A bloke called Peter will process you on the other side.”

“But…”

“No time for ‘buts’ mate. If I don’t get this queue sorted I’ll miss my tea. Next!”

Mike Jackson

Root Them Out

“Well, Commander have you found them?”

“We think so, sir. This strange looking construction is being used as a primitive ventilation system for the dwellings hidden underground.”

“Do we know how many of them are down there?”

It’s difficult to be accurate sir but we estimate there must be in excess of five thousand. They must have taken refuge there when the invasion started.”

“Determined creatures these Earthlings but their presence here is a nuisance. We can’t start repopulating the planet with our own people until they’ve all gone. Root them out, Commander. I want this place cleared by nightfall.”

Mike Jackson

A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Photo courtesy of Sandra Cook

There’s A Good Lad

“It’s Billy here boss. I’ve found the car. Just where you said it would be.”

“Good lad Billy. Look on top of the front tyre, driver’s side, you should find the ignition key.”

“Got it, boss. What now?”

“I need you to get it valeted Billy. I’m taking the wife out for an anniversary dinner tonight. I want the motor looking at it’s best. Take care how you drive it. Don’t want to find any scratches.”

“OK boss.”

“Oh and Billy, you’ll find a dead body in the boot. Can you dispose of that as well? There’s a good lad.”

MikeJackson©2017

A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Photo courtesy of  Kent Bonham