FF – End Up Like Cunningham
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. She provided the photo this week.

Cunningham took a moment to smile at the festive scene. He half expected Santa to zoom “ho-ho-ho-ing” across the sky.
He turned his attention back to the man in the back seat, still futilely trying to strangle him. He’d got the angle all wrong.
Amateur.
Shrugging nonchalantly, Cunningham flipped the rear ejector button on the dash of his tricked-out car. The man shot into the air, taking with him Cunningham’s head.
The moral? “Don’t rear-seat-eject someone while they have a garotte around your neck?”
Seems a little specific.
Perhaps… “don’t get cocky or you’ll end up like Cunningham.” We’ll go with that.
A Homonym Too Far
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Rochelle herself!
I apologise in advance.

“This wine cellar is so small. I can feel my claustrophobia coming on.
“Why can I never find anything? There are so many bottles. They need organising.
“It always smells so musty down here.
“Here’s my Chateau Lafite 1869. I want to drink it so much but it cost so much money.
“I can’t cope with all this. Why me? Oh, God, WHY ME? Aaaaargh!”
—————————————————————————–
“Hi Margo, where’s Tarquin?”
“He’s down in his whine cellar.”
FF – Live by the Country
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Claire Fuller.

“I’m not sure I trust this place, darling.”
“Well, we need a new tyre… hello, sir!”
“Aye.”
“We need a new tyre, please.”
“Aye. ‘Ere.”
“We need one with tread on it!”
“Aaarrrrr, ye city folks, always want’n somethin’. ‘Ere.”
“Um…”
“What? You want me ‘t fit it fer yer too?”
“Yes, obviously!”
“Aaarrrrr, ye city folks…”
“How much?”
“Three cows an’ a bushel o’ corn.”
“What? What? I’ll show you… um…”
“Aaarrrrr, no, darn city folks, you hold a pitchfork like this, see?”
“Ah yes, thanks.”
stab stab stab
“Darling!”
“What? Live by the country, die by the country.”
vroooooom!
FF – Newly Elected
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Lisa Fox.
There’s some allusion to recent “sleaze-related” issues in the UK government, but I’ve written “MP” and “PM” longhand to help my non-UK readers (thus going slightly over the word limit in the process).
“Mr Fortingham-Smythe, new Member of Parliament for Little Umptingham – what are your plans?”
“I’m going to shit all over the electorate.”
“What? Um, please, watch your language, sir. This is the BBC, after all!”
“Humph.”
“Not the answer I was expecting…?”
“Now that I’m safely elected, I’m planning on indolence, debauchery and a bit of general non-specific corruption. Fill my pockets, so to speak.”
“But… but…”
“And the best bit is, if I’m caught the Prime Minister will simply change the rules!”
“Um, yes, but…”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit upstairs and wait for a scruffy voter to arrive.”
FF – Not a Story
Here is my (not a) story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Roger Bultot.
Inspiration did not strike this week 😦
A street. A perfectly ordinary street. Somewhere foreign – those numberplates are far too small to be UK.
Pretty much nothing is happening. A story about nothing happening? Tricky, that.
There’s an air con unit top left. Could be an alien spider robot. But to what end? Haven’t we done that before?
Maybe that skyscraper in the distance. Maybe it has a viewing platform. And every so often that big spike shoots up and impales a tourist. That could work.
“Hey Mike, take a selfie…”
WHOOMP! Aaaargh!
“Oh, hell. Mike.”
I don’t think it has legs.
I’ll try again next week.














