patrickprinsloo

It is the night before.

The servants are in their quarters. Earlier they had set the lights low, closed the blinds, cleared away the detritus from his meal-for-one dinner. La Traviata is at 33 ^1/3 rpm on the turntable bringing a texture to the silence. On his lap, his image stares out from latest copy of Time Magazine; the feature is reassuringly enthusiastic.

Tomorrow he will address the board, make a formal announcement about the merger. He will flex well known muscles, brook no opposition, challenge any challengers.

Tonight he will sleep soundly.

He will wear his new Spiderman pajamas.



Written for Marvellous Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challnge, found here.

It’s all my fault, says Brenda. She says I’m too laissez faire with my passwords, my cards, my keys. Only yesterday the kids got hold of my writing keys. Firstly they unlocked the punctuation box and suddenly there were. punctu!ation/ marks aScattered all over the page.
****!.
Next my spilling wint arwwy;; I nkew strateawai that mi spiling boz had bean opinid.
****!
!desperitly eye ran to my syntax box, but two late was. Mess a what&.
****!
Fortunately our next door neighbour but one is a wordsmith and he managed to fix it for me.
Thanksing heaven for that.

Wrote for Grammarian Wisoff-Fields’ 100 word Friday Fiction challenge found here.

His hatred of artists knew no bounds. He didn’t know why. Nor did his mother. Was it because his father was a successful poet, asked his latest therapist; he couldn’t say yay or nay to that; he just didn’t know. Was it because while at high school (a traumatic time of growth, pimples, body odour, and impure thoughts), his love for his art teacher was unrequited, asked his therapist last but three; answer was there none.
A nutritionist suggested having more fresh fruit, apples, oranges, bananas, that sort of thing. And coffee.
“That may help,” he said. “Worth a try.”


Written for Pollock Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge, found here.
I’ve made some changes since it was first posted – including the reference to impure thoughts, a phrase which any writer worth their salt needs to use at least once a year.

It was an interesting time; mostly we all got on okay. We each had some sort of survival skill that helped us cope with both physical and emotional deprivations. Our relationships with each other were generally solid if fluid.
We were on the island for at least three years before our distress message in that whisky bottle reached civilisation. It then took another three months for the rescue ship to arrive. Apparently they couldn’t read our handwriting. Not surprising. We were pretty sloshed when we wrote the note. We’d got through a whole case of single malt that first week.



Written for Skipper Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge found here.

I stare out at the squat brick building at the bottom of the garden. Through the window of one of the dimly lit rooms I see movement. It’s probably Jacob, getting ready for bed.
I shake my head. The world has changed. The building was once a granny flat; now it’s the slaves’ quarters. Once Jacob was a free citizen. No longer. Once Jacob was Jacob Davidson. Now he is simply Jacob 57263, his tattoo confirms.

2032 was a difficult year; the President for Life’s slavery restoration rhetoric won the day. The Liberty Bell was removed, melted down.

The world has changed.

Written for Stumped Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word writing challenge found here.

Blessed by laziness and lack of inspiration, this is a FF 100 worder from 2015 when I responded to a Ted Strutz prompt. The story takes me back to when I actually worked for a few days for a travelling fair in Sault Sainte Marie back in the sixties; some of us did sleep under the wagons and our personal hygeine was a real threat to public health.

“Pass me that ashtray. Cigar? You don’t smoke? Guess it takes all types.

“So tell me about yourself, why you wanna work for Bumbo’s Funfair?

“Speak to me, tell me you wanna work eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, sleeping under the wagons, crap pay, staple diet of burgers, surrounded by greasy-haired loner drifters unable to grasp the concept of personal hygiene and who probably regard your sister, your mother and a good looking boy such as yourself as fair game.

“So tell me!

“Oh, you like organ music! Good enough for me. Start tomorrow.”

Written for BigWheel Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word writing challenge, found here.

“That’s the last of the provisions from the lifeboat.” said Mary glumly, “And the compass and sextant are missing.”
“No hope then,” muttered Jenny.
“No other humans on the island,” said Erica, just back from a two day recce.
“No rabbits or wild pigs,” lamented Diana.
“No protein then”, grumbled Martha.
“No way of charging our phones,” groaned Esmarelda.
“Can’t even keep a diary,” said Hazel, “No pen and paper.”
“We must keep our spirits up, not get depressed,” said Lucy.
“Unlikely to be rescued soon,” complained Josephine.
Young Jimmy, second engineer, only male survivor, red-blooded, somehow couldn’t stop smiling.

Written for Rockpool Wisoff-Fields weekly 100 word writing challenge found here.