“Mister,” The writer picked up the pencil and twirled it in his fingers like a gunslinger spinning a six-shooter. “We deal in lead.” #FP
Another collection of my FP scribblings. These days, Friday Phrases offers a weekly theme to inspire the players, and I’m always delighted and impressed to see the wonderful creative directions in which my fellow FP-ers take these (entirely optional) prompts. Delighted, impressed, and, more often than not, extremely jealous.
I’ve bundled a few of my own themed efforts here, as well as a handful of FPs that came out as … informally “themed”, if you will. The first few were inspired by children’s TV programmes or nursery rhymes, and one of those prompted the wonderful @to draw some amazing artwork based on the FP (reproduced below with kind permission). As you can see, as well as being a splendid individual and an ace FP-er, @is an artist of enviable talent, and I’m thrilled to be able to show off her work here 🙂 We’ve collaborated again since then, on this Star Wars Project. Take a look, if only for her gruesomely cute/cutely gruesome artwork (You should see how lovely her Ewoks are! Erm … as it were) Check out more of her genius at kizzywiggleboo.wordpress.com
Times were tough when the Mr Men moved into the adult film industry. Only Mr SlapAndTickle and MrBumpAndGrind made a success of it.
The mystery of Crystal Lake was solved, and all was well until Fred tried to unmask old Mr Vorhees (Only Velma survived). #VelmaLove
The puppeteer was nowhere to be found but the Count’s bloody, grinning face filled the TV screens. “Vun slashzed throat! Ah, ah, ah!”
The wheels on the bus went round and round, round and round, round and round. He screamed until they crushed his ribcage.
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Both overcome with an urge to kill they made their plans for slaughter.
The zombies lurched thru Hundred Acre Wood, still hungry. His dying claims had been the truth, it seemed. He WAS a bear of little brain.
He tied her to the bed. She seemed nervous but excited. She didn’t see the blade. He smiled, anticipating at least 50 shades of red.
She cursed the dirty handprints all over the kitchen floor, remembering the days before the experiment, when the dog still had paws.
The poet knitted her words together with skill, but always left a loose thread for the reader to pull and unravel yet more magic.
She dealt another card. ‘Death. You will never leave here.’
I pulled out the gun and placed an identical card on top of hers.
He’d been a cardiac surgeon for decades, cracked 1000s of chests but never seen a heart like this, covered in tiny, grasping hands.
She dreamed that the sky was falling, and woke up to find the couple from upstairs and their sofa suddenly in her bedroom.
The private funeral and the state of the art night vision cameras cost a fortune, but being able to watch the bastard rot was priceless.
Nobody believed her fantastical tales, until she disappeared, and someone found the pictures on her phone, the selfies with aliens.
The meal she’d prepared smelled delicious.
‘Hungry?’ she asked.
Behind him, she bared her fangs. ‘Me too.’
“Open your blouse.” commanded Mr Grey. “Bare your skin as you would bare your soul, as – PWHOAR! I can see your knockers!” 50 Shades of #FP
He swayed on the deck. She’d killed the other sailors, but he had the fish-gutting knife. ‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘I dine on mermaid sushi.’
He raided the carcass for sinew and bone and leathery skin, then flew from the mountain top like Icarus on dragon’s wings …
“The name’s Murphy, Ace Murphy, and I didn’t need to be no Private Detective to know that the dame wasn’t no natural blonde. Or human.”
She lay on the grass, daydreaming that she could see shapes in the clouds. Unicorns. Cats. A horned, skull-like face urging her to kill.
We ran thru the dark until we fell together on the grass, laughing, and pointed our torches at the stars like we were joining the dots.
In the aftermath she took many photos of them both, keeping them in an album to chart how she blossomed next to his beautiful decay.
He’d lost count of the lives his surgical skills had saved. He wondered how many were out there, his initials etched into their bones.
The rats advanced, coarse fur whispering as skeletal bodies entwined. In the whispers, in the scratching of claws, I heard my name.
She wanted her last performance at the circus to be unforgettable, so I greased the trapeze and replaced the safety net with piano wire.
If you made it this far, thanks for reading. Below are the links to a few more FP-centric posts …