No Alarms and No Surprises

"Whassup bitch?" queried Dook. "Can't you keep still?" Like most of us to some extent, Dook's speech showed sharp signs of the transatlantic cultural influence.

Rich coming from you, thought Mickey.  "Sand in my eye, you dick."

"Dipedy-fucking-do, man. Sand in your dick, my eye."

"Twat."

Dust devils appeared out of nowhere, skipped across the dry sand and disappeared just as quickly. All was quiet again and fat flies played around them as Dook busied himself wiping the sand from his rifle barrel.

A celestial pencil marked the vapour trail of a high flying jet on the lapis lazuli sky. Mickey wondered what sort of plane it might be; it was far too high to discern whether its purpose was to deliver tourism or death.





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)