‘He looks like you.’
‘Who?’
‘Him.’
‘Him, who? You’re pointing at everyone.’
‘Him at the back. The young fella.’
‘Him? Does he fuck. Half my age.’
‘Yeah, looks like you when he was half your age.’
‘Fucking great age that.’
‘You should warn him.’
‘Nah, no one smokes these days.’
‘Our Milly does. Caught her other day.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Told her about you.’
‘Yeah, what she say?’
‘Reckons she can quit any time.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘You quit.’
‘Had a kid on the way.’
‘Didn’t stop me.’
‘Should have done.’
‘Yep … bit late now.’
‘It’s not too late.’
‘Feels like that … when they’ve got me on that machine.’
‘Looks horrible.’
‘Wouldn’t mind if it was just horrible. Could handle that.’
‘Four more to go, right?’
‘That’s what they said.’
‘Then that’s it … no more.’
‘Fuckin better be … got things to do.’
‘Glad to hear it, coz I hate funerals, and if I go to yours, I’d be pissed at you.’
‘So you want me at your funeral instead?’
‘Fuck ya. Putting you down for a song.’
‘I ain’t singing at your funeral.’
‘And I ain’t going to your funeral. You’re going to mine. End of. Agreed?’
‘Fine … fine … you can die first.’
‘Good.’
‘But there’s no fuckin way I’m singing at your funeral.’
‘Fair enough … you can carry the casket.’
‘But you’re huge.’
‘Won’t be on your own … they’ll be others.’
‘What if we drop you?’
‘Easy. Just roll me back in. I won’t mind.’
‘Coz you’ll be dead.’
‘Yep. I’ll be dead.’
‘Before me.’
‘Correct. Before me.’
‘Nah … let’s go together. I don’t want to go to your funeral.’
‘And I don’t want to go to yours.’
‘Best beat this thing then, eh?’
‘Yep … you best.’
This fictional short story was written for a 50 Day Project organised by the artist Amanda Billing. I get 45 minutes to an hour (not the project’s rules, it’s just about the time I have right now) to write a story, sometime between 4.30am and 5.30am. After that, the day is no longer mine.
N.B. The sketch image for this short story was created using AI (at best, I can draw a half-decent stick man). The words are all mine.
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