Lousy tourists float in on their tacky boats with their snotty attitudes, treating the locals like their personal hired help. Through my reinforced window, I watch them play out their leisurely lives, indulging excessively, spending more on two-day trysts than I make in a month as town mortician.
I dream of escaping from this miserable place, getting lost at sea, but for now, I must bide my time. I grab my forceps and look into the mouth of another dead tourist. This one’s a gold mine. Her capped teeth won’t be missed. My retirement account just hit the mother lode.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve participated in Friday Fictioneers; in fact, I haven’t been able to blog much lately. My 100-word story isn’t really supposed to be funny, but I laughed at it. It’s kind of ghoulishly ridiculous.
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this gold mine of a challenge, that lures more than a 100 feverish fictioneers each week. We are truly wealthier for being a part of her writing community. Click the badge below to join: