The main thrust

The wyvern bore down on him. He knew that now was the time to strike, just as she dove in for the kill. He thrust his sword up and between two great scales on her chest, or rather tried to and failed dismally, his rubbish sword bending and breaking, the beast barely slowed by his puny efforts, her great jaws clamping through his throat easily and allowing her young, his erstwhile prey, to swarm in and tear him into digestible shreds.

Drone warfare

Dave leaned on the fence and signed. She was going on about her husband’s bad back again, as though Dave worked for the DSS. She didn’t realise that he was hardly going to grass up the scrounging bastard. He might need that excuse himself one day. But her life of lies had made her paranoid, and she went on and on. He found his mind wandering, then his eyes drooping, and though ostensibly awake he even began to snore, and then fell back onto the trampoline which, though old and grimy, was in fabulous working order, and he bounced off it, somersaulting wearily across the garden and into the pond, sinking unconsciously beneath the surface scum into the toxic waste below, his skin quickly dissolving and exposing his muscles, bones and everything else to a slightly slower but equally total annihilation as she tutted and waddled off to bore someone else.

The Inconstant Gardener

He turned away from the lovely pink-red dahlias, put down his secateurs, picked up his old copy of Greyfriars Bobby and sat back in his deck chair, taking a sip of Tizer and settling in for a good read, though he knew in this heat that it might turn into a nap. As he began the fourth page, a titanium fist suddenly smashed into his face with monstrous force. He thought he felt his skull fracture and sag inwards, but he had no time to be sure as the fist smashed in again and again and kept on coming with robotic relentlessness, quickly pounding its way through the entire front of his skull and into his brain, through that too and all the way out of the back of his head.

Dive Alive

He dove forward, crunching his face brilliantly into the edge of the roof, his body whipping forward and slamming into the building’s side as his face slid off and he fell to the ground five stories below, breaking horribly on the concrete and ending up so contorted that his final, copious guff, which also brought forth solids, was directed perfectly into his own grimacing face.

Winning is all

She insisted that if they just waited for the lift they would get to the bottom sooner, but he already had a foot on the escalator. She let him go and he looked back up to see her giggling as she ran and got into the glass-fronted capsule, pressed the button frantically to close the doors and held her bag and grinned at him as she descended smoothly to the middle floor, reaching it just before he did and only stopping for a moment to let another woman in before resuming her descent. Complacent as always, he casually strolled round and got onto the second escalator. She grinned wider and began to give mocking gestures, knowing that he would still be ten feet from the ground when she touched down, but her wanker sign stopped and her face turned to sickened horror as he realised too, flung himself off the moving metal staircase, plunged through the few inches of water by the fountain and crunched his head horribly into the coin-strewn tiles, blood and, it appeared, deeply golden urine surrounding him as he expired to the sound of a pre-recorded Tannoy announcement.

Bore me later

Chris had been asked whether he expected shrinkage to be higher among the call centre staff in Q3, and of course the answer was yes, but Neil from head office wanted to hear detail, whereas Chris just wanted to enjoy his glass of wine and look down over the yard as the windows reflected the gleaming afternoon sun. It was rare for this little secluded urban spot to look so pretty. But Neil was droning on insistently. The fact that they’d all been allowed to finish at 3 today seemed to be of no value to him. If anything it was an annoyance. He had to talk shop. He had no social skills and no life outside work. None.

Chris found himself leaning drowsily on the railing across the open French doors, unable and, unusually for him, unwilling to conceal his weariness at his senior manager’s crushingly boring attempts at conversation. Even this obvious fuck-off made no difference at all, and his sleepy disinterest in Neil’s desire to ‘really drive down costs across the operation’ only deepened, until suddenly Chris found himself past the point of no return, panicking and trying to grab one of the railings as he tumbled fully over, but to no avail, and now he plunged right into the vat of toxic waste, his skin beginning to crisp and sizzle immediately, some of it turning into a sort of fleshy steam while the rest began to slough off his body, leaving the muscles to rapidly dissolve under the chemical onslaught, his eyes lasting only a few seconds and his throat being annihilated too as he tried in vain to utter a final, gurgling scream as Neil frowned at his lack of professionalism.