Tagged with promptober 2025

• Inktober 2 - Weave

  This would actually be pretty fun, if not for the stress of being incredibly late for his date with Florence, Jonesy thought. He’d had a complete blackout this afternoon, caught up in the flow of his work, and didn’t realise the time until it was getting dark. So now he was bombing down the road in his Porsche 911, testing out its acceleration, and racing every traffic light.

  Hoooooonk! He was weaving through the traffic on the dual carriageway into the city centre now, rushing past the evening’s usual commuters meandering home from work. Forget fast and slow lanes, he thought. Just look for the gaps, and go for them, like that F1 driver once said. Nobody wants to have an accident, they’ll slow down if there’s not quite enough space. I wish I didn’t have to annoy everyone but I don’t have time to wait here.

  That was close, he thought, as a Range Rover slammed on its brakes. Good thing they saw me in time, my little sports car would not win that fight. Florence was going to be so pissed off. This was the third time he’d been this late. He might not get another chance. And she was amazing. Funny, clever, ambitious, passionate. Everything he’d ever dreamed of.

  He raced up to an HGV. There’s a chance to undertake if I’m quick, he thought to himself excitedly, get it before it merges back to the slow lane, it’s got a massive blind spot there. Woohoo! That was fun. Go get that electric Kia next. Boom, no match for good old fossil fuels today. Maybe I should take Florence out for a spin; she’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie, she’d love this.

  Single lanes now, and the car in front was obviously not even hitting the speed limit. There’s a gap in oncoming traffic, drop to a lower gear and floor it, you can get past here. Yes! That was amazing, he thought to himself. He could floor it, there was nobody ahead now.

  No, wait, shit, there’s a car pulling out of that junctio-

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  14 October 2025

  • fiction
  • promptober 2025

• Inktober 1 - Moustache

  Long ago, moustaches were a sign of a gentleman. Someone who wore a moustache was trustworthy, honourable, and of the right sort, if you know what I mean. Knew the right people, looked the part, spoke correctly. Understood when to look the other way, and what’s more understood when not to look at all.

  This moustache was unlike those fine specimens of years gone by. It lacked decorum. Etiquette. It had an extravagant twirl. A twirl that declared this moustache’s owner would not in fact follow common decency but instead trample over it, much like he’d trampled the convention of sensible moustaches.

  The man whose face this moustache adorned was certainly not a gentleman. This man did not even wear a tie. He considered such fine attire to be the mark of someone pretentious and stuffy. The cheek!

  This moustachioed man was, in fact, a private investigator. If there was anything farther from a gentleman, it was unheard of in polite society. A private investigator! Someone who made it their purpose in life to pry into the personal affairs of others. Someone who had so little going on in their life that they had to disseminate the intimate knowledge of upstanding citizens who had the right to expect the courtesy of privacy. Someone who hunted down tawdry affairs which were best laid to rest, and delighted in sharing with the world the shame of a gentleman. And to top it off, after committing the worst invasion of privacy, they are brazen enough to describe themselves as private investigators!

  Really, it was too much. This little man, his funny accent and his ridiculous moustache must leave the estate at once, lest he trap them all in the library and share one’s darkest affairs with all.

  
  

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  13 October 2025

  • fiction
  • promptober 2025