Ficlets

The arrow fell short and skidded to a halt between my boots. Glancing down I could see it had been crudely fashioned from most of a feather duster, a sharpened spoon and enough duct-tape to render it largely un-aerodynamic. It also didn’t help that the would-be archer’s arms were scarcely thicker than his bowstring.
He swore and ducked back behind the bus, from which came muffled conversation. A moment later a trio of figures, clad in stitched-together rags and leathers, emerged clutching makeshift weapons. One seemed to have cobbled together an ‘axe’ made from a tennis racquet, disposable razor blades and, again, duct-tape.
“Oh come on!” I shouted. “Just three months ago you guys were probably copy-machine repairmen or postal workers or something equally lame. Now you’re self-declared Road Warriors?” I hefted my rifle in their direction.
“Now drop that goofy shit, give me my stuff back and we can all go back to our respective hobbies.”
They kept advancing, hungrily.
“Fine, have it your way.” I fired the gun.