Ficlets

There was only silence, save for the crackling of the bonfire. As my vision gradually shifted from concussed blur to night-blind blur, I made out the unmoving figure of Junior, similarly trussed on a nearby pole. While he seemed to be okay, three feet of ground were all that was preventing a good old fashioned pig-roast.

One of the shadowy figures stepped into the firelight. He was lucky my hands were tied – I was getting sick of this shit. The ‘Chief’ was wearing nothing but a combination of Motorcross armor, feathers and some creatively-stitched grocery bags. His headdress alone represented at least three feather dusters, a stuffed parrot and possibly the innards of some unfortunate pillow. Goose down I’d wager.
He lit into some big speech about the evil of interlopers and the unclean. I used the time to clear my head and look around. There were about 20 villagers, mostly women and kids, all bag-clad and scared looking.
“Excuse me.” I said, cutting the chief off. He turned to me aghast.
“Got a cigarette?”