You wanna buy a lamp?
Hang on – I know you! You got the makings of a spliff on you?
Paul? No – he’s gone. He was a weird one - everything had its own special place and you’d better not move it. He was a pain to live with, but I put up with it until the business of the lamps. He found fault with each one I got, so I cracked him over the head with the last one.
No, I can’t remember which one – does it matter?
Each one’s a quid whether it’s a murder weapon or not.
Friday Fictioneers is contributed to by writers from all round the world. We write 100-word stories prompted by a photograph posted on this site