draliman on life

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by David Stewart.

“’Ere, is that a light over by the spooky underground entrance?”

“Maybe. Best take a look.”

They sauntered over. Overhead, thunder rumbled (ominously). One cautiously opened the door and flicked the light switch. The stairway (predictably) remained dark. Overhead, thunder rumbled (even more ominously).

“Should we look?”

“Are you kidding? In a film we’d be ‘Security Guards 1 and 2’. We wouldn’t even last to the opening credits!”

They left. Voices came from downstairs.

“Damn Hollyvood mooveess! Ve vill not be drinking bloot zis night, children.”

“Aw, Pappa, you promised…”

“Ve vill try ze goth nightclub. Ve vill fit right in!”

“Yay!”

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Sandra Crook.

He didn’t often come down from the castle. The villagers had such stories about his hilltop home. It was portrayed as a place of darkness, of evil, where a bogeyman, a demon, a devil, abided.

Mothers told their children ‘If you’re naughty, the castle devil will come and eat you up!‘

Old wives’ tales. Myths.

He shook his head. Why frighten the little ones?

Nearby, a baby cried. He grinned, saliva dipping from razor-sharp fangs to hiss on the pavement. Lunchtime!

Sometimes, the stories told by superstitious villagers are true.

Sometimes, there be demons.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Fleur Lind.

Bob stared through the glass of the table. How far down did that go? Maybe all the way to the depths of Hell itself…!

Suddenly the tabletop flipped up and a bat-winged monstrosity exploded out, claws slashing, eyes glowing fire-red.

Bob screamed.

The creature screeched, fire issuing from its hideous mouth.

Bob peed himself.

It threw something at him. He looked down.

It was a steak, medium rare, mushroom sauce, sautéed potatoes.

The creature grated “bon appetit!” and descended back to Hell.

Bob tucked in. Now probably wasn’t the best moment to mention he had ordered the Chef’s Salad.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. She also provided the photo this week.

Theadorus was a Weaver. A Weaver-in-training, but a Weaver nonetheless. He wove not cottons and silks into garments, but the lines of fate into destinies.

His first solo project had not gone well. A strand had gone awry. The project’s most intelligent species was killing each other. There was war, famine, disease and poverty. And on top of all that, the climate was falling apart.

With a heavy sigh, he reached out and severed a single thread. Seven billion voices went silent as a planet imploded and was gone.

Sometimes there’s no help for it but to start over.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. Rochelle supplied the photo this week.

“Get Well Soon!”. Humph. Sounded like a command. Maybe if he looked on the back of the balloon it would say “Or Else…”

Anyway, he wasn’t planning on getting well anytime soon. And it was lunch time!

He rang the little bell. Nothing. He rang it again. Then he tried shouting.

“Oy, lunch!”

Still nothing.

Hobbling downstairs (huffing and puffing dramatically) he read the note on the kitchen table.

“I’ve had enough, make your own damn lunch, I’m out with the girls!”

Looked like it was time to “get better”. Three weeks wasn’t bad for an ingrowing toenail, after all.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Lisa Fox.

The building was overgrown now. Condemned. After only 20 years, cracks had appeared, floors had collapsed

Jens had helped build the place. He felt a little guilty at its early demise – and well he should. It turns out that if you mix too many dead bodies into the concrete, it ruins its structural integrity.

Sighing, he turned to leave. Best to get gone before the excited archaeologists who had descended on the place realised that they had unearthed, not “Marcus Paulinus of the Roman Legion” but “Tommy ‘The Tooth’ Timpson, erstwhile mob accountant”.

The Cartel was gonna be pissed.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Brenda Cox.

Old Jed sat at his fruit-n-veg shack. He loved it. No-one much came by, but it was a quiet life.

A van drew to a halt, throwing up a cloud of dust.

“Alright, mate!”

“Good morning,” answered Jed. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have… a punt of strawberries and a bag of potatoes. Oh, and…” the man looked around “… an AR-15 assault rifle.”

“Right y’are,” said Jed, fetching the items.

Sometimes he wondered what people did with the guns he sold, but it wasn’t really his problem. After all, guns didn’t kill people. People killed people.

Usually with his guns.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Na’ama Yehuda.

Agent 9 took a deep breath and crept closer, picking his way through the flower beds. His target was in sight, a small, unassuming man – no-one would suspect what he carried in the briefcase at his side.

Agent 9 placed a finger beneath his nose, closed his eyes and proceeded. Close, so close… he could almost touch the man now. He held his breath a moment, concentrating, and released… better. He reached out towards the man… closer… closer…

aaaaaCHOOOOO!

The man ran, taking his suitcase nuke with him, ready for sale to the highest bidder.

Hay fever’s a bitch.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Carole Erdman-Grant.

He’d seen places like this everywhere. After the bombs fell they’d become havens for the depraved, daubed with gang signs making clear their purpose.

He saw no-one, however. He hadn’t for over a year. Violence, starvation and radiation had taken the world.

Many animals had survived the radiation-induced mutations, but he was the last human.

“I am the last! I am the final living… ugh.”

He didn’t even see the huge, mutated claw which took him. The last human he may have been, but there are worse things out there now than humans.

Welcome to the Age of the Mutant.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by David Stewart.

Smiling ruefully, he realised he’d made two lunches again. Sometimes he thought he could hear her. Any little noise in the house, in the garden. Like she was still there.

Sometimes he forgot she was gone.

She had been a good wife. She kept the house well. If only she hadn’t been such a nag. Do this, do that, you’re lazy, lazy!

It was enough to drive a man to murder.

Shrugging, he shuffled over to the back window. His rose bushes were flourishing. Ironically, though she hadn’t been much of a gardener in life, his wife made fantastic fertiliser.