draliman on life

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Jean L. Hays.

I’m thinking this bunch of whingy whiners are never going to be elite troops…

Copyright Jean L. Hays

“Target ahead. Silent protocol.”

“Right-oh, Sarge!”

“Shhh!”

“Jeez.”

“Barbed wire. Snips, now.”

…

“Snips? Anyone?”

…

“Oh, for… slip underneath.”

“…ow! I caught my finger…”

“Shhh!”

“…aw, man, I got cow poo on my uniform.…”

“…I know a good dry cleaner….”

“…what about my finger? I’m bleeding out….”

“…Sarge, I knelt in a puddle, my Mum’s gonna kill me…”

“WILL THE LOT OF YOU SHUT UP?! THEY’RE GONNA HEAR…”

BANG!

“Aw, man. Poor Sarge.”

“…now I’ve got blood on my uniform… blood and poo…”

“This is too stressful. Let’s evac home.”

“…and don’t think you’re coming in the chopper covered in poo…”

Here is my even sillier-than-last-week’s story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Roget Bultot.

Work is mad, I’m doing 11+ hour days, so here’s something I knocked out in my lunch break.

Copyright Roger Bultot

“Newtown’s Most Wanted”, by reporter Tim Pointless

Police are today searching for a band of merciless criminals. Sgt Doughnut from Newtown Constabulary explains:

“They’re roving the streets, cold-bloodedly washing cars without permission, left, right and centre. Left, right and centre!”

I asked Sgt Doughnut why this was such a problem.

“Look at all the suds! You could slip and break a hip! Little bastards. Pardon my French.”

Newtown Constabulary responded with “no comment”, but muttered that “Sgt Doughnut should never have been allowed out near the public, the daft bugger.”

Next week – “Flower Arranging exposé – the dark side of Ikebana”

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

Copyright Sandra Crook

The Crabs of Crab Bay saw, at last, their target. Holidaymakers, setting up for a day’s sunbathing.

“Attack, my comrades! Today we taste blood!”

Pouring onto the sand, they charged, pincers snapping.

“Look, Dad, crabs!”

“Mmm, crab meat. Grab the cricket bat!”

The Crabs of Crab Bay milled in terror as the two-legs approached. Field Marshal Crab took charge and, wheeling sharply, with full military discipline, the Crabs of Crab Bay fled the scene strategically withdrew.

Seven Crabs lost their lives that day.

Avenge your fellows! Join up today! Pincer sharpeners provided!

The Crab Bay Defence Force – because Crabs matter

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

The (completely anonymous) character “Dail” makes a guest appearance!

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Copyright Dale Rogerson

Dail shivered and tucked herself deeper into her winter coat. A winter coat, in mid-summer!

The dust cloud, born of an unfortunate nuclear-related mishap, had seen the Earth freeze. At least Canadians are used to the cold, she thought. Many survivors were not so lucky.

Millions in Britain had frozen to death within minutes thanks to their “stiff upper lip, keep on keeping on” attitude, resulting in the general consensus that “it’s mid-summer so I’m wearing a t-shirt”.

Children, ever-resilient, built snowmen.

With survival a priority, the world forgot about Brexit. And golf-playing presidents.

So, every cloud, and all that…

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

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Copyright Roger Bultot

“Huh, it doesn’t look as scary as the photo in the advert.”

“That photo was digitally altered. This place looks rather pleasant. Dammit!”

“‘Haunted house’, indeed. Let’s go.”

Cecil Montague, dead these 300 years, watched from the tower, hunger blazing from his rotting eyes. After all these centuries, dinner approached… anticipation becoming despair as they left. So close – he could almost taste their flesh! He’d spent years learning how use a ‘computer’ to ‘Photoshop’ a ‘photograph’ to snare tasty ghosthunters. What a waste.

Time to change tack… now, where were those instructions on how to list a property on Airbnb…?

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Ronda Del Boccio.

Copyright Ronda Del Boccio

Greg moaned. Lying on his back… the moon? No, a streetlight. Oh… his head… way too much whisky… so much whisky… a van… someone coming… wearing a mask, a hypodermic needle… no, no… hauled into the van… moving… smell of food… blackness…

“Hey, Baz, fast food! Fancy a kebab?”

“Dunno, these fast food vans can be a bit dodgy.”

“C’mon, sissy! Just a shame we lost Greg somewhere along the way. Hey, mate, two kebabs!”

“Of course, sir, new delivery of meat just in, very fresh!”

“Awesome! Wow, nice. My kebab tastes like single malt. Magic!”

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

Stand by for a major groan-worthy play on words!

Copyright Sandra Crook

I didn’t mean to do it, but Gerald… that smug git. Always winding me up. So I grabbed him one day and shoved him towards the loom. His tie got stuck; the machines dragged him in.

Oh, the screams, the noises as he was shredded… I don’t mind telling you, it set my teeth on edge.

When the cotton came out it made the most beautiful blood-red pattern on the fabric…. once you picked bits of Gerald out of it.

In fact I might market it. Maybe mix in some more colours. Make a fortune.

Think I’ll call it “tie-die”…

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

Copyright Dale Rogerson

Millions queued to ride the Peace Wheel.

It had appeared overnight, a mystery. Shortly after, the crime rate dropped to zero. Countries dismantled their arsenals and armies. Warlords took up farming. People the world over stopped concentrating on jobs, on ambitions.

Hate, the will to fight, disappeared. People were suddenly “getting along” with each other.

Hidden in high orbit, Dresh N’Gak smiled. In days the population of this backwards backwater planet would have lost all self-will. They would be ripe for conquest! He twisted a dial, increasing signal strength.

The “Peace Wheel” thrummed with renewed energy.

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

Another story which came straight into my head. Yay!

Copyright Anshu Bhojnagarwala

“What the hell is that?”

“I got it from the dump. Pretty great, huh?”

“It’s got a tree growing out of it.”

“You’ve heard of house music? Garage?”

“Yessss….”

“This is gonna be ‘Plant’.”

“Jesus.”

“Here goes…”

Thunk! Crash!

A cat’s tail, poking out from beneath the rubble, twitched once and was still.

“YOU KILLED MR FLUFFY, YOU MURDERER!”

“Maybe it was a bit knackered. I saw a guitar with mushrooms growing out of it down the dump… ‘Fungus’! Awesome!”

Meanwhile Mr Fluffy, one of his nine lives sadly gone, extricated himself and trotted away in search of a less insane human.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by C.E. Ayr.

Copyright C.E. Ayr

Jeff bid goodbye to his mates and left the pub. The other members of the motorcycle gang left en masse but Jeff slunk around the corner to his piddly little moped. As his fellows roared off on their testosterone-fuelled hogs, Jeff opened his throttle and charged off at his top speed of 17mph, head down.

But – too late! He had been spotted! The video was online! Jeff’s street cred was ruined!

Don’t let this happen to you. Visit Mike’s Bikes today! Get yourself a Harley!

10% discount for members of the Death’s Head Slasher Biker Gang

Don’t be a Jeff!