draliman on life

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

Copyright Russell Gayer

Jerry stared at the deadly, yet immobile, dust storm. The stasis field, a miracle of temporal engineering, had kept them safe all these years, freezing them in time.

Trapped inside, they had struggled to survive as supplies ran low. Taboos were broken, terrible sacrifices made. People died.

“Can’t stay here alone no more, better off dead,” he murmured, switching off the stasis field, trembling, waiting for the dust to shred him.

There was a whoomp. The dust fell to the ground, the storm long since spent.

“Well, bugger. Could’ve done that months ago. Guess I didn’t need to eat Frank after all.”

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. The photo was contributed by Randy Mazie.

Since it’s a reboot photo from July 2013 I was going to just rewrite my story from last time but it appears I joined the FF crew in August 2013. So thinking cap on!

Copyright Randy Mazie

“Consult the Satanists’ Handbook. Midnight?”

“Check.”

“Graveyard?”

“Check.”

“Goat?”

Bleat.

“Check.”

“Ceremonial Dagger of the Night Mother?”

“Check. What’s next… chant prayer to Dark Lord, use ceremonial dagger, have goat for dinner.”

Bleeeeat.

“Hand me the dagger.”

Bleeeeeeeeeeeat!

Twenty minutes later…

“Seems weird using a ceremonial dagger to make sandwiches. More mayo?”

“Please.”

“Never had a goat over for dinner either. More sandwich, goat?”

Bleat!

“I can’t help thinking we’re doing this wrong.”

“Yeah. I always thought Satanism would involve more blood. Like a sacrifice or… oh.”

Bleeeat?

“Hey ho, it should have been more explicit, crappy instructions. Pass the salt.”

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

This photo is a re-run from December 2013. I have used the same basic story idea I wrote back then but have completely rewritten it.

Copyright Adam Ickes

They’d broken away from their tribes, leaving the modern world behind to live as their ancestors had. Hunting, fishing, camp fires. No electricity. No computers.

But the modern world has demands and those demands usually involve money. Some things cannot be hunted or fished. A small income was required.

From time to time backpackers wandered into their valley. In the traditional way, every part of the poor unfortunate was used.

Waste not, want not.

The slogan for their best-selling line ran…

“Hard-wearing hiking boots. Made by men, for men!”

And of course, their biggest secret, from men.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Douglas M. MacIlroy.

Copyright Douglas M. MacIlroy

Cleevus finished the code and hit enter. The globe rose into the air, spinning, spewing blinding extra-dimensional energy. Lamps flickered. Outside, the sound of car alarms, people screaming, explosions.

“Yes, my beauty!” laughed Cleevus maniacally as the globe’s light reached a crescendo. Plaster fell from the ceiling and the globe dimmed and settled on the podium. It opened.

“Oh yes, YES!” he cackled.

He reached in, took out a glass and sipped.

“Ahhhhh. Eggnog, interdimensionally-mixed to perfection!”

His upstairs neighbour fell through the ceiling, landing in a crumpled heap. The house next door collapsed.

“Collateral damage… eh, who cares! Mmm, eggnog.”

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Dawn M. Miller.

Copyright Dawn M. Miller

009 grimaced as he flew out the train window. Twisting his body to avoid the girders, he shot past the decomposing corpse of 004. Popular spot for chucking spies off trains…

Hitting the water, he struggled to the bank where a local wrapped him in a blanket, pointing to his shack.

“Welcome, Unfortunate Spies!” was written in seventeen different languages.

Very popular spot…

The local offered him the “Spy Pack” – fake passport, gadget watch, Walther PPK. 009 upgraded to “Deluxe”, which included bullets. Gonna need those…

Shooting the enterprising local (loose end) he headed off. All in a day’s work.

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

This one’s a bit icky, to the point where I was going to change the last line, but I think it’s funny so it stays 🙂

Just in case you can’t see it, the brand on the far left can is “Braime”.

Copyright Nick Allen

“And here we have a 1965 ‘blue oil’…”

“Right.”

“… and an original ‘red’…”

“Ooookaaaay…”

“… and this is a genuine 1932 tractor oil can… genuine! I bet you’re surprised, eh?”

“I am. Your dating profile didn’t mention any of this.”

“I don’t like to give too much away!”

“I really think you should have.”

“And my favourite…”

“Oh, Christ.”

“… ‘Blue Braime’. Shall we move to the bedroom? Braime’s oil is smooth, sensual…”

(gagging) “Um, ah, is that my phone? my dog’s been abducted by aliens? gotta go, bye…”

Slam

“Huh. Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Braime…”

Here is my not really a story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Dale Rogerson.

Any resemblance to any persons alive or dead is quite possible 🙂

Copyright Dale Rogerson

“Well, this is disappointing,” grumbled Dail. “What did the advert say?”

“Hmm,” replied Rocheel, “’Biggest falls in Canada, terrifying rapids’.”

“What? A trickle of water, plummeting six inches to the pool below?”

“Well, I’m going for it. If one can, one must!” misquoted Rocheel, donning her life preserver and jumping in, to be instantly submerged to her ankles in the ‘terrifying rapids’.

Following her friend, Dail jumped in her canoe, only to be immediately grounded on an inconvenient pebble.

“Huh,” she said. “Rubbish. Well, best take a photo. Maybe a Friday Fictioneer can make a story out of this whole debacle…”