draliman on life

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

Copyright Roger Bultot

“Good, yes, good shot, zoom…”

“This drone is great. This’ll be one hell of a documentary.”

“Yep! Lower… careful, CAREFUL! Okay, that was his carotid artery. What a mess.”

“It’s really hard to control.”

“Watch out… urgh. I hope she wasn’t right-handed.”

“Why are the rotor blades so sharp?”

“Dunno. We got it cheap from military surplus.”

“Zooming in for a headshot. Wonder what this button does?”

 Rat-a-tat-a-tat splatter.

“Oh, hell. Headshot is right.”

“What’s the name of this documentary, anyway?”

“Originally, Faces of Art. Now… Murder at the Museum? Bohemian Bloodbath? Thirty to Life, No Parole? Take your pick.”

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Connie Gayer. After insulting Rochelle’s heirloom last week, I thought I’d leave Russell alone 🙂

Copyright Connie Gayer

“What’ya doin’, Bill?”

“Planting taters!”

“What fer?”

“Uncle Frank say he givin’ me a hun’red dollars fer doin’ it!”

“Wow! A hun’red dollars! You’ll be rich. Where’d he git so much?”

“Stole it off’a Aunt Vera, he tol’ me.”

“Whoa. Scary lady. Not ter be trifled wiv. Don’t you be gittin’ mixed up in it, Bill.”

“C’mon, what she gonna do? I kin buy a new bike, new shoes, everyfink!”

“Yeah, true. An’ it’ll be Uncle Frank she mad at, not you.”

“Hey, wos dis? Somefink’s in da hole!”

“Dig down!”

“Diggin’! Ooh…”

“Wos down dere?”

“Uncle Frank.”

“Well, shit.”

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

I was a bit stumped this week and didn’t have a lot of time.

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“Okay then, here goes…

“The mists rolled ominously across the moors. Bethwick drew a deep breath, cocked his rifle and strode out into the gloom. Suddenly…”

“Hang on, what’s this?”

“My photo prompt story.”

“You’re supposed to be writing about a weed in an ash tray.”

“Shh, keep it down. That’s probably her prize crystal serving dish.”

“It’s definitely a weed, though.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that. Okay, ditch the tale of intrigue and murder out on the misty moors. Take two!”

“There once was a weed which lived in an ash… I’m not feeling it. Pub?”

“Yeah.”

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was submitted by Courtney Wright from an anonymous source.

Heh. I started smiling the instant I saw this and within 5 minutes my story was all typed in. So you can probably guess it’s not one of those “cerebral” ones. You know, like the ones I never write.

Copyright anonymous, submitted by Courtney Wright

“Wow. Sure they’re Chaeron’s boots?”

“Verily. They were still smoking when I arrived.”

“You think Zeus finally zapped him for his blasphemy?”

“Maybe. Wait though, who’s this? Hey, it’s Chaeron!”

“It worked! My teleporter! It worked! It zapped me clear over the other side of the village! Left my boots behind. Needs a little adjustment.”

“Yeah, Chaeron. Sure it did. C’mon, Callinus, let’s go.”

“No, wait, it did work! I am all powerful! More powerful than even feeble Zeus! The gods will tremble…”

Zap! Bang! Fizz!

“What was that flash of light?”

“Dunno. Can you smell barbecue? I smell barbecue.”

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

After my last dark stories I was really in the mood for more gruesomeness this week but I don’t want people to start to worry about me 🙂 so I’ve ended up with this. As you can probably tell from the title “Letter to Mama” there will be no violence, unless it’s like “Dear Mama, I ritually disembowelled another heretic today. How is Papa?” or something.

I wrote a third person one and a letter one and went with the letter one in the end.

Copyright Jill Wisoff

Dear Mama,

I have arrived! So many strange sights. Though dressed in loincloth and carrying my spear, no-one seems to care. Many strange people are here!

Today I glanced up and saw a wonderful omen. Yellow eyes, red cheeks, spiked hat… yes, Mama. The god Meechakukuwhawha (photo enclosed)! These people also worship the god of the harvest, procreation and anteaters. How wonderful!

Later, I obtained a “chilli dog” from a street vendor. I do not know what dogs they have in Chile and hoped it would be Chihuahua within the bun, but I fear not.

Your loving son,

Natwahu

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

For some reason a very dark story occurred to me this week, sorry.

Copyright Karen Rawson

He glanced behind as his family struggled up the slope, grinning as his youngest fell and slipped into the muddy water. Lashing out he threw his wife against a tree. His eldest ran past and he tripped her, laughing as she tumbled down. He was free, free…!

Jerked suddenly awake, he hears the grating, whining voice of his wife even from inside his shed. The kids are arguing. Again. Plagued in dreams and wakefulness! Something snaps inside, white and red flashes in his brain. He grabs his axe and stalks towards the house.

“… he seemed like such a nice man…”

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Jan Wayne Fields.

I tried a bit of present tense this week to try to make it seem more “immediate”. Or whatever. I had major issues with the word count, much rewording was required!

Copyright Jan Wayne Fields

“How about a photo, my darling? Move a bit closer to the edge, it’ll be more dramatic. Look at the view.” A couple more yards, then I’ve got you…

“Of course dearest. It’s lovely!”

She reaches the edge and he charges forward, arms outstretched, face murderous, triumphant. Oblivious, she bends to rummage in her bag. Eyes wide, he trips over her and falls, smashing on the rocks below.

“Oh my. How… unfortunate. And messy. Well, this is more ‘accidental-looking’. It’s so hard to explain a stab wound.“

She places the knife back in her bag, dials the police, and smiles.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. The photo was contributed by Douglas M. MacIlroy and appears to depict some sort of horrific medieval torture cage.

Copyright Douglas M. MacIlroy

Jerry huddled, miserable and cold in the cage. The skies were darkening and the cold was seeping into his bones. In the distance he could see the truck that had brought him here. All was quiet.

Hours later and the sun rose, hurting his eyes. He felt panic, terror. His muscles had cramped. He started at a sound, two men approaching. One of them vomited on the grass. The other spoke.

“Jeez, sorry mate. We got pissed and forgot about you! It was only supposed to be twenty minutes.”

“Forgot about me? I’m the bloody groom! Worst stag do ever!”

Note: in case you’re not aware, it’s a traditional jape at a stag do (I believe in America it’s called a “bachelor party”) to “fake kidnap” the groom and (hopefully) deliver him to the party. Sometimes he ends up chained to a lamp post 🙂