draliman on life

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

Not sure what I was thinking this week. I just wanted to do something silly. For a change heh heh. But with a sort of a grim background. Picture two retired and somewhat jaded English officers relaxing with drinks…

Copyright Yarnspinnerr

“What-ho, Cadwallader. Those thieves are back! Thought we’d shot ‘em all.”

“I say, Beamish, they’re lowering a grapple. Ingenious! They’re after the Ming.”

“I believe you’re correct, Cadwallader… they’ve missed the Ming!”

“And snagged your souvenir hand grenade.”

“What? Had that thing all through Flanders!”

“By Jove, the pin fell out.”

“Ha! The bounders’ll get a surprise, I’ll warrant!”

“Really, Beamish, you don’t think it’s still…”

BANG! SPLATTER! SPLASH!

“I say, old man, there’s an eyeball in my highball.”

“By good King George, there are scoundrel parts everywhere.”

“This won’t do at all. Reminds me of Ypres. I say, servant…”

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

Copyright Dale Rogerson

People fled in terror as thunderous footsteps shook the ground.

“Giant! Giant!” they screamed.

The hideous beast, wearing an expression of rage, trampled everything, picking up cars and hurling them like toys. Everywhere, it saw puny, tiny humans running for cover.

Ripping the wall from a building, it paused and smiled, a twisted grimace of triumph. A woman screamed as the giant’s hairy hand came closer, but she was ignored. The hand grabbed a suspended artwork and the giant moved away, popping it on its head. As it left it could be heard muttering.

Damn humans. Always nicking my hat.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Fatima Fakier Deria.

Copyright Fatima Fakier Deria

Hidden in his perch, he looked across at the chairs. Empty now, he knew that soon each would be occupied. He settled down to wait.

Hours past until at last he spied his quarry entering the garden. A clandestine meeting; it had cost much to determine the location.

Sighting carefully, he targeted the lead participant. A perfect shot.

A meeting of two Great Families. He smiled grimly as a dozen Kardashians and as many Baldwins took their seats.

He took the shot; then again, again, again.

Heh, he thought. Da tabloids is gonna pay big bucks for dese pics.

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

Copyright Björn Rudberg

Nigel glares at the sign. He can’t understand. Others with disabilities pass with no problem. All races, creeds, colours and sexual orientation, all are welcomed with open arms.

Why is he any different? Why is he singled out?

The sign is clear. He turns and walks back the way he has come.

Have you been affected by Nigel’s story? Maybe, like Nigel, you were born with a single huge hand, or know someone who was. If so, please take to Twitter, using the hashtag “#iwasbornwithsinglehugehandsyndromeandfeelostracisedasaresult”. If you have any characters left, leave a message.

You too can make a difference.

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

Copyright Ted Strutz

The camera sat forlornly on the hilltop, still pointed skywards. A small hamper and flask of hot soup sat nearby on a blanket, laid out in an attempt to afford the user some measure of protection against the damp grass. A book on astronomy lay open, pages fluttering in the breeze.

Molly trudged up the hill. “Harold? Harold? Where could he be, the old fool?”

Concentrating on the flask, the book, the camera, she didn’t notice the still-smoking pile of ash…

There are things. Up there. In the stars. And they don’t like being watched.

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

Copyright Sandra Crook

Barclay drew his boat up quietly to the bank near a lawn of sculptures which looked as though they’d been vomited randomly into place. High class venue. He saw cars near the mansion and smiled. No-one would expect him to sneak in by boat. He drew his gun.

Two at the door – blam! blam! Red sprayed. One more inside – blam! Right to the head. Too easy…

… until the hallway. Ten, all firing at once. Screaming, he fell in a pool of sticky red and groaned. He’d never get all this paint out. His mum was going to kill him.