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FF – On the Thoughts of Ghosts
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Liz Young.
I had no real ideas this week, so fair warning – you need a really weird sense of humour to see anything in this, and even then, it’s likely to be “huh?” It’s a wee bit surreal 🙂
Copyright Liz Young
Typical. With all the “space-saving grave relocations” going on, his coffin had to be on the one plane which blew up mid-air.
His tombstone had landed in a public park. The rest of him was scattered the length and breadth of Wiltshire.
When he’d been alive he’d often needed to be in several places at once. Now he was. It was rubbish.
He supposed he’d better start haunting someone now he was no longer stuck in a coffin.
Or several someones. The length and breadth of Wiltshire.
That tenacious dog playing with his shin-bone could be his first victim.
Boo!
FF – No Pain No Gain
Here is my story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Magaly Guerrero.
Click on the blue froggy for this week’s other stories.
Copyright Magaly Guerrero
“So what’s all this gubbins for, again?”
“The heels are for my night out.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“The art book reminds me of the suffering endured through the ages for the sake of beauty. Like me in my heels.”
“Okay…”
“The red book is a medical reference so I know everything that’s gone wrong with my feet after my night out in my heels.”
“And the little suitcase?”
“Antiseptic, plasters and whatnot. To fix my feet up ready for my next night out. In my heels.”
“I’d switch to flats if I were you.”
“Dad, don’t you know anything? Men!”
FF – Senseless Waste
Here is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo is from Dale Rogerson. Thanks, Dale! I have a very clear image in my mind of my two protagonists 🙂
(In case it’s not used where you are, a “copper” is a police office. I guess, thinking about it, that’s where the American word “cop” comes from.)
To read the other stories, click on the blue froggy.
Copyright Dale Rogerson
“I can’t believe it, Jenkins.”
“Nor me, Sarge.”
“All my years as a copper, to see this.”
“Frightful, Sarge.”
“In his own home, his own home!”
“His castle, Sarge.”
“Safely locked away from the stinking, all-encompassing evil out there.”
“Evil, Sarge. All-encompassing.”
“What a waste, Jenkins, a stupid, senseless, waste!”
“Senseless, Sarge.”
“His safe haven, away from prying eyes, and he still couldn’t bring himself to eat the whole pizza.”
“Pathetic, Sarge.”
“I’ll be ripping the piss out of him when he gets back from the shops. And Jenkins? No need to call me ‘Sarge’ when we’re off duty.”
“Understood, Sarge.”
FF – The Aspiring Poet
Here is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was sent in by Jellico’s Stationhouse.
To read this week’s other entries, click on the blue froggy.
Copyright Jellico’s Stationhouse
A bicycle, yet not; a shadow, a merest thought of what was once a bicycle; an imagining, if you will, a suspicion of shape, of purpose, not yet formed in the mind of… whom? May we even dare to imagine this being, this shadow, this merest hint…
“Oh, good God, will you ever shut UP!”
“I’m channelling my inner poet.”
“Well, I’ve had enough. I’m off down town. I’m taking my bike.”
“No, wait, my muse, ridden away… hmm…”
Never more to cast the merest hint of shadow, a void where once the thought of a maybe-bicycle enters one’s imaginings…
FF – Pilot Boats
Here is my story (sort of) for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This weeks’s nautical photo was contributed by Fatima Fakier Deria.
It’s a lot harder than you think to deliberately write something awful. My stories are getting ever madder bwahahaha.
To read the other stories for this week, click on the blue froggy.
Copyright Fatima Fakier Deria
The gloriously-restored ship sets sail, its canvas billowing majestically as the stalwart (yet horribly uninformed) helmsman steers erroneously to port. The graceful ship plows catastrophically into the harbour wall, its timbers splintering in majestic fashion. The gloriously-attired crew members fall into the fatally-cold (yet majestic) sea as the majestically glorious ship sinks gracefully to the bottom on its gloriously majestic (yet final) voyage.
This has been an advert for Porthmiggin Harbour Authority – always use a qualified Pilot – We’re expensive but so’s your boatTM
[Also, new PR intern required. Plain, simple language skills a must. Own thesaurus preferred. Apply within.]
FF – Onche a Shpy
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by J. Hardy Carroll.
I had an idea but couldn’t make an actual story out of it and then a certain somebody sprang to mind and it all came together 🙂 . Last time, I promise 😉 . Click on the blue froggy for this week’s other stories.
Copyright J Hardy Carroll
The ageing figure clambered arthritically over the fence, grimacing as the spikes gashed his arm. Undeterred, he crashed through tree branches, grazing his face. Extracting an immaculately-pressed handkerchief, he wiped off the blood and pressed on, tripping over a tree stump and dislocating his shoulder.
Ignoring the pain he finally stumbled to the door, above which he spied the banner – “Welcome Intelligence Operatives Class of 1962!” He looked over others in the queue – all appeared perfectly groomed.
“For heaven’s sake, Bond!” snapped M. “It’s a party! Can’t you use the front gate like everyone else?”
“Onche a shpy, alwaysh a shpy.”
FF – Waiting for the End
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Jennifer Pendergast.
I saw some sort of ancient monolith this week.
To read the other stories, click on the blue froggy.
Copyright Jennifer Pendergast
The entity had been waiting since the dawn of time. It had seen life crawl from the oceans. It had been buried in mud, worshipped, buried in sand, transported, stored away and displayed.
And all the time it had been watching. Gathering information. The deadline had arrived. It compiled its report.
Planet overrun. Ecosystem dying. No hope. Recommend sterilisation. Prepare culling.
A small human approached, touched it. The human’s face was full of hope, its eyes gentle, trusting, curious. The entity reconsidered. It compiled a new message and transmitted.
Situation dire but hope remains. Recommend hold. Final decision in two generations.
FF – Mr Bond?
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Shaktiki Sharma.
It took ages to get the photo uploaded this week – it was a little buggy! Ha ha ha. Ahem. 🙂
Note – those aren’t typos in the final sentence, I was trying to do his accent.
Click on the blue froggy for more stories!
Copyright Shaktiki Sharma
“Wow, this new tech is great!”
“Yeah, it’s bug… which is a bug!”
“Fly closer, we need to hear what they’re saying.”
“Okay… wait, it’s veering off course… heading towards that ultra-violet light… oh no…”
Fzzzzt
“A bit too bug-like, perhaps?”
“We’re going down, we’re going down! Okay, we still have video and audio.”
“Who’s this approaching with the sharp suit and Martini, shaken not stirred… oh my word, it’s HIM!”
A foot descends, crushing the bug. The last the operators hear is a strong Scottish accent.
“High-tech amateursh. Now, where wash I, my dear…? Ah yesh, sho I shaid to M…”
FF – Second Chance?
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo comes from – ooh, I just checked, Rochelle as well!
I’m afraid I’ve gone eco-warrior again. You know, one of those ones who pontificates from their armchair before roaring off in their 6 litre 3 miles to the gallon pimp-mobile.
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
“Wow, Mum! This virtual reality headset you got me’s great! The sky’s all blue!”
“That’s the colour it was on Old Earth, apparently.”
“Is it like that still?”
“No. That’s one thing everyone agrees on. Nobody can live on Old Earth now. It’s all destroyed.”
“How, Mum?”
“We’re not sure. The record tapes were damaged when the first refugees arrived here and nobody remembers. It must have been quite the disaster, though. Now, come inside, quickly. It’s looking like rain and with the wind coming from the Factory District we don’t want another of your t-shirts dissolving, do we?”
Evil Squirrel’s Competition – Grandpaw’s Story
Here is my entry for Evil Squirrel’s Fourth Annual Competition of Whatever.
He has been running a series called “Shelf Critter Theatre” and has invited us to have a go! We just need to anthropomorphise at least two objects and make sure that at least one isn’t using a personality ascribed to it by the media (for example a “Mickey Mouse” toy would have a different personality to that usually ascribed to “him”).
I think that’s correct, rule-wise. So here goes. Warning – it’s a bit rude and gory 🙂
Grandpup 1: Grandpaw, Grandpaw, tell us a story!
Grandpup 2: Yes, Grandpaw! Tell us about the time you got injured.
Grandpaw: I guess you’re old enough now, kids. Gather round and listen up. It was back in the Furry wars and I was a soldier.
Grandpup 1: A soldier? Wow!
Grandpaw: Yes! I’d just received a transfer to a new unit and I was very proud, yes, proud to be F.U.C.T.
Grandpup 1: Um, what did he just say?
Grandpup 2: I think he said…
Grandpaw: Yes, the Furry Unified Combat Troop. Tell you what, kids, I was previously a member of the Allied Research, Science and Exploration division. Boy, was I glad to put that acronym behind me!
Grandpup 1: Um…
Grandpaw (lost in his memories): Yes, everyone else was very jealous of me. I was the youngest soldier ever to be F.U.C.T… will you two stop giggling? Do you want to hear this story or not?
Grandpup 1: Sorry, Grandpaw.
Grandpup 2: Sorry.
Grandpaw: There were five of us chosen for the mission – myself, Sarge, Pengy, Tatty and Andy. We set out full of hope, single file to hide our numbers.
Grandpaw: Soon we reached our first hurdle – a vast mountain to climb down.
Grandpaw: This is where we lost a couple of team mates. Pengy was first, oh poor deluded Pengy…
(Pengy: I can fly down, I’m a bird!)
(Sarge: Pengy, no! Penguins can’t fly…)
Pengy: Wheeeeeeeee! SPLAT
Grandpaw: The rest of us took our time. Sarge was a great help.
Grandpaw: But Tatty took a tumble, landed on his head.
Grandpaw: At last we reached the bottom, but then we saw them coming…
Grandpup 1: Who, Grandpaw, who?
Grandpup 2: Yes, tell us Grandpaw, tell us!
Grandpaw: The Empire, that’s who. Shock troops, distant at first but coming closer, ever closer…
Grandpaw: … until soon we could see the whites of their bricks.
Grandpaw: That’s when we lost Sarge… he sacrificed himself… threw himself on top of them…
Grandpaw: (forgetting there were children present) …guts everywhere… blood… brains…
Grandpup 2: Urgh, I think I’m gonna… bleurghhhhhhh!
Grandpaw: Er, um, don’t tell your Mum about this… there were just two of us left, myself and Andy, when in a totally freak occurrence The Doctor showed up and decided to show off his sonic screwdriver. A wave of intense sound slammed into Andy. Everything ruptured…
Grandpaw: Realising his mistake, The Doctor swiftly left, leaving me alone.
Grandpaw: I tried to stop him, to make him pay but I tripped over and scuffed myself. And that’s the story of my injury, this scar on my paw.
Grandpup 1: That was a great story, Grandpaw, but…
Grandpup 2: … we were actually wondering about your eye.
Grandpaw: Oh, that! I got that years earlier, in ‘Nam.
Grandpup 1: You were in Vietnam? You really are old! How did it happen? The Vietcong? The NVA?
Grandpaw: No, kids. I was there ten years ago on holiday, got really drunk, slipped in the shower and poked it out on the tap.
Grandpup 1: Oh.
Grandpup 2: I liked your first story better.
Grandpaw: Me too kids. Me too. Now, give your old Grandpaw a kiss and off to bed with you!
The End
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