Friday Fictioneers – Those We Leave Behind
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers on this Armistice Day. Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle, and this week’s photo was kindly supplied by J. Hardy Carroll.
Click on the blue frog for this week’s other stories.

Copyright J Hardy Carroll
Cynthia watched, eyes damp, as her twin daughters scampered over to the grave. She saw them solemnly place the flowers before heading back.
They’d never met their father – he’d been deployed overseas while they were still living safe and unaware beneath her heart. This year they were old enough to place the flowers. In a few years’ time they would understand the sacrifice their father had made. They’d understand why he wasn’t there, why he’d never been there for them. Why he’d had to go.
Cynthia understood. But that didn’t make it any easier. There were some wounds even time couldn’t heal.
FF – The Day Brian Killed the World
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, the weekly 100 word flash fiction challenge headed up by Rochelle over at Addicted to Purple. This week’s photo comes courtesy of Connie Gayer, or Mrs Russell:-).
I could have done with another 50 words for this one, but them’s the breaks. Hopefully I haven’t stripped out too much. And I thought this was a pipe rather than a wire at first glance.
To read this week’s other stories, click the blue froggy.
“What’s that?” asked Brian.
“Dunno. Some pipe. There’s a sign. What’s it say?”
“No idea.” Brian tugged at the pipe until one end came free. With a sound reminiscent of air escaping a balloon, Earth deflated to the size of a marble. Trees, cars and dead people floated off into space.
“WHAT A MESS!” boomed a voice from the darkness. “I’M NOT CLEANING THIS UP. WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS PLANET?” The Angelic Host appeared. One of their number raised a wing.
“Me,” he mumbled. “But, but, I left a sign. Look!”
Emergency Planet Release Valve
Authorised Angelic Personnel Only
DO NOT TOUCH!
MFTS – Live By the Coin…
Here is my story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. The supplied opening line is in bold in my story.
I had trouble merging a constantly nervous and tense woman with coins, but here it is all the same! Click on the blue froggy for all this week’s other stories.
She lived a life that some would describe as being on edge. She was constantly panicking, especially when it came to make a decision. Watching Batman, she was terribly impressed by “Two Face”, making all his decisions by flipping a coin. Her salvation!
Rummaging around at the back of the sofa she found one, depicting a bison. Everything changed.
Everything was in the lap of fate. “No bison” – she binned her boyfriend. “Bison” – she stayed at her appalling job. “Bison” – she took an axe and found a family, letting the husband live, killing the wife, sparing the toddler and killing the teenager. The bison had spoken.
Karma caught up when the judge, staring her straight in the eye, flipped a coin, declared “bison” and sent her to the chair. Arriving at the gates of Heaven, the angel flipped a coin, declared “no bison” and sent her downstairs. Fate is a jealous mistress – once you give yourself to Her, She’ll never let you go.
Friday Fictioneers – Pioneer Monkey
Here is my story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo is by Dale Rogerson. Thanks, Dale!
To read this week’s other contributions, click on the blue froggy.
“What-ho, Simpkins, our submersible prototype returns!”
“Indeed, Pendergast. But wait, it is full to the brim with water!”
“Dash it. Quickly, retrieve the monkey.” They opened the hatch and pulled out a rather waterlogged simian.
“How fares he, Simpkins?” asked Pendergast.
“Speak to me, Chester!” shouted Simpkins, hammering on the monkey’s chest. Water spouted from its mouth.
Ook.
“Thank Heavens! Chester lives!”
“A palpable success, Simpkins,” said Pendergast. “I’ll wager you’re glad to be out of there, Chester!”
Ook! Ook!
“Tomorrow,” said Simpkins, “we shall trial our rocket ship, powered only by the flatulence of cattle. To the stars, Chester!”
Ooooook.
MFTS – Musings of a Dead Man
Here is my story for this week’s Mondays Finish the Story, conceived and hosted by Barbara Beacham. We are given a sentence to start us off, plus a picture. The supplied opening sentence is in bold in my story below.
To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy. My story this week is a little bit gruesome! I blame the photo :-).
I watched the vulture looking at me hungrily as I lay on the ground bleeding and injured.
Well, “injured” is putting it mildly. I’ve been dead for days, but here I lie, waiting for… whatever. Maybe they’ve forgotten about me?
What’s that damn vulture up to now? Here it comes, right on my face. Great. There goes the other eyeball. I hope you choke on it, you stupid bird. Now I can’t see anything at all.
What happened to the chorus of angels? What happened to the bright light? Come to think of it, how will I even see the bright light with no eyeballs?
What’s that now I hear? Howling? Well, that’s just bloody brilliant, that is. Wolves. Marvellous. Here they come. At least they’ve scared the vulture away, the bastard. Yes, that’s it, feast on my intestines. No shoving, there’s enough for everyone. Bollocks.
Not that I have either of those left. The vulture had them yesterday.
Hello? Hello? Angels? Anyone? Is there anybody up there…?
Scary Movie – Victorian London Edition
Here is a little story I wrote for Mer for one of her blogs 🙂
Literary Lion – A Well-Honed Edge
Here is my story for Laura’s Literary Lion challenge. The Literary Lion has pawed around in his stash of prompts and for this fortnight has produced the prompt word “edge“.
A Well-Honed Edge
Always look after your tools, his Master had told him. He had taken this to heart, spending hours oiling, sharpening, polishing. His routine had always seen him right. His tools had never failed him.
As darkness fell, he pulled on his work clothes, picked up his tools and left the dark, dingy flat – not his everyday home, but nicely anonymous on the nights he worked. Unusually, he felt a little stab of… fear? No, anticipation. He usually worked for money, but tonight he was upholding a tradition, one as ancient as the hills, a tradition which would allow him to take his place as Master.
Blending in with the night, he entered the old man’s house on silent feet, slipping through the hallways until he saw him sitting in his study, reading. As the knife slid easily – oh, so easily – between his former Master’s ribs, he saw a flicker of pride in the old man’s dying eyes of a tradition upheld, a job well executed, and an edge well-honed.












