draliman on life

Here is my story for Roger’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. We get a phrase to use – “What is the peculiar smell?” and a photo, along with 200 words.

To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy.

Photo from pixabay.com

“What is that peculiar smell?”

“‘tis the stench of death, come for us on wings of deepest black. Forsooth.”

“What? What? What’s he saying?” The other meerkats shook their heads. “Ever since that tourist safari chap dropped The Complete Works of Shakespeare he’s been insufferable.” The other meerkats nodded.

“For ’tis the cruel arrows of fate which approacheth or mayhap a harbinger of doom which cometh on paws of death. Forsooth.”

“Paws of death? I suppose he could mean… a lion’s coming?” The other meerkats looked around, panicking.

“And here he cometh as ‘twere Hades himself risen from the circles of ever fiery Hell our souls to claim, forsooth, our broken bodies…”

ROAAAAR! SNAP!

“… to rip aaaaargh!”

“Well, lads, that comes as a bit of a relief, quite frankly.” The other meerkats, eyes wide as saucers, nodded. “Okay, chaps, RUN!”

I know, it’s technically Friday Fictioneers day, but I’ve written a late entry for Roger’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner.

The supplied opening sentence is in bold, and the picture was sourced here.

Click on the blue froggy for other stories.

Public Domain Archive

There it was. You could see the corner of the folded yellowed parchment sticking out of the torn lining of the battered book.

“How did it get in there?” asked Sarah.

“I don’t know,” replied Mother, “but we need it. We can’t leave without The List.” She gave a tentative tug at the corner of The List. It didn’t move.

“Care, mother!” snapped Sarah. Ashamed at her tone, she continued in a softer voice. “The Book is ancient. We dare not damage it!”

“But The List,” replied Mother. “The List is essential. Without it we cannot continue. All will be lost.”

“One moment.” Sarah rummaged through her pack, finding a pair of tweezers. Carefully, she tugged at the corner of The List until, inch by inch, it came free.

“There!” she said. “At last we have The List, and The Book is undamaged.” She handed it to Mother who unfolded it carefully, almost reverently.

“Is everything there, Mother?” asked Sarah anxiously. “Did you remember the eggs?”

“Yes!” said Mother triumphantly. “Let’s go shopping!”

Here is my (very short!) story for Roger’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. The optional opening sentence is “Are you lookin’ at me?”, and you can read all the other stories by clicking on the blue froggy. The image is from the public domain archive.

Image public domain

Are you lookin’ at me?

“What did you say?”

“Eh? Nothing.”

Or chewin’ a brick?

“What was that?”

“Huh? I didn’t say anything…”

Either way you’ll lose your teeth.

“Right, that’s it! Take that!”

BOP!

“Ow! By dose. You broke by dose!”

Heh heh. Who said being shot, decapitated and mounted on a wall wasn’t going to be any fun. Ah, here comes another pair of likely victims.

“Oh look, what a darling room! All these old things.”

“Yes, it is rather snug.”

Are you lookin’ at me…?

Here is my story for Roger’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner challenge. To read this week’s other stories click on the blue frog.

The supplied opening sentence is in bold in my story. Since I wanted a sort of lead-in, I’ve popped it in a little further down. The image is public domain and was sourced here.

Public domain image

Gather round, dear friends, and listen to the sad story of Terry McGraw, Idiot Thief…

The last time, everything fit in three duffels.

This time it took five.

If he hadn’t been disturbed mid-burgle, he wouldn’t have had to leave the duffels hidden at the back of the conference room of the hotel. He was going back for them.

If he hadn’t been in such a rush, he would have done his research. If he had half a brain he wouldn’t have gone back tonight of all nights.

Because he went in the back he didn’t see the banners.

Because he crept through the bushes he didn’t see the cars.

Because he snuck in through a service door he didn’t get a good look at the arrivals.

If he’d stopped to listen he wouldn’t have burst through the service door.

If he’d taken a moment to stop and take notice he would have seen the banner above the stage – ‘New York Police Department Annual Awards Ceremony’.

If he’d had an ounce of sense he wouldn’t have drawn his gun.

And here ends the story, dear friends, of the late unlamented Terry McGraw, Idiot Thief, RIP.

Here is my story for Roger’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. The opening sentence is in bold, and to read this week’s other stories click on the blue froggy. The photo was supplied by the pubic domain archive.

Picture public domain

Enough is enough. Things had gone entirely too far. He’d decided he wasn’t going to stand for this any longer.

He settled the rucksack on his back and began walking, heading for the woods behind the house. He’d packed everything he might need and had money in his pocket.

As he walked, the sun beat down, merciless, making him sweat. Sitting on a fallen tree trunk, he took a long drink from his bottle. He was doing the right thing, wasn’t he? Of course he was. Standing up, he continued deeper into the woods…

… the woods which were beginning to look quite dark and forbidding. No, he couldn’t start having second thoughts, although… things weren’t really that bad, were they? They’d had such an argument, but when he thought about it, he wasn’t entirely blameless. He hadn’t done what had been asked. He’d lied about it. Maybe he should turn back? His feet hurt, he was running out of drink, he’d eaten all his chocolate and he’d already been gone nearly an hour.

Besides, Mummy would be starting to worry and it was nearly dinner time!

Here is my contribution to Roger’s first ever “Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner” challenge. The rules, in brief:

• Up to 200 words
• A beginning, middle and end (no serial stories)
• A photo and (optional) opening sentence are provided
• Content to be PG-13. It will be a new challenge not to include any hideous deaths in my writing 🙂

The supplied sentence is in italics in my story.

Click on the blue froggy for the other entries!

Image public domain free stock photo

Of all the places I thought I would end up on New Year’s Eve I can’t believe it’s here. I used to be somebody. I used to be a contender. Last New Year’s Eve I was in a boxing gym. I saw the greats. I was punched by pretty much anybody who was somebody.

Okay, so I’m a bunch of processed petrochemicals. I don’t get a choice of career.

But the boxing gym… Oh, the joy as a gloved fist smacked me hard. Those people knew how to live!

Whap – boing! – whap – boing!

Life doesn’t get any better than that.

And now I’ve been recycled as a bowling pin. I still get smacked in the face, but it’s not so personal any more, you know? Just a ball rolled down an aisle. There’s no finesse. No “up close and personal”. Trashed by a random unknown at long range. Oh, the dents I’ve suffered. The indignity of it all!

Here comes another one. It’s swerving, it going to miss me, it’s just gonna clip the edge… ouch! Tough luck, Chester, my fellow pin-at-arms. That had to hurt! Hey! No strike this time, loser. Loooserrrrr!