draliman on life

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was sent in by Carla Bicomong.

Copyright Carla Bicomong

Tears trickled from reddened eyes as the mourners released their tributes, each lantern holding the soul of their loved one. No-one knew the origin of these so-called ‘soul catchers’ – some suspected an extra-terrestrial source – but mass gatherings such as this had become common since their discovery. The tributes floated peacefully out to sea, opening and releasing their cargo of life essence to the heavens.

High above in the realm between realms the predator race, known throughout the galaxy as the ‘Devourers’, received a message from their corporeal planet-side agents.

Dinner is served.

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

Copyright Yvette Prior

“Unbelievable, son.”

“Um…”

“You’re at university, here to study and what do I find? Booze, pot, half-dressed semi-comatose people lying around everywhere.”

“Um, if you’d called first to say you were…”

“That’s not the point, is it?”

“Um…”

“IS IT?!”

“No, Dad.”

“Have you any idea what I go through every day? Hours of work to pay your tuition, your mother constantly nagging… I’m knackered. You’re living in party town and you didn’t invite me?”

“Um.. eh, what?”

“I’ll be staying for a bit, son. Call your mother and tell her I have ‘car troubles’. And get me a beer.”

Here is my story (it’s not really a story) for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Ronda Del Boccio. I’m still too tired to think of anything funny so I wrote this instead 😦

Copyright Ronda Del Boccio

Everything’s a matter of perspective. A point of view. Is that building small or just far away? Is that man mugging that little old lady or trying to stop her falling?

Who can know?

Is this life real? Are we in someone else’s dream? When we touch something, is it really there or is our brain trying to fool us into thinking we really exist?

All these things Brandon pondered until, finally, he winked out of existence, wiped from history.

Such is the danger of philosophy. Don’t overthink. Lest you cease to be.

If you really be at all.

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

Boy, this week I had to cut out 47 words. And it shows 😦 But I’ve been horribly busy all day and I’m too tired to think. I hope I haven’t insulted Sandra’s gardening supplies.

Copyright Sandra Crook

Baz entered his grandfather’s yard. The old coot was dead. Britain’s Most Wanted, he’d called himself. True, the coppers had never found his last heist. So… where to look?

What had grandfather always said? “Tat… or treasure?” And nothing said “tat” quite like old pallets full of weeds and flowerpots. Baz reached in, pulled out a small bag and emptied its contents –  misshapen brown stones – into his hand.

He screamed. “Whaaaat! Old rocks?” Angrily he flung them away. As his car roared off it began to snow, the flakes covering the fortune in uncut diamonds he’d so carelessly discarded.

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

I may be a little late reading stories this week as I’m very busy with work stuff so bear with me. I’m currently typing this on my personal laptop while running something on my work laptop while watching Luke Cage on Netflix. Multitasking is my thing 🙂

Copyright Ted Strutz

Frankie smiled as he cast his eyes over the neighbourhood. Gardens, clean and tidy, The road, perfectly maintained, The pavements, pristine, clear of any litter. A small group of people stepping onto the pavement, going… where? To a restaurant, perhaps, or maybe to the marina? Frankie gazed down on his world and it was…

A shadow, falling! Crash! Crunch! Smash!

“Oh, shit. Sorry, kid.”

“Daaaaaad, that was my class project! The perfect town!”

“Don’t worry, son. Grab some papier mache and baking soda, I’ll show you how to make a cool volcano!”

“Aw, hell.”

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

I had to cut 39 words out this week so it’s not quite the epic I initially imagined 😦

Copyright Dale Rogerson

Jimbo watched the sun, or what passed for the sun, rising. Everything, as usual, looked a bit grainy. It must be all the sulphur and damnation, he supposed.

Tuesday today. A bit of light torture, lunch, then to finish, something truly horrific.

He’d had a postcard from his mate yesterday. He’d gone “up there”. He was having a marvellous afterlife sitting on a cloud, strumming a harp.

Jimbo hadn’t been a bad man in life. But apparently there was a limit to the number of paper clips you could steal from your place of work and keep your soul intact.

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

This story comes with special exclusive bonus content!

Copyright Liz Young

Locked in a cage. Swathed in bandages, covering… best not look. A body become toxic waste, ravaged by… see those silken threads?… arachnids of alien origin.

They devour; flesh, bones, organs, brain liquified, not quickly, oh no! slow, painful, excruciating. Is that a house spider above your bed or a devourer of flesh? How to tell?

Or is the scene a student prank? Ill-conceived perhaps, yet ultimately harmless. We choose to believe this so that we may sleep at night, yet wilful ignorance will not save us.

They are coming. They are here. Our end is assured.

Click here to Fear The Spiders!

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

I popped a little musical glossary at the end in case you know as little about music as me 🙂

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Bran dropped the duster and stared at the instruments, seeing his life written in music. The ebb and flow of the melody, at times allegro, others adagio. His early years, the rise and swell of a rousing march. The loss of his parents, a slow, melancholy dirge in a minor key.

His adoption by the Maestro? What music represented such misery?

“Bran! Stop dreaming! Clean! Clean, you worthless idiot!”

The belt cracked across his back. He choked back the tears and eyed the tuba, gauging its weight. Truly a blunt instrument.

The music was about to get messily, violently fortissimo.

allegro: played very quickly
adagio: a slow passage
fortissimo: played very loud

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

Copyright Fatima Fakier Deria

“Hey, get outta the way! Yes, you! Where’s that horn…”

Whaaaa wha wha whaaaa!

“What you lookin’ at? You wanna piece ‘a me? YOU WANNA PIECE ‘A ME? Thought not. Coming through! Oy, you with the vegetable boat. SHIFT IT! Full speed ahead…”

Smash crunch sink sink sink

“…screw you and your cabbages…”

Meanwhile, below-decks…

“Yes, Dorothy, on the canals… his stress levels? Not noticeably, no… it was supposed to be a de-stresser for top executives, yes… not working, no…”

“Aaaargh!” splash

“…think he’s fallen in… go back for him? No, I don’t think so… much more enjoyable now, yes…”