draliman on life

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

Patrons screamed as a black-clad figure smashed through the ceiling window, dropping to the floor.

“Come out, Lobster!” he snarled. “Your evil-doing days are done!”

“Good evening, Sir,” said a waiter, quite unphased. “Table for one?”

“What? Where is the Lobster?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Sir. Maybe a cocktail while you wait?”

“I’m a top agent, dammit!”

“That’s nice, Sir.”

“I’ve got the wrong address again, haven’t I?”

“Indeed. We do have lobster, if Sir would care to choose one?”

“Fine. I’ll destroy the lobster one way or another.”

“Certainly, Sir. I’ll have the ceiling repairs added to your bill, Sir.”

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

“Hi, excuse me?”

“I’m in the middle of Children’s Story Time…”

“Won’t take a sec. Do you have a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh and the Horrible Demise of Eeyore?”

“Um…”

“Rapunzel and the Tower Plummet? Jack and Jill 2 – Undead Resurrection?”

“This is a Children’s Library, Sir!”

“The Famous Five and the Mystery of the Disembowelled Corpse?”

“Please leave! You’re upsetting the children, giving them ideas!”

“Humph. Bye, then.”

“Now, children, where was I?”

“Please, Sir, Goldilocks, Sir! I reckon Baby Bear’s gonna rip her face off! I would if she ate my porridge!”

“Aargh! What will I tell the parents…?”

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

He gazed out over the beautiful vista before him, feeling his heart rate decrease, his blood pressure lower as he found serenity. The lapping waves, the sun shining off the bottom of the clouds, the lush, green grass. The corpse at his feet.

Oh, mate. When I said ‘what’s mine is yours’, I didn’t mean my wife.

He’d bury him here, he thought. Such a lovely view to enjoy for eternity.

Don’t worry, mate, you won’t be stuck here all alone for long. I’ve brought company.

With that in mind, he returned to the car to fetch his cheating wife.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Brenda Cox. It took me forever to think up a story this week.

Hand-painted art was all the rage. And why wouldn’t it be? Since the attempted takeover of the world by intelligent machines (well done, Sci-Fi, you were right), that’s all there was.

After all the scientists and engineers were blamed, put up against a wall and shot (it was presumably a very big wall), creative types were all that were left.

In a completely unexpected reversal of roles, poorer countries became the new “Silicon Valley”, while those left in the actual Silicon Valley, bereft of devices, were left trying to rediscover how to make a pencil work.

Who’d’a thunk it?

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

It’s Christmas!

Lights, colours, buying gifts.

It’s Christmas!

Boisterous antics, late nights at the pub.

It’s Christmas!

Bringing home the tree, hanging the decorations.

It’s Christmas!

Even Baz had treated himself. An extra couple of newspapers padded his sleeping bag and he’d pulled it below the overpass to keep out of the worst of the snow. He wasn’t supposed to be under here, but he knew he’d be okay for a week, no-one would move him on until January, because…

It’s Christmas.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. She provided the photo this week.

Cunningham took a moment to smile at the festive scene. He half expected Santa to zoom “ho-ho-ho-ing” across the sky.

He turned his attention back to the man in the back seat, still futilely trying to strangle him. He’d got the angle all wrong.

Amateur.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Cunningham flipped the rear ejector button on the dash of his tricked-out car. The man shot into the air, taking with him Cunningham’s head.

The moral? “Don’t rear-seat-eject someone while they have a garotte around your neck?”

Seems a little specific.

Perhaps… “don’t get cocky or you’ll end up like Cunningham.” We’ll go with that.

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

I apologise in advance.

“This wine cellar is so small. I can feel my claustrophobia coming on.

“Why can I never find anything? There are so many bottles. They need organising.

“It always smells so musty down here.

“Here’s my Chateau Lafite 1869. I want to drink it so much but it cost so much money.

“I can’t cope with all this. Why me? Oh, God, WHY ME? Aaaaargh!”

—————————————————————————–

“Hi Margo, where’s Tarquin?”

“He’s down in his whine cellar.”

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

“I’m not sure I trust this place, darling.”

“Well, we need a new tyre… hello, sir!”

“Aye.”

“We need a new tyre, please.”

“Aye. ‘Ere.”

“We need one with tread on it!”

“Aaarrrrr, ye city folks, always want’n somethin’. ‘Ere.”

“Um…”

“What? You want me ‘t fit it fer yer too?”

“Yes, obviously!”

“Aaarrrrr, ye city folks…”

“How much?”

“Three cows an’ a bushel o’ corn.”

“What? What? I’ll show you… um…”

“Aaarrrrr, no, darn city folks, you hold a pitchfork like this, see?”

“Ah yes, thanks.”

stab stab stab

“Darling!”

“What? Live by the country, die by the country.”

vroooooom!

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

There’s some allusion to recent “sleaze-related” issues in the UK government, but I’ve written “MP” and “PM” longhand to help my non-UK readers (thus going slightly over the word limit in the process).

“Mr Fortingham-Smythe, new Member of Parliament for Little Umptingham – what are your plans?”

“I’m going to shit all over the electorate.”

“What? Um, please, watch your language, sir. This is the BBC, after all!”

“Humph.”

“Not the answer I was expecting…?”

“Now that I’m safely elected, I’m planning on indolence, debauchery and a bit of general non-specific corruption. Fill my pockets, so to speak.”

“But… but…”

“And the best bit is, if I’m caught the Prime Minister will simply change the rules!”

“Um, yes, but…”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit upstairs and wait for a scruffy voter to arrive.”

Here is my (not a) story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Roger Bultot.

Inspiration did not strike this week 😦

A street. A perfectly ordinary street. Somewhere foreign – those numberplates are far too small to be UK.

Pretty much nothing is happening. A story about nothing happening? Tricky, that.

There’s an air con unit top left. Could be an alien spider robot. But to what end? Haven’t we done that before?

Maybe that skyscraper in the distance. Maybe it has a viewing platform. And every so often that big spike shoots up and impales a tourist. That could work.

“Hey Mike, take a selfie…”
WHOOMP! Aaaargh!
“Oh, hell. Mike.”

I don’t think it has legs.

I’ll try again next week.