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Never Happy
Here is my contribution to Mondays Finish the Story, hosted every week by Barbara Beacham. We get a photo, a starting sentence and 150 words.
I was very busy at work and couldn’t think of a story so I’ve done some dialogue. A little snippet of life, between two old friends, perhaps, meeting for lunch. Or maybe a husband and wife.
Click on the blue froggy to read the other stories. The opening sentence is in bold in my story.
“Pizza anyone?”
“Mmm, pizza. Food of the gods.”
“Food of the gods?”
“Pizza – Italian, right? Italy, Rome, Roman gods – Zeus and such. QED.”
“’Jupiter.’ Zeus was Greek, moron.”
“Whatever. Dig in! Mmm. Argh! Wait! What is this nonsense?”
“What’s wrong now?”
“A strange taste… in my mouth… little black globes of death…”
“Olives.”
“Olives? Urgh.”
“If you don’t like them pick them off, for God’s sake. Stop making a meal out of everything.”
“Ha! ‘Meal.’ Well punned.”
“Can I have your olives, then?”
“If you’re sure you wanna risk it, go ahead.”
“If you don’t like olives, why did you order olives?”
“You gotta take the good with the bad.”
“But you’re picking the ‘bad’ off.”
“It’s the principal of the thing. Pass me the garlic bread.”
“’Please’ would be nice.”
“Mmm, garlic bread. Argh! A strange taste… in my mouth… little shredded cloves of death…”
“That’s the garlic. Shoot me now.”
Moving On
Here is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, the weekly 100-ish word flash fiction challenge hosted by Rochelle. This week’s picture comes from David Stewart.
I’m still in a weird mood but here’s a bit of odd dialogue for you. I had a whole run of comedies and then recently it’s all gone a bit sombre. Hey ho.
For this week’s other stories, click on the little blue froggy. Here he is!
Copyright David Stewart
“The horn player’s out of tune.”
“He is a bit. You’re right.”
“That used to be me, you know. Before my lungs began to fail.”
“I know. You were good.”
“I was. I was good. Not like that fellow.”
“I’m sure he’ll improve with time. You weren’t always good, were you?”
“I suppose not. Will there be a brass band where I’m going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know? You’re an angel.”
“‘Facilitator’. I told you. I help you move on. That’s all. Where you go is a mystery to me. But I’m sure you’ll find your brass band.”
Life’s a Stage
Here’s a cynical look at humanity to thrill and depress you for this week’s Mondays Finish the Story, a weekly 150 word photo/opening sentence challenge hosted by Barbara Beacham. The opening sentence, in bold in my story, doesn’t count towards our word count.
Click on the blue froggy to read this week’s other stories.
When the team heard the dam explode, they knew they had limited time to make it to safety.
Barry glanced behind at the raging wall of water as they desperately tried to steer towards the shore. He saw figures on the river bank.
“Help!” he screamed.
The figures were holding up phones. Were they calling for help? He could hear snatches of their excited shouts.
“Awesome… stats through the roof… YouTube sensation…”
A wave struck and he fell from the boat, smashing his head on a rock. Nigel was next, flying into the torrent, water filling his lungs.
There were more figures on the bank now, all holding up phones. Sebastian was thrown from the front of the boat, impaled and twitching on a tree branch.
Whoops of excitement issued from the bank. Finally the boat capsized to cries of “awesome!” and “mega!”
The onlookers didn’t see the final wall of water as it smashed their bodies to pulp. Fortunately, their final footage was already uploading to the cloud for the guilty pleasure of the masses.
Memories of a Breaking World
It’s Friday Fictioneers time again, the weekly 100-ish word flash fiction photo challenge hosted by Rochelle. This week the photo was contributed by Rachel Bjerke. I’d love to know where this is, it looks lovely!
I’m not sure what genre to place my story in. I’ll go for “boring” as nothing actually happens. I’m sure there’s a proper literary word for it. I chose a rather pretentious title to spruce it up a bit, though :-).
To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy.
Copyright Rachel Bjerke
Gronedd gazed around the ruins, admiring the damp moss glistening as the sun reflected from early morning dew. At the sight, memories from centuries past rose in his mind.
Gwyneth having her first child. Haffard placing logs on the huge fire. Dafvidd taking his first, faltering steps. Such memories this place brought him; though he had seen billions of years these had been his happiest.
Bound as an Observer to this world since its birth, Gronedd would remain until its end. Seeing wars, disease, hunger, pollution, all around him… he knew his final sleep at last approached. He would spend his final days here.
Rule Britannia – MFTS
This is my contribution to this week’s Mondays Finish the Story, hosted by Barbara Beacham.
Something about this photo of a big house away from the general populace combined with the word “Brigadier” made me think of that proud 19th Century British tradition of believing that the whole world should belong to Britain and that everyone else was somehow “in the way”.
The supplied sentence is in bold in my story and you can read this week’s other contributions by clicking on the blue froggy.
A body suddenly crashed through a plate glass window at the Brigadier’s house.
“I say,” exclaimed the Brigadier. “This won’t do at all!”
“Frightfully sorry about that, Sir,” said the Lieutenant calmly as he took a sip of Port and shot the interloper in the head.
“Oh, Lieutenant!” said the Brigadier indignantly, looking at the brains leaking onto the carpet. “My favourite throw rug!”
“My apologies, Brigadier,” continued the Lieutenant, swiftly dispatching two more attackers.
“What-ho! Watch the wallpaper! I had it shipped in ‘specially from Messers Smythe and Clarke of Dinkledum Street, you know.”
Before the Lieutenant had a chance to respond, one of the attacking natives pierced his heart with a long knife.
“I don’t understand,” barked the Brigadier as natives closed on him, knives gleaming. “We’ve brought you education, technology… all we ask is that you follow our rules!”
While the Brigadier’s soldiers, fighting for pay, cowered behind the furniture, the natives, fighting for their home, ignored the bullets and reclaimed their land.
New Dawn
It time for Friday Fictioneers, the 100-ish word photo prompt flash fiction challenge thing hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by long-serving Fictioneerer Sandra Crook.
It’s a great photo – I’d quite like to be there in person – but weirdly my story this week is rather, well, depressing 😦
Warning – this blog has suffered a (temporary) humour-ectomy!
To read the other stories, click on the little blue froggy.
Copyright Sandra Crook
Julio sat and stared numbly at the vodka and pills. How had it come to this? He didn’t even really care any more. He felt empty inside, like a frost had worked its way into his soul.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to die. He was sure he no longer wanted to live like this – if one could call this living. He flipped the top off the pill bottle.
Through the window the rising sun illuminated the trees in shades of gold, and seeing it he felt a tiny glimmer of warmth deep inside.
Hope?
Dropping the bottle, he reached for the phone.
Major Demotion – MFtS
It’s Monday, and there’s a story which needs finishing. Yes, it’s Mondays Finish the Story! This is a 150 word flash fiction challenge hosted by Barbara Beacham where we get a photo and a starting sentence (which doesn’t count towards the word count).
The supplied sentence is in bold in my story, and don’t forget to click on the blue froggy to read the other stories.
On March 9th, 2015, three objects were reportedly seen in the skies over the Borracho Todos los Tiempos Vineyards.
Major Dickens couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Corporal, any radar contacts?”
“No, Sir!”
Nothing on radar, but visible through his binoculars. Aliens! Aliens were invading Earth, and on his watch! He reached for the radio.
“General, three inbound bogies, alien origin!”
“Major, are you sure? You have been to the therapist regarding your alien fixation, yes?”
“Absolutely sure this time, Sir!” replied Dickens. Around him troops were staring at the sky, shrugging and shaking their heads.
“Right,” said the General. “I’ve contacted the President and mobilised our forces.”
“Yessir!” replied Dickens. He looked again. There they were, hanging above the distant trees.
The corporal, shaking his head, wiped the water from the Major’s binoculars with his sleeve.
“Ah, General…”
“Yessssss?”
“False alarm, sir! Rain on the binoculars, Sir!”
“Right, Captain, I’ll call the President back, shall I?”
“Um, it’s ‘Major’, Sir…”
“This isn’t good enough, Lieutenant,” continued the General. “Don’t let it happen again. Carry on, Sergeant.”
Sydney and the Devil – Storybook Corner
Here is my submission for February/March Storybook Corner, a 100-250 word monthly photo prompt hosted by Adam Ickes. This month we have a photo of an arid landscape and, I think, some water.
Here’s the logo:
Here’s the prompt picture:
And here’s my story, “Sydney and the Devil“.
Sydney lay on his back, the burning sun slowly roasting his helpless body. His skin felt like a hardened burning sheath, his fevered mind picturing it crisping like the skin of a well-roasted turkey.
How had this happened? He thought he’d taken every precaution, yet here he was, barely able to move, the water leached out of his body to the point that even his thoughts had become scrambled. Where was he? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was the blinding light, visible even through closed eyes, the pounding in his head, the scorching pain of his skin.
It was almost funny. He’d always liked a nice bit of sun. In his delirium he tried to giggle, but only a rasping groan escaped his parched throat, prompting a spasm which took almost a minute to subside (he thought, though all sense of time evaded him).
Suddenly, looming over him was the face of a monstrosity, a face at once both strange and familiar. Its gaping maw opened.
“SYDNEY!”
The Devil! The Great Deceiver had come for him! Surely his life had not been led so badly? He tried to rise in supplication, to pray for salvation, but his damaged body betrayed him and he succeeded only in falling off his sun lounger.
“SYDNEY!” came the voice again. “If you’ve got sun stroke again, I swear you’ll never have another beach holiday as long as you live, you…”
The voice faded away as Sydney’s brain mercifully shut down in self-defence.
Invasion of the QzzQargs!
It’s Friday Fictioneers time, the weekly 100 word photo prompt writing challenge hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Erin Leary.
To read this week’s other stories or to contribute your own, click on the blue frog.
Copyright Erin Leary
The two Space Troopers peered down the Great Wooden Cliff of Trevellis Prime at the QzzQarg flying saucer invasion fleet far below.
“Target lock, fire one!” announced the first. The Great Ball of Destruction hurtled downwards, smashing into three of the saucers. Pieces flew everywhere.
The Troopers celebrated.
Another moment and the final two saucers disintegrated.
“Boys…” came a voice.
“Message from the Commander!” said the second Trooper.
“… stop playing with your football and come inside! Dinner’s ready. And bring some of those mushrooms next to the fence, they’ll make a nice garnish.”
The Troopers looked down at the devastation.
“Oh, crap.”
The Countess and the Milliner’s Son
Here I am with my contribution to Mondays Finish the Story, hosted every week by Barbara Beacham. This is the challenge where we get a photo, an opening sentence and 150 words. The supplied opening sentence is in bold in my story.
I usually post this on Monday, but I had a germ of an idea yesterday and despite several hours of incubation it failed to become a full-on disease… okay, we’ll leave this metaphor now as it has become a little unhealthy-sounding.
Click on the blue froggy for this week’s other contributions and without further ado, here is my good old-fashioned story of love, romance and a willingness to do whatever it takes to find happiness.
When it came to a challenge, Jim Smiley just had to jump right in!
And what bigger challenge than the delectable Countess Josephine? “Jim Smiley, milliner’s son” would not do, and so he reinvented himself.
“Tarquin Farquharson-Smythe” had the right ring, he felt.
He took diction and “cor blimey, it ain’t ‘alf ‘ot today, guv’nor” became “oh, I say, frightfully warm for the time of year, what?” He learned table manners and etiquette.
When word reached him that the inestimable lady would be overseeing the 1865 leap-frogging championships, he entered. Long he practised his leaping, the better to make a bold impression.
The day arrived. The Countess looked exquisite. Jim leaped, jumped and won. Holding the winner’s plaque, he attempted to woo her free of her undergarments. She advised him, however, that she “preferred a bit of rough” and promptly ran off with the woodcutter’s son.
Undaunted, “Tarquin” became “Jim” once more and headed toward the snack tent where he had espied the delightful Lady Jemima taking tea.
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