draliman on life

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

Copyright Fatima Fakier Deria

Hidden in his perch, he looked across at the chairs. Empty now, he knew that soon each would be occupied. He settled down to wait.

Hours past until at last he spied his quarry entering the garden. A clandestine meeting; it had cost much to determine the location.

Sighting carefully, he targeted the lead participant. A perfect shot.

A meeting of two Great Families. He smiled grimly as a dozen Kardashians and as many Baldwins took their seats.

He took the shot; then again, again, again.

Heh, he thought. Da tabloids is gonna pay big bucks for dese pics.

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

Copyright Björn Rudberg

Nigel glares at the sign. He can’t understand. Others with disabilities pass with no problem. All races, creeds, colours and sexual orientation, all are welcomed with open arms.

Why is he any different? Why is he singled out?

The sign is clear. He turns and walks back the way he has come.

Have you been affected by Nigel’s story? Maybe, like Nigel, you were born with a single huge hand, or know someone who was. If so, please take to Twitter, using the hashtag “#iwasbornwithsinglehugehandsyndromeandfeelostracisedasaresult”. If you have any characters left, leave a message.

You too can make a difference.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. The photo was contributed by Ted Strutz.

Copyright Ted Strutz

The camera sat forlornly on the hilltop, still pointed skywards. A small hamper and flask of hot soup sat nearby on a blanket, laid out in an attempt to afford the user some measure of protection against the damp grass. A book on astronomy lay open, pages fluttering in the breeze.

Molly trudged up the hill. “Harold? Harold? Where could he be, the old fool?”

Concentrating on the flask, the book, the camera, she didn’t notice the still-smoking pile of ash…

There are things. Up there. In the stars. And they don’t like being watched.

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

Copyright Sandra Crook

Barclay drew his boat up quietly to the bank near a lawn of sculptures which looked as though they’d been vomited randomly into place. High class venue. He saw cars near the mansion and smiled. No-one would expect him to sneak in by boat. He drew his gun.

Two at the door – blam! blam! Red sprayed. One more inside – blam! Right to the head. Too easy…

… until the hallway. Ten, all firing at once. Screaming, he fell in a pool of sticky red and groaned. He’d never get all this paint out. His mum was going to kill him.

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

Copyright J Hardy Carroll

Freddy stepped out of the taxi. This must be it, he thought. On the corner, lots of signs. Strange spelling, though. He entered the building and was invited onto a stage surrounded by ropes.

Strange, he thought. But… okay.

Then they hit him. Over and over. He dropped his parcel. Blood sprayed everywhere.

When he came round, he asked them why? Why did you hit me?

It’s a boxing gym, they replied. It’s what we do.

But I only wanted my parcel boxed up, he croaked.

Ah, they said. You want Boxing Jim. He’s next door. Here’s your teeth.

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

Copyright Marie Gail Stratford

“The last flower on Earth. Already dying. That’s why we at Save The Beautiful But Endangered Bees rely on your donations… no! The planet relies on your donations to save our pollinators…”

“Cut!”

“What’s wrong?”

“There are living flowers in the shot. We need to…”

Bzz! Bzz!

“Eek! A bee! A bee!”

“I thought your charity loved…”

“Kill it before it stings me!” (Flail! Thwap! Stomp! Stalks away angrily.)

“Wow. Not a great advert for his charity. Tell me you got that on film.”

“Yup.”

“Great. It’ll be perfect for our other charity client, Kill The Nasty Noisy Vicious Bees.”

[QUICK INFO!] – none of my comments are showing up on others’ blogs and my spam folder was full of others’ comments this morning. Check your spam folders 🙂

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

Copyright Dale Rogerson

The snow lay heavy on the ground. All was silent, sound muffled, like the whole world held its breath. Nearby a street lamp cast a warm, welcoming glow.

Josh smiled, lay down and waved his arms and legs around. He stood and admired his snow angel.

How beautiful. What a fantastic…

The world shook, then turned upside-down! Josh screamed as he was catapulted against the house opposite. It shook again until at last he lay breathless on the ground, both legs shattered. It began to snow.

Get miniaturised! they said. Have a peaceful holiday in a snow globe! they said.

Bollocks.

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

Copyright JS Brand

Five scuba gear-clad heads appeared above the glassy ocean.

“There’s the target, lads. We can’t mess this up. Danny ‘Drug Man’ Davis is responsible for hundreds of deaths. Check your explosives.”

“Wait a sec. He’s staying there? What a dump!”

“Yeah, it looks like someone picked up a load of houses and stacked them on top of one another.”

“From high class casinos and Lamborghinis to this pathetic shambles?”

“How the mighty have fallen. Poor bastard.”

“He’s suffered enough. Do we abandon the mission?”

“Nope.”

“Is he even in there?”

“Who cares? That shameful excuse for a hotel’s gotta go.”

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

I was completely stumped (hahaha, that’s the only funny you get this week from me) by this photo. So I bashed something out late in the day.

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Danny looked around him. Everywhere he looked the forest had been transformed into a barren field. He lay down his chainsaw and opened his rucksack. Pulling out his water bottle, he took a long draw and sighed contentedly.

They said we had to preserve the trees. They said they were a valuable habitat. They said they converted ‘cardom diproxide’ to air, or something. He didn’t really listen and didn’t care.

Sometimes he thought, when he cut into a tree, he could hear it scream. So what if it did? It was only a tree.

Deep within the Earth, something stirred.

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

Just in case, I should explain that in the context of a car, the “boot” is the UK English word for the “trunk”.

Copyright Sandra Crook

Marco exited the building followed by his minions, dragging between them two men, hands bound, sacks over their heads. Billy leapt out of the car.

“Over here, Boss!”

“Boys, chuck these scum in the boot and we’ll… what the hell is that?”

“Me new car!”

“Uh…”

“All the latest gadgets!”

“It has a boot the size of a peanut. We’ll never get ’em in there.”

“The old car was full of bullet holes.”

“Let ‘em go, lads. It’s their lucky day. Billy, inside. You ‘n me gonna have a… chat.”

“Ooh, great! Let me tell you about its amazing fuel consumption…”