draliman on life

Here is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo is from Dale Rogerson. Thanks, Dale! I have a very clear image in my mind of my two protagonists 🙂

(In case it’s not used where you are, a “copper” is a police office. I guess, thinking about it, that’s where the American word “cop” comes from.)

To read the other stories, click on the blue froggy.

Copyright Dale Rogerson

“I can’t believe it, Jenkins.”

“Nor me, Sarge.”

“All my years as a copper, to see this.”

“Frightful, Sarge.”

“In his own home, his own home!”

“His castle, Sarge.”

“Safely locked away from the stinking, all-encompassing evil out there.”

“Evil, Sarge. All-encompassing.”

“What a waste, Jenkins, a stupid, senseless, waste!”

“Senseless, Sarge.”

“His safe haven, away from prying eyes, and he still couldn’t bring himself to eat the whole pizza.”

“Pathetic, Sarge.”

“I’ll be ripping the piss out of him when he gets back from the shops. And Jenkins? No need to call me ‘Sarge’ when we’re off duty.”

“Understood, Sarge.”

Here is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was sent in by Jellico’s Stationhouse.

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

Copyright Jellico’s Stationhouse

A bicycle, yet not; a shadow, a merest thought of what was once a bicycle; an imagining, if you will, a suspicion of shape, of purpose, not yet formed in the mind of… whom? May we even dare to imagine this being, this shadow, this merest hint…

“Oh, good God, will you ever shut UP!”

“I’m channelling my inner poet.”

“Well, I’ve had enough. I’m off down town. I’m taking my bike.”

“No, wait, my muse, ridden away… hmm…”

Never more to cast the merest hint of shadow, a void where once the thought of a maybe-bicycle enters one’s imaginings…

Here is my story (sort of) for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This weeks’s nautical photo was contributed by Fatima Fakier Deria.

It’s a lot harder than you think to deliberately write something awful. My stories are getting ever madder bwahahaha.

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

Copyright Fatima Fakier Deria

The gloriously-restored ship sets sail, its canvas billowing majestically as the stalwart (yet horribly uninformed) helmsman steers erroneously to port. The graceful ship plows catastrophically into the harbour wall, its timbers splintering in majestic fashion. The gloriously-attired crew members fall into the fatally-cold (yet majestic) sea as the majestically glorious ship sinks gracefully to the bottom on its gloriously majestic (yet final) voyage.

This has been an advert for Porthmiggin Harbour Authority – always use a qualified Pilot – We’re expensive but so’s your boat^TM

[Also, new PR intern required. Plain, simple language skills a must. Own thesaurus preferred. Apply within.]

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

I had an idea but couldn’t make an actual story out of it and then a certain somebody sprang to mind and it all came together 🙂 . Last time, I promise 😉 . Click on the blue froggy for this week’s other stories.

Copyright J Hardy Carroll

The ageing figure clambered arthritically over the fence, grimacing as the spikes gashed his arm. Undeterred, he crashed through tree branches, grazing his face. Extracting an immaculately-pressed handkerchief, he wiped off the blood and pressed on, tripping over a tree stump and dislocating his shoulder.

Ignoring the pain he finally stumbled to the door, above which he spied the banner – “Welcome Intelligence Operatives Class of 1962!” He looked over others in the queue – all appeared perfectly groomed.

“For heaven’s sake, Bond!” snapped M. “It’s a party! Can’t you use the front gate like everyone else?”

“Onche a shpy, alwaysh a shpy.”

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

It took ages to get the photo uploaded this week – it was a little buggy! Ha ha ha. Ahem. 🙂

Note – those aren’t typos in the final sentence, I was trying to do his accent.

Click on the blue froggy for more stories!

Copyright Shaktiki Sharma

“Wow, this new tech is great!”

“Yeah, it’s bug… which is a bug!”

“Fly closer, we need to hear what they’re saying.”

“Okay… wait, it’s veering off course… heading towards that ultra-violet light… oh no…”

Fzzzzt

“A bit too bug-like, perhaps?”

“We’re going down, we’re going down! Okay, we still have video and audio.”

“Who’s this approaching with the sharp suit and Martini, shaken not stirred… oh my word, it’s HIM!”

A foot descends, crushing the bug. The last the operators hear is a strong Scottish accent.

“High-tech amateursh. Now, where wash I, my dear…? Ah yesh, sho I shaid to M…”

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

I came up blank this week. I don’t do well when there’s nothing hilarious in the photo. So here’s a story which makes some sort of statement. Or whatever.

Copyright Sarah Potter

Snowflakes fluttered down through the darkness, silent, gentle, already a centimetre deep. The people of England were beginning to panic.

“How will I get to work?”

“The kids’ school is half a mile away! What will we do?”

“What if we run out of food?”

“This is a DISASTER!”

Half a world away Amira dodged through an underpass to avoid the roving gangs, bread clutched to her chest. Gunfire sounded, but a few streets over. She took a chance and raced across the square into her half-collapsed bedsit.

Home safe, food for the babies. Today had been a good day.

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

There’s been a lot of talk recently of the great strides in AI and robotics…

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

Copyright Liz Young

“Live, damn you, live! One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand…”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Push the fluids! Another amp of epi! Charge to 360! Clear!”

“Stop! Um… she’s gone.”

“Gone? How do you know?”

“Firstly, her body is over here and her head is over there.”

“Can’t we just, you know, reattach it? With some glue?”

“Actually, yes. Because this is First Aid training and you just broke the Resusci Annie.”

“But she was so young! What have I done? Why, God, whhhhyyyyyyy…?”

“Hello, is that St Winifred’s Home for the Permanently Baffled? We have another one… mistaken Resusci Annie for his robotic girlfriend…”

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

Work is mad but I spent the end of my lunch break hammering out a little story. Well, not really a story. It’s a bit weird as you can probably tell from the title. Hey ho.

Here goes 🙂

Copyright Ted Strutz

What am I doing out here? would be a sensible question for a chair in this situation to ask, if a chair could ask such a question.

I wonder where all the people have gone? might be a reasonable thought for a chair, if a chair could think reasonable thoughts.

Maybe it had been left here as a prank, back when there were pranks, and kids to play them?

These questions are best left to the trees, ancient and indomitable, thinking thoughts lasting decades. And after all those decades of a world without humans, they reach the same conclusion.

Peace at last.