draliman on life

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. She also supplied this week’s photo which is a redo from many years ago and was suggested by Kent Bonham.

After I wrote this story it occurred to me that, all unplanned, it could be a continuation of my last one, but set two years later.

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

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Ice glistened, a delicate filigree tracing intricate patterns across the window. Edward traced his finger over the loops and swirls, a morning ritual. At last he turned away to begin another gruelling day of nuclear winter.

Reaching for the door handle, he noticed a glint of orange flicker across the wall. Turning back, he saw the window glow with light, blazing yellow as the sun, hidden these past two years, illuminated the swirls of frost with the promise of life.

The dust had settled, the long winter ended, the remnants of the human race reborn to a new dawn.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. The photo this week was contributed by John Nixon and is another repeat. Before my time, however, so it’s new to me.

It’s a mad-looking picture so I’ve written a mad story. Perhaps next week this crazy writing will end and I’ll manage a more sensible story :-).

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

Copyright John Nixon

His fingers flew across the keys, sweat glistening, heart pumping faster and faster, breathing becoming laboured… he lost himself, becoming one with the piano itself, impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

With a flourish, he hit the final triumphant chord, turned, gave a quick bow and collapsed, exhausted, into his seat.

His audience looked on, faces blank. Finally, one of them spoke.

“That’s all very well, Mr Davis, but where were you on the night of the fourteenth between nine and eleven pm?”

Note to self: Interview Room 1 is no place for a piano. Move to canteen.

Here is my post for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. The photo, provided by Douglas M. MacIlroy, is another redo, but this time I was around for the original.

Therefore I have done a sort of a story. It’s a bit puerile. I remember I had no real ideas the first time around either, but my original story, “Punchline”, can be found here.

I’m a bit later this week as yesterday evening I had dinner with Louise (aka afairymind from The Story Teller’s Abode) and her mum (Millie Thom) and Dad. Within minutes we were chatting like old friends, they’re just as lovely in “the real life” as in the blogosphere!

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

Copyright Douglas M MacIlroy

“Go on!” yelled Fred excitedly. “Grab a bat and whack me! I’m invincible in this helmet, it’s indestructible! No more head trauma for me!”

Glee etched on her face, his little sister did as she was told, swinging the bat as hard as her seven-year-old arms would allow. She’d dreamed of this moment!

THWACK!

Inside the diver’s helmet, Fred’s eyes widened in shock. His mouth gaped open, and with a barely audible “ugh” he slumped to the ground, clutching his splattered groin.

The moral of this story? Say what you mean. Be specific. Because squashed nads hurt. Like, a lot.

Here is my post for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Piya Singh and I believe it is from a few years ago.

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

Copyright Piya Singh

“How are we gonna sell this?”

“I’ve offloaded worse.”

“It took us three hours to get here – on foot. There’s no heating, no plumbing and no electricity. Hell, it doesn’t even have interior walls.”

“Ah, but if you turn the wheel at the front the whole cottage rotates, so you always get the sun! Very forward-thinking, Victorian inventors.”

“Yeah, pretty awesome, but a wheel requiring twenty people to shift?”

“Details, details…”

Picturesque period property, privacy guaranteed. Open-plan, “olde worlde” feel, benefits from all-day sunshine via unique rotational architecture. Ideal for “back to nature” commune of twenty plus. £750,000 o.n.o.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week she also supplied the photo!

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

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“The waves, with gentle susurration speak to me, as angels’ voices speak of peace…”

“You’re on a poetry kick again? It’s rubbish.”

“It’s for a poetry competition.”

“Seriously, it’s mindless pap.”

“Haters gonna hate.”

“Try again.”

“Okay. Water, water, everywhere and all the boards did shrink…”

“That’s better, but it sounds kinda familiar.”

“It’s cool. And then… Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. I’m sending it.”

(click!)

“I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere before. We don’t want a repeat of the last competition you entered. How did it go again?”

“I wandered lonely as a cloud…”

Our poet’s “inspiration”:
“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” (often known as “Daffodils”), William Wordsworth, 1804-ish
“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, Iron Maiden 1984 🙂 heh heh, or Samuel Taylor Coleridge if your prefer, 1797/8

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

I had problems thinking of a story for this one, so I’ve gone full silly. I apologise in advance, I’m not in the mood for writing thoughtful or sombre this evening :-).

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

Copyright J Hardy Carroll

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Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. Today’s photo was contributed by C.E. Ayr.

I saw a spaceship. Did anyone else see a spaceship?

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

Copyright C.E. Ayr

The cooling stardrive glowed bright blue as the Zorkan mothership descended to Earth. It dropped majestically, nestling at last next to the river, a stream of blood flowing from its underbelly as some 120 people were inadvertently crushed beneath. A blisteringly loud voice boomed a message of hope…

“We come in peace!”

… rupturing 940 eardrums and resulting in seven million broken windows and 320 fatal car accidents.

Realising the harm it had caused the ship departed, its flaming take-off rockets accidentally incinerating 9,325 citizens. Most horrifying of all were the pamphlets they dropped upon leaving:

“Sorry about that. We’ll be back :-).”

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

Click on the blue froggy for this week’s other stories.

Copyright Mary Shipman

“Wow, Dad sure did sell a lot of old trash.”

“Yeah. How much d’ya think we can get for this place?”

“Not a lot. Off the beaten track, and his stock? Well. We’ll sell it somehow.”

“Hey, here’s where you carved your initials.”

“Yeah, I got a telling-off that day! And those… what did he call them… ‘quality vintage undergarments’? Still not sold. I remember when he bought them. Family outing to that antiques fair outside Brighton, remember?”

The brothers fell silent, each lost in his own memories.

“So… you take the counter and I’ll welcome customers?”

“Sounds like a plan.”