draliman on life

Here is my story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by The Reclining Gentleman.

The photo is quite a lovely scene, therefore my story will not be bwahaha :-).

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

Copyright The Reclining Gentleman

Albert finished planting the last flower and stood up gingerly, his old bones making the task a chore. He shook his head angrily.

Thirty-seven years he’d worked this allotment, his little patch of England. Now it was destined for pointless “luxury housing”, but who was going to listen to a sickly old man, even one who’d fought for King and Country in Belgium and France?

He tottered away as quickly as he could. He could hear the bulldozers approaching and wanted to be far away when they encountered his war “mementos”, carefully buried and primed under the flower bed.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Erin Leary. To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy.

I shot wildly over the word limit this week, I hope it still reads okay now that I’ve cut it all back to sub-100 :-).

Copyright Erin Leary

Tears of grief stung his eyes as he traversed the swamp. Though a virtually featureless expanse of water and plant-life, he found the spot easily.

This is where he dumped them, watched them sink slowly into the mire – his wife, always so critical, so exhausting; his daughter, always Mummy’s girl.

No longer able to bear the guilt, he stood in that spot, sinking, drowning, until darkness overcame him.

Almost immediately he opened his eyes, blinking. Is this Heaven, he thought? The extreme heat, strong smell of sulphur and the pitchfork poking him in the ribs said otherwise.

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

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

After a bit of Google translate action I determined that “Chateau de sable” means “sand castle”. I already knew what “chateau” meant, mind :-).

Copyright ceayr

Jonas started to cry as the bully kicked his sandcastle, spraying fragments into his eyes. The bully’s father approached, but his hopes for swift justice were dashed at the parent’s next words.

“Alan, come on, you can mess with pathetic nerdy wimps another time.”

So it was that years later Jonas was delighted to see both bully and bully’s father standing before him, to see their dismay as they recalled him from that day so long ago.

“I, Jonas pathetic nerdy wimp Jenkins, sentence you both to life. Bailiff, take them down.” He smiled as their castle of sand crumbled to dust.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, the weekly 100 word challenge hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by her husband, Jan W. Fields.

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

Copyright Jan W. Fields

Gerald stared wistfully at the piano, remembering the spotlight, how the audience faded away as he lost himself in the music. The approach of light footsteps shook him from his reverie as his granddaughter ran up and gave him a hug before sitting on the stool.

He moved around to stand behind her and cupped his hands, gnarled and stiff with age, around a mug of cocoa. He made encouraging noises as the little girl moved her fingers, tentatively at first, then with more confidence, across the keys.

He smiled. Yes, little Masie had the gift.

Here is my story for the weekly Friday Fictioneers challenge, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s picture was contributed by Amy Reese. Thanks, Amy :-).

For the other stories this week, click on the blue frog.

Copyright Amy Reese

“Oh, Sally, look. It’s a complete mess already. Weeds, sticks…”

“Hun, it’s been weeks.”

“Has it been that long? It seems like only yesterday.”

Sally looked at her husband, eyes brimming with concern. It had been three months since the funeral. She took his arm. “Come on, we’d best go inside. Do you feel ready?”

Grief etched on his face, Harold looked up at the house, a house now empty of life. He placed one tentative foot on the detritus-covered steps and froze. “No… no, not today. Maybe tomorrow?”

“That’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, the weekly flash fiction challenge hosted by Rochelle. The photo was provided by Jean L Hays. It’s apparently another rerun, but before my time!

If you look closely, everything outside the window is the wrong way round! I’m still trying to get my brain to work out the specifics of it all :-(.

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

Copyright Jean L. Hays

“Open your eyes and take a look outside.”

“Everything’s… backwards! You weren’t kidding. The 708 Fulton really is a dimensional transport vehicle! Who’d’a thunk it?”

“Indeed! How old do you think I am?

“Um… thirty-five, thirty-six maybe?”

“Three hundred and five.”

“Wha…”

“Time travels backwards here. For every year I spend in our world, I spend a year here… getting younger! The net effect? I never age!”

“Woah… really?!”

“No, not really! Man, you’re so gullible! I positioned a mirror while your eyes were closed.”

“Whaaa… grrrrrr!”

“?eeffoc fo puC. eeh eeH”

“!ylevoL”

Here is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by Scott L. Vannatter. That looks a lot like a driving licence in front of the cat, I wonder what he’s up to…?

To read the other stories for this week, click on the blue froggy. And have a wonderful Christmas everyone :-).

Copyright Scott L. Vannatter

Meow. Let’s see, that’s my fake ID ready. Name: “Pussy Willow”. Date of birth: “27/01/2012”. That should get me in.

I hear all the clubs are full of the cutest kitty cats at Christmas-time (whatever that is – all I know is at this time of year there’s loads of paper and boxes to play with).

Do I have everything? ID… check. Catnip… check. Have to hide that somewhere the bouncers won’t find it.

I’m gonna get some action tonight. Meeeeeow!

Have fun everyone, but drink your milk responsibly and take it easy with the catnip. Merry Christmas (whatever that is)!

Here is my tale for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. The photo this week was contributed by Luther Silar.

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

Copyright Luther Silar

“Waaaaa! Waaaaa! Uncle Jeremy shot Flapper! Waaaaaa!”

“What the hell did you do, Jerry?”

“I thought that the Christmas turkey had escaped.”

“IT’S YELLOW!”

“Big Bird’s yellow.”

“Big Bird’s not real! Turkey’s aren’t yellow!”

“What is it then?”

“It is… was a ‘Flapper Enhanced Robotic Companion’. Look at Timmy’s little face. You’ve shot his present. You’ve ruined Christmas.”

“Robots? Huh. Good job I shot it, then. It’s the Rise of the Machines. What’s this, now?”

I am Robbie, your helpful Kitchen Companion. You have murdered Flapper. Therefore I will now terminate you.

“See? Told ya.”