draliman on life

Here is my little story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted  every week by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by C.E. Ayr.

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

Copyright C.E. Ayr

“What’s that, Daddy?” asked little Sammie.

“That,” replied Daddy, “is a cattle grate for ants.”

“Geoffrey!” snapped Mummy. “It’s a drain, Sammie.”

“Ooh,” said Sammie. “Is Daddy a liar then, Mummy?”

“Yes, Sammie,” replied Mummy, “he is. That’s why I’m divorcing him.”

“Gahhhh!” yelled Daddy, eyeballs bulging. “You &&*$^%^% what?!”

“Language, Geoffrey,” said Mummy calmly.

“What’s ‘divorce’, Mummy?” asked Sammie.

“That’s when Mummy loved Daddy very much, but Daddy turned out to be a womanising asshat so she’s throwing him out,” explained Mummy.

“Ooh,” said Sammie. “Should I call Uncle Frank ‘Daddy’ from now on, then?”

“Frank from Accounting?!” yelled Daddy.

“Gahhhh!” exclaimed Mummy.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers on this Armistice Day. Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle, and this week’s photo was kindly supplied by  J. Hardy Carroll.

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

Copyright J Hardy Carroll

Cynthia watched, eyes damp, as her twin daughters scampered over to the grave. She saw them solemnly place the flowers before heading back.

They’d never met their father – he’d been deployed overseas while they were still living safe and unaware beneath her heart. This year they were old enough to place the flowers. In a few years’ time they would understand the sacrifice their father had made. They’d understand why he wasn’t there, why he’d never been there for them. Why he’d had to go.

Cynthia understood. But that didn’t make it any easier. There were some wounds even time couldn’t heal.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, the weekly 100 word flash fiction challenge headed up by Rochelle over at Addicted to Purple. This week’s photo comes courtesy of Connie Gayer, or Mrs Russell:-).

I could have done with another 50 words for this one, but them’s the breaks. Hopefully I haven’t stripped out too much. And I thought this was a pipe rather than a wire at first glance.

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

Copyright Connie Gayer

“What’s that?” asked Brian.

“Dunno. Some pipe. There’s a sign. What’s it say?”

“No idea.” Brian tugged at the pipe until one end came free. With a sound reminiscent of air escaping a balloon, Earth deflated to the size of a marble. Trees, cars and dead people floated off into space.

“WHAT A MESS!” boomed a voice from the darkness. “I’M NOT CLEANING THIS UP. WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS PLANET?” The Angelic Host appeared. One of their number raised a wing.

“Me,” he mumbled. “But, but, I left a sign. Look!”

Emergency Planet Release Valve
Authorised Angelic Personnel Only

DO NOT TOUCH!

Here is my story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo is by Dale Rogerson. Thanks, Dale!

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

Copyright Dale Rogerson

“What-ho, Simpkins, our submersible prototype returns!”

“Indeed, Pendergast. But wait, it is full to the brim with water!”

“Dash it. Quickly, retrieve the monkey.” They opened the hatch and pulled out a rather waterlogged simian.

“How fares he, Simpkins?” asked Pendergast.

“Speak to me, Chester!” shouted Simpkins, hammering on the monkey’s chest. Water spouted from its mouth.

Ook.

“Thank Heavens! Chester lives!”

“A palpable success, Simpkins,” said Pendergast. “I’ll wager you’re glad to be out of there, Chester!”

Ook! Ook!

“Tomorrow,” said Simpkins, “we shall trial our rocket ship, powered only by the flatulence of cattle. To the stars, Chester!”

Ooooook.

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, which marks Rochelle’s third anniversary as FF host! To celebrate, in a break to usual draliman fare, my story this week is unashamedly a sort of tribute to this landmark. In a sort of analogous way. With the name changed. And the gender. And there’s a bus. But I’m sure you get the idea!

The photo was contributed by Ron Pruitt. Click on the blue froggy for this week’s other stories.

Copyright Ron Pruitt

Fielding thought back to that sunny afternoon, three years ago almost to the day. His life had been good but change is good too, right? So he’d decided to mix things up a bit, take on something new.

He’d boarded that bus back in 2012, ready to visit new territory, meet the challenge. Since that time he’d seen murder and intrigue, philosophy, comedy, pathos, even horror (though he had to admit he wasn’t so keen on the zombies).

Looking back, he knew he’d made the right decision. He’d done good. Everyone said so, and his new undertaking was thriving. Congratulations, Fielding!

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. She also contributed this week’s photo. Click on the blue froggy to see all the other contributions.

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“Nasty night. This is going nowhere. Wait… eight hours and you haven’t taken a leak! What are you, Officer Iron Bladder?”

“Adult nappy!”

“Adult… wait, I don’t wanna know. Christ.”

“Always prepared, Sarge! Look – camera, spare camera, spare batteries, phone charger, spare phone, sat nav…”

“Christ.”

“No sign of this drug deal going down, Sarge.”

“Stupid place for it anyway. Too much foot traffic on Winslade Avenue.”

“Um, Winslade Avenue? Not Street?”

“What are you telling me, Mr ‘Always Prepared’?”

“Well, it’s been fun, right? So, philosophically speaking, we’re right where we need to be!”

“Christ.”

Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, the weekly flash fiction challenge hosted by Rochelle. The photo this week was contributed by The Reclining Gentleman. My genre for this week is “craziness!” :-).

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

Copyright The Reclining Gentleman

Jedd increased speed as his pursuer swerved around another vehicle. Terrified, he threw caution to the winds, flooring the accelerator.

Who could want him so badly?

So preoccupied was he that he missed the brake lights ahead. At the last second, screaming, he swerved into the crash barrier. Legs crushed, terrified, helpless, he saw a shadowy figure approach. It rapped on the side window, which promptly shattered. He saw the face of… his dear old mum!

“Sorry about that, dearie. You forgot your packed lunch!” she said brightly, handing him his sandwiches before roaring off again. Jedd began to cry.