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Melted
It’s time for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle! My more-or-less 100 words this week have been inspired by a photo contributed by Renee Heath.
It’s a fantastic photo, full of demonic promise. However, I have resisted the temptation to ooze living wax down some poor sod’s throat and have had a shoddy stab at The Romance. I haven’t tried The Romance before and it feels a bit flat, possibly due to a lack of blood and other-wordly creatures. However, it’s good to push one’s boundaries every once in a while.
I’ll see if I can kill off twice as many characters next week to make up for it.
To read other stories for this week, click on the little blue froggy!
[Edit: I would like to thank Judah First and Sustainabilitea for helping me out in the second sentence of the “winter” passage – I just couldn’t find the right word!]
Copyright Renee Heath
As the wind whistled through the trees and shook tiles from the roofs he gave her his best line. She blew past him and was gone.
Snow lay thick on the ground when he invited her to share mulled wine. Her frosty mien belied the interest in her eyes.
When the first flowers appeared and the apple trees blossomed he enticed her to coffee. Hope grew within him.
In the warmth of a summer evening they shared a meal. He opened his heart to her and in the flickering light of the candles she melted.
Going Solo
A bit later than usual this week, but here is my submission for Friday Fictioneers. Hosted by Rochelle, the goal is to write roughly 100 words in response to a photo which this week has been contributed by regular Fictioneerer Björn Rudberg. To see all of this week’s contributions, click the little blue froggy.
Copyright Björn Rudberg
World-renowned guitarists and best friends Frank Marks and Barry Strykes, 10 year anniversary tour here tonight. One night only! Sold out!
*****
Frank
Look at him sitting there with his stupid oversized banjo. Ten years I’ve had to listen to his amateurish plucking. Let’s see how well he strums after his brakes fail and he goes over the cliff. I’m going solo!
*****
Barry
A whole decade of sitting here covering his asinine mistakes. He missed that chord, the talentless little shit. Let’s see how well he strums when the strychnine in his nightcap rips him apart. I’m going solo!
Punchline
It’s time for Friday Fictioneers again – that came round fast! – brought to us as always by Rochelle. The photo, to which we write a 100 word story, has this week been contributed by Douglas M. Macilroy.
Quite a fun photo this one, so I’ll leave the horror and my current penchant for demonic possession alone for this week! Here’s a bit of silliness instead.
To read all the other stories, click on the little blue froggy below.
Copyright Douglas M. Macilroy
“So, a diver, a carpenter and a lawyer walk into a living room…”
“You mean bar.”
“Say what?”
“A diver, a carpenter and a lawyer walk into a bar.”
“Who’s telling this joke?”
“Well, excuse me.”
“May I continue?”
“If you must.”
“So, a diver, a carpenter and a lawyer walk into a living room, and the kid says, ‘What are you guys doing here?’”
“What kid?”
“The kid in the living room. Right, so the guys look at each other and then the diver says – oh boy, this is hilarious, you’re gonna love this – the diver says…“
Aw darn, that’s my 100 words all used up. Hey, I didn’t make the rules.
What did the diver say? Was it really hilarious? Do we care? Tune in again, same time next week, for a completely different story with no diver, living room and still no punchline!
New Flesh
It’s Friday and that means it’s time for Friday Fictioneers!
The goal is to write approximately 100 words, inspired by a photo which this week has been contributed by DLovering. Our host as always is Rochelle.
You can read all the other stories for this week by clicking on the little blue froggy. Here he is!
I’ve edited this a gazillion times and I’m still not entirely happy (I need about 30 more words!), but here it is anyway.
What with all this stuff at work I’m way behind with my reading but I promise I will try to catch up!
Copyright DLovering
The festival was over. For Manuel it had been most profitable. Wallets, assorted watches, rings… one ring caught his attention. It looked old. Really old. There was an inscription, written in a script he had never seen before.
He’d taken it from an old, gaunt man whose skin had felt like paper, and so cold – wrong somehow – as Manuel had crushed the life from him.
He put the ring on, suppressing a shudder as it seemed to melt into his flesh.
Far away, Galchallon, Lord of the Dark, smiled. New flesh to do his bidding. A new soul upon which to feast.
Yes, I know, I went with yet another demonic possession. Weird, huh? What’s going on in this head of mine?
Lord of the Stage
It’s Friday Fictioneers time again, hosted as always by Rochelle. This week’s photo has been contributed by Kent Bonham.
I’m having to work all weekend, late nights and early mornings, so I’m slipping this in quickly before starting. I’ll try to read as many of the other contributions (which can be found by clicking on the little blue froggy below) as possible but I don’t know how much time I will have.
Copyright Kent Bonham
Harry stood in the empty theatre, staring at the stage light. Everyone else had long since gone, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the lamp. It seemed to be staring back at him through slit eyes, laughing at him through gaping maw.
So entranced was he that he barely felt the knife which slid into his back, neatly severing his spine. An arm slipped around him as his legs gave way, easing him to the ground.
“I dedicate this life to you, my Lord Calitrax,” whispered his killer.
The lamp seemed to glow red before fading away to darkness.
Design Flaw
It’s Wednesday. That means it’s time for Friday Fictioneers! Which was posted on Tuesday.
I’m confused 😦
Never mind. I have written my little story. I’ve gone all dialogue-y this week. I hope it’s not too confusing who is speaking, it’s tricky to do three people without any “he said, she said”.
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the talented Rochelle and the idea is to write approximately 100 words in response to a photo, which this week has been contributed by John Nixon. Thanks, John Nixon!
Have a read of all the other submissions for this week by clicking on the little blue froggy below.
Copyright John Nixon
“Wow, these twigs look huge! Like a forest! Your miniaturisation device worked, Professor.”
“Indeed yes, Major. A triumph!”
“So, how do we de-miniaturise? Is that the correct term, Professor? De-miniaturise?”
“Indeed it is. I simply reverse the polarity of the emitter.”
“The emitter? The emitter way up there? Using that absolutely massive screwdriver?”
“Mmm, yes. In my line of work we call that a ‘design flaw’.”
“In our line of work we call that a monumental fu…”
“Secure that shit, Private!”
“Sorry, Sir.”
“So what do we do now? Yes, Private?”
“I suggest we run, Sir. That cat is coming back.”
Time to Move Out
It’s time for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the lovely and talented Rochelle. The idea is to write approximately 100 words in response to a photo prompt. And 100 words is not a lot, let me tell you 🙂
This week’s photo is of a staircase in an old building, and was supplied by Rochelle herself! You can read all the stories submitted for this week’s prompt by clicking on the little blue froggy.
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Harold wheezed, out of breath, as he reached his apartment block. A sharp sound – crack! crack! emanated from a nearby alley as he unlocked the front door.
“Damn gangbangers!” he muttered as he stepped over the semi-conscious junkie in the doorway and went inside. Fifty years ago this had been a nice, quiet neighbourhood.
As he approached the stairs he heard a scream and a body crashed down, bouncing off the grill lining the stairwell. Harold took a quick look. That pusher from next door.
He pulled out his phone and called his daughter.
“Honey, is that room still going spare?”
Everything Changes
Hello and welcome to my Friday Fictioneers entry, which is hosted as always by Rochelle and this week features a photo by Friday Fictioneerer Adam Ickes.
I wrote this story on Thursday, but only now have time to post it! To read the other entries for this week, click on the little blue froggy.
Copyright Adam Ickes
Shelley summoned her courage and approached the little wooden bridge. The new varnish gleamed – one could never tell that it had been damaged.
Edging forward she looked into the gulley, a run-off for melting winter snow. A tear stung her eye as she cast her mind back to last week when everything was all right, everything was normal. The buzzing of the little dirt bike, the laughter of her brother, his excitement as he tore onto the bridge.
A tiny miscalculation. That was all it took to change everything.
Forever.
She placed the flowers next to the bridge and walked away.
His Favourite Place
It’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by the talented Rochelle. This week’s picture comes courtesy of Danny Bowman – my (roughly) 100 word story follows.
Have a look at all the other great entries here, and why not give it a go yourself?
Copyright Danny Bowman
Andriy mopped the sweat from his brow as he looked out over the stunning landscape.
What rugged beauty, he thought. Much like my native Ukraine.
He had emigrated to this land years ago, quickly finding work in a job he was eminently suited to. It was these moments of solitude however, surrounded by such incredible views, that he lived for.
Bracing himself, he dragged his burden to the edge of the cliff and pushed it over. For a moment he wondered what the poor sod had done to deserve such a brutal end, but then shrugged and settled down to enjoy the view.
More Haste…
I have completed my house move! Well, I have yet to re-assemble my bed, and I can barely move for boxes, but still… I missed last week’s Friday Fictioneers but I now have my internet connected. Fibre at last! Call me Mr Speedy.
So without further ado, here is my submission, written to a photo submitted by Fictioneerer Sandra Crook. As always, Rochelle is hosting the whole shebang, so be sure to check out her website, and you can also read the other submissions here.
Copyright Sandra Crook
I don’t believe it. Another tractor! Can’t these farmers move their straw in the middle of the night or something? What’s he doing? Fifteen miles per hour? Ridiculous. What about my dinner?
Ah, I think I can slip past… no! That was close. Damn cars coming at me. Maybe in a minute, I think there’s a straight bit. Here we go… oops. Dammit! More traffic. I can’t believe this. Pull over, moron! I’ve had enough of this. I’m going past. There’s never anything on this stretch. Foot down, yes! No! NO!
Jim Preston. Loving husband. Father of three.
Idiot.
Dead.
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