Archive
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.
Highly Strung
It’s Friday Fictioneers time! And I’m actually posting on a Friday for a change.
For those of you new to Friday Fictioneers, our wonderful host Rochelle posts a picture and the rest of us write a (roughly) 100 word story, poem or whatever about it. This week’s photo was donated by fellow Fictioneerer Janet Webb. Thanks, Janet!
To read all the other stories, click here.
I have to admit my story is 107 words. I already cut a load out and I honestly can’t see how to cut out another 7 words without compromising the story. Sorry 😦 .
Copyright Janet Webb
Detective Turnbull looked around the gallery. He couldn’t decide if the sprays of blood adorning the art were an improvement. He shook his head.
“Not your thing, detective?” asked a uniform.
“Art? Huh. So, what happened?”
“The artist went nuts. Sliced some kid to bits with a palette knife, if you can believe that.”
“Do we know why?” asked Turnbull.
“Kid grabbed a sangria from over there. Apparently it was part of the ‘piece’. Bit high strung, this artist.”
“Okay.” Turnbull turned to the gallery owner. “We’ll get this blood cleaned up.”
“Are you mad? This is live art! I can sell this room for a fortune!”
A New Patio
It’s Friday Fictioneers time, hosted as always by the lovely Rochelle. A hundred plus eager writers get together to offer their own interpretation on a photo in around 100 words, and this week the photo has been supplied by fellow Friday Fictioneererererer Björn Rudberg!
Other entries can be found by clicking here.
So, without further ado, here is my contribution to this week’s fun.
Copyright Björn Rudberg
Zeke’s sigh was lost in the rumble of the cement mixer. What a waste of time this was! They were out in the middle of nowhere. Anywhere would do, but his wife was a traditionalist. It has to be done the right way, she insisted. You always hide them under the patio, she argued.
He threw another dismembered corpse into the concrete and sighed again. They were perfectly alright where they were before, feeding the grape vines.
A flash of light caught his eye – sunlight glinting off binoculars far below in the valley.
Ah, lunch!
He reached for his hunting rifle.
Click for a random post!
Woohoo!
I totally didn't win!
Share Your World
Friday Fictioneers
draliman on life 