copyright -Janet Webb
We stood on the sand and watched them go. ‘We’; the sick, the old, the crippled and the slow, surrounded by the debris they left behind; discarded bags, empty trolleys.
Some were still arriving at the bay, dragging injured legs behind; their expression turning to unspeakable desperation when they realized they were too late. Continue reading
He placed a matryoshka doll on the table between them, amid the two glasses with remnants of red wine and the half burnt candle.
Excitement shot through her body right down to her fingertips. She tore the first layer open, then the second while small, uncontrollable bursts of glee escaped her grinning lips. Continue reading
‘So, killing the Archduke…that was you?’
‘Yup.’
‘And the plague?’
‘Like sprinkling black pepper over Europe.’
‘But why?’
‘Imagine how boring life would be if nothing ever happens…I do it all for you.’
—
For Trifecta. The challenge for this weekend was to get inspired by The Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil which just so happens to be one of my favourite songs.
‘Jack-ass!’ Angie spat before the last of the shattered head-lamps crumbled onto the ground.
She jumped out of the car frothing at the mouth.
‘You bitch!’ was how she was greeted by the other driver whose face was a similar shade of puce as Angie’s was.
The red Porsche she had hit was complete with waxed metal, platinum rims and two tail lights sprinkled on the ground like fine fairy dust.
It wasn’t her fault though. There she was minding her own business, when a five-seater Mitsubishi passed by with three sheep packed at the back of it going ‘Beh!’ Continue reading
One; choose your prey.
Easy. There he is across the bar, shining like a violet beacon in a sea of black. Wearing a white polo-shirt in a place like this says something about a man. For me, it says he wants to be eaten, devoured and spat out again. Happy to oblige.
Two; study your prey. Continue reading
Copyright – John Nixon
The dress was made at a bargain; a war was on and all the bride cared about was her prince in his freshly-pressed uniform. The groom left for France the day after the wedding. He was shot in a ditch a week later.
The second bride, a cousin of the first, married a doctor in that dress. The bride died of a fever her husband couldn’t cure.
Being a scientific man, the doctor never suspected that it was the curse on the dress that carried his girl away, and so the dress now stands in the shop, attracting prey.
—
For Friday Fictioneers, I really like this week’s picture, particularly because I love vintage wear! I love the story each garment can tell; who wore the dress? Why was it thrown away? Was there a first kiss in this dress? Was there a break up?
I had about 10 other ideas for this picture, but since I’m quite late, all my crispy concepts where taken by the time I read through all the brilliant posts. So, I settled for this one. Hope you like it 🙂
A dark wave broke against the boat, tilting the starboard lip precariously close to the waterline; not for the first time, nor for the hundredth time. The boat rocked on, cradling our nausea, nourishing our fear.
We were no seamen, not a single one of us. And yet, here we were; fourteen souls packed tight on a piece of wood barely qualifying for the term ‘boat’.
Adjoa screamed; a sound that cut through the thunder and made my insides hurt.
‘Shut that pie-hole, woman!’
Eniola sent a poisonous look in Paki’s direction and shifted slightly, barring Adjoa from Paki. He had been raising one hell after another since we left Libya, but Eniola had so far managed to contain him. Continue reading
Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields
Invasion, NY
We watched them stomp across the water into the harbour; marching in a disciplined straight line, their giraffe-like necks moving backwards and forwards with each stride.
We were the last to leave; squeezed into the only remaining boat that was much too small.
The invaders made it inland and the screams became a howl; a frenzied cry of terror that carried over the water, past the broken statue.
Then another sound.
The motor on our boat coughed and died. Our eyes mirrored terror, then resignation as we waited while the current carried us back towards the screams.
—
For Friday Fictioneers. Hope you liked it 🙂
Copyright -Claire Fuller
‘What! They left already?’
‘Yup.’
‘What happened? Was it Peter with his drop-the-ball-down-the-stairs trick?’
‘No, it was Rose.’
‘Rose!’
‘You know how she gets when Carter floats to the attic to chat up the new ghost…’
‘And Rose got jealous?’
‘Yes. Freaked out. All the lights went berserk. The mortals thought that it was cos the house was old, but then Carter started dancing with the new girl.’
‘And Rose saw?’
‘Yes. She went mental. Crockery started smashing against the walls. Then she started wailing … The whole family was out of the door before Carter gave the new girl a second twirl.’
—
When I first saw the picture posted by Rochelle for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, I was rushing out of work with my glasses already packed safely in my handbag. I got a whole story going – title and all – by the time I got home. Only now that I downloaded the picture have I realised that it is in fact a church. But the story was done by then and it refused to leave. So there you have it and I hope you enjoy it.
When Mauve tattooed the letter ‘M’ on her upper left arm, everyone simply assumed that she had tattooed the first letter of her name.
It was a nice tattoo. Three inches wide and four inches long, the thin black outline of the ‘M’ was entwined with ivy spiralling up and down its edges. It was a piece of art, no one denied that.
But when a second ‘M’ popped up right below the first one, some eyebrows were raised, some heads got cocked to the side.
‘Your initials, right? Mauve…it’s Martins, isn’t it?’ Mauve nodded and smiled thinly the first time someone asked that. Then she just nodded.
The second ‘M’ had daisies sprouting out of the two parallel lines on the side. The outline was black again, but the daisies were white with a yellow centre. All in all, it complemented the green ivy quite well.
The scabs on the daisies hadn’t completely healed when a third ‘M’ materialised half way down Mauve’s left arm etched in front of a large pink lily.
Three ‘M’s. Eyebrows were drawn in quizzical expressions. Mauve just shrugged.
*
In the flat she shares with no-one, Mauve washes blood off her hands in the kitchen sink, brushing away at her fingernails using the steel, wiry sponge she usually uses to scrub pots with.
She wipes her hands on the dish towel and sits at the kitchen table where a High School yearbook is open. A red cross quarters each of three different faces; Ivy Reynolds, Daisy Stevens, Lily O’Keefe.
Mauve grabs the red pen buried in the middle of the open book. A smile snails its way up each cheek as another face is crossed; stroke, stroke. Samara Lawrence.
Mauve reaches for a blank paper, sketches the four-by-three inch ‘M’ – her own chosen brand for ‘Murderer’ – and then pauses. The pen hovers motionless for some long seconds until Mauve’s head shoots up, panic clouding her expression.
‘Samara…Samara…Samara…how the hell am I gonna pull this one off?’
—
For Trifecta. The word is BRAND.
This comes after a week-long break from blogging… *snigger-snigger* I was on holiday and ooohh have I enjoyed it! ^__^
I missed writing though, so I’m glad I’m back with you all.
Sandra's scribbles 