Fleas jumped off of the tangled hair, copulated in mid-air and settled back amid the black tendrils.
I stared in disgusted fascination, my nostrils having made peace with the assaulting stench.
My mind was drawn inward, savouring the festering feeling of satisfaction acting like balm against the long-aching depths in the pit of my stomach.
I watched the gaping hole betwixt its eyes, the hole I had just made, rendering its horns useless; unable now to ram at me; its dead legs unable to stalk me; its glassy eyes, emptied of the evil spirit that has haunted me for so long.
Copyright – Kelly Sands
After days of ceaseless chanting, all the magi have accomplished is this oppressive canopy of rumbling clouds.
Below us, dark legions spread across the valley.
On our side, one hundred remain of the thousand that saw the first dawn of battle.
The chanting paused.
A child now stands among the quarreling magi. Unbidden, he steps forward and lifts a hand over the abyss.
Then, through the clouds, a shimmer.
A silver dragon swoops low among black flags and the spreading tidal roar of terror.
They flee; disperse like an ant colony disturbed.
The dragon soars and disappears and, with it, the child.
Copyright – Claire Fuller
If a mirror existed that showed us our reflection, not as we appear, but as we feel; a pure reflection of our souls; what would I look like in such a glass? A rumbling volcano? An explosion of raging lava at a word said in a misjudged time? A spluttering of ash at a phrase uttered in a misused tone? But I guess it would be a mild volcano; no Vesuvius. Unsteady, yes, and explosive, but fading quickly; an Etna maybe.
You? What would your reflection be, my love? A statue made of marble, perhaps?
Emotionless, no explosions; cold to the touch, like marble?
All logic, no splutterings; clean and flawless, like marble?
For Friday Fictioneers.
The mummified corpse on Dr Jade’s table lay on its side with fingers clawed and legs crouched, kneeling. The mouth was open, caught in the middle of a frozen scream.
All Dr Jade was interested in were the teeth though; the perfect white teeth on the grey, withered body. Continue reading
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
Tyron smacked his lips happily. The perfect title hit him after two empty hours. ‘Seven mountains in seven years’, his answer to the challenge: ‘Wildest dreams’.
His finger hovered for a hesitating second longer. Then, click; the post was published. Continue reading
When leaves turn gold,
Copyright -Jennifer Pendergast
I know that their time has come.
With roses for cheeks
And chirping laughter,
I watch them enter in loud hordes.
The sky grows dark,
Eclipsed by pearly clouds.
Fragile branches sag under heavy ice;
Bags droop under tired, learned eyes.
I watch as hordes become silent clusters.
Snow melts. Unveils
Emerald leaves no longer burdened.
With roses back on their cheeks,
Straight backs, relieved shoulders,
I watch as one by one they leave, triumphant.
‘Your mama is so fat, that—’
A long, low booing resonated from the audience.
‘Okay! okay…Have you ever heard of the koi who was coy with his wife?’
‘Get off the stage!’
‘No, no wait…Okay; man walks in a bar—‘
Whizz. Glass shattered on the stage.
Damian ran out of the theatre for his life. He sat in the dark alley next to the backstage door analyzing the scribbled list in front of him.
‘Garbage Collector’ was next.
A man’s voice startled him; ‘How much for half an hour?’
Damian froze for a second, then shrugged. No reason ‘Male Prostitute’ shouldn’t be on that list.
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
For Trifecta and Friday Fictioneers. Two in one; economizing in this economy. The word given by Trifecta is: BOO – 3 (verb) to show dislike or disapproval of someone or something by shouting “Boo” slowly. Friday Fictioneers, on the other hand, gave us the lovely picture above.
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
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 🙂
Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields
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 🙂