Copyright -Claire Fuller
‘What! They left already?’
‘What happened? Was it Peter with his drop-the-ball-down-the-stairs trick?’
‘No, it was 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.
Copyright -Renee Heath
A girl was dancing in the street, her braided hair spinning at the exact same angle as her skirt. Her figure shone bright with each revolution that brought her out of shadow and into the pouring sunrays caressing the asphalt.
A man leaned against Bidwell’s doorframe, looking on but not seeing the girl. His eyes were glazed over like he was recalling something distant.
The images are seared inside my mind still. Only the useless details though. Years of therapy have yet to bring back the face of the man who left the bag against the hydrant, right before it all went black.
For Friday Fictioneers. I added my dark tale to the many dark inspirations that this week’s picture has instilled in the brilliant minds of the Fictioneers.
Copyright – Jennifer Pendergast
‘It’s the Beesity epidemic?’
‘You know… what they were saying on the news the other day…the obesity epidemic that’s hit the bees!’
‘Oh! … What the hell is that?’
‘It doesn’t matter, just stay away from the damn things. Charlie from work said that his mother’s cousin’s daughter was stung by one and it split her in half.’
‘If it comes anywhere near you just don’t move and stay calm.’
‘Oh! … OH! … Brady…?’
‘Why should I panic, sweetie?’
‘Do. Not. Move.’
‘Shit! Sweetie? … Sweetie? Where are you going? Sweetie!’
For Friday Fictioneers. Not particularly proud of my attempt this week, but it is what it is. Hope you like it better than I do!
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
Lying down hand in hand with a boy with no other intention except to gaze up at the passing shapes above, we used to hypothesise and ponder; were they strong enough to walk on?
A few years passed and I was up among them, looking at them. I saw cotton valleys and mountains; a whole magical world made of white and I wondered; was there anything more beautiful?
Now, glancing up I see rain coming and when up among them, looking through them, all I see is my tomb thirty-five thousand feet below; is there a death more horrible?
For Friday Fictioneers. No dark fiction from me this week; just stark, cold reality. Hope you like it anyway.
I had a bike called Betsy when I was about six. Grandpa gave it to me about two years before he died. He never managed to teach me, so I taught myself; my knees and elbows were a mess for a while. Once I learnt though, I used to ride all the time, and when no one was looking I even used to ride with my eyes closed, pretending I was flying. I was just returning from a ride when I found my mother in the tub. After that, I never touched a bike again.
For Friday Fictioneers. Hi all! I found it a bit hard to feel inspired this week, I must admit. But no matter, I came up with something in the end.
Thanks for reading.
Copyright – Randy Mazie
When Boo decided to become a Satanist, Randy tagged along. They bought themselves leather jackets and dog collars and prepared for the ritual. They had watched enough television to know how that went.
Full moon saw both youngsters at the cemetery dragging a bleating Sandy behind. They found a marble tomb and took out the knife. Then sat and stared at the goat.
‘I can’t do it, Boo! Me Pah’ll kill me!’
‘Grow some balls!’
‘Boo, I can’t!’
Boo gave out a grunt and snatched the knife, hiding his trembling fingers.
A twig snapped.
The young men were back at the barn faster than Sandy could bleat a reminder that she was still attached to the tree.
When I saw this picture on Friday Fictioneers, I went, ‘Oh shit! How can I explain this one away!’ Then I thought and thought, and an idea did come to me, but I must confess, I couldn’t keep to the hundred word deadline this week; which is a pity because I’ve missed quite a few challenges in the past weeks! If you can offer any suggestions they are very welcome and I’ll edit as the comments come in 🙂
Copyright – David Stewart
‘What the hell happened here?’
‘I—I don’t know, boss! I followed all the instructions!’
‘Like hell you did; look at it!’
‘But I did, honest. All the instructions on page six. “Throw the bean and pour water on it.” I did just what the recipe says.’
‘What about page seven?’
‘The chant on page seven.’
‘You’re telling me that the reason I am now looking at a ladder instead of a beanstalk is that you opened the book, read the recipe and forgot to turn the page?’
Hello all! This little dialogue was triggered by the picture taken by David Stewart, chosen by Rochelle Wisoff and posted for Friday Fictioneers. It’s been a while since I participated in this challenge and I missed it! Hope you like it.
My father always said that his piano was part of him. All day he played, humming out tunes, scratching on the scrap-book and playing out pieces he’d just made up. He’d forget to eat and sleep until exhaustion caught up on him like a sneaky robber in the dark. He died there on that stool. We found him with his head resting on the keys.
My theory is that the piano devoured my father’s soul, because how do you explain the fact that the piano is still playing to this day; the keys rising and falling, playing out my father’s compositions?
Copyright -John Nixon
For Friday Fictioneers.
Exe switched on the light and, on cue, the screaming started – hysterical, tortured sounds that Exe knew were not coming out of pain. He knew, because Exe knew pain. He knew it by the expression in the eyes; conjuring pity. By smell; the salty sweat released from the exhausted being. By touch; the heat emanating from the feverish body.
Knowing this, Exe knew that the helpless, shapeless creature that now lay before him beholding its own reflection was not screaming out of pain but in horror; revulsion at the beast it had now become.
Exe put away his tools and smiled at a job well done.
Copyright – EL Appleby
This was for Friday Fictioneers and inspired by the picture below. Not what you were expecting, huh?
Copyright – Janet Webb
Mrs Pry tsked to herself; that dress had been up there all week. She had assumed at first that it must be some sort of Halloween decoration, but that apartment was still uninhabited. Mrs Pry curled her lips and let the curtain fall, mumbling and grumbling to herself all the way to bed.
Mrs Pry was deep asleep when clouds parted and revealed the full circular moon. And she was snoring loudly when the dress shifted, and floated up, making a bee-line across the city to where a pair of trousers and a shirt waited, ready for a dance.
For Friday Fictioneers; I loved the picture this week, so enthralling, but I keep thinking I’ve seen it somewhere, maybe on TV. Oh well! Hope you liked the story.