A Bike Called Betsy

Copyright -Anelephantcant

 

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.

 

Satanist for a Day

goats_and_graves_3_randy_mazie

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 🙂

Page 7

metal work beanstalk

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?’

‘…P—Page seven?’

‘The chant on page seven.’

‘I—Wh—’

‘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?’

‘I—’

Idiot!’

 

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.

Carnivor

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?

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Copyright -John Nixon

For Friday Fictioneers.

Exe’s Skill

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.

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Copyright – EL Appleby

This was for Friday Fictioneers and inspired by the picture below. Not what you were expecting, huh?

 

A Moonlit Dance

window-dressing-janet-webb

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.

Picture This…

haunted-mansion

Thunder shatters the skies. A lonely mansion stands atop a hill.  Inside, a marble telephone rings, its cry hardly audible above the ravenous storm outside.

 ‘Hello?’

Silence ensues.

‘Hello?’

Heavy breathing sets in.

Hello?’

The breathing now assimilates bellows propelling a simmering fire.

‘Seriously?  You called me at—what—precisely midnight to just breathe into the receiver? Can you be any more of a cliché?’

The voice croaks, ‘The call is coming from inside—

‘That’s. It.’ An eardrum-shattering whistle cracks like thunder through the speaker.

The line goes dead shortly after and the rest of the night passes on peacefully.

danny-bowman

Copyright: Danny Bowman

 

For Friday Fictioneers where the prompt this week is the picture on your left.

The inspiration for this story came from a mix of countless horror movies and a little snippet from real life.  I’ll not go into details unless you ask me to, but I just want to say that blowing a die-hard whistle into the speaker does indeed result into the annoying caller hanging up with a moan of pain and a bad-tempered harrumph.