On the Hunt

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

1800, France….or is it 2078, New Paris?

Strapped inside a corset, sweating under layers of cotton, I opened the door and stepped out.  A robot hovered past, feeding hot air up my petticoat.

‘Doctor…I think we’re slightly late for Napoloeon!’

picasso_doctor

For Trifextra.  The theme this weekend was ‘Time Travel’.  Could I have done anything else but the Doctor?!

Hand-me-downs

the_second_hand_shop-1

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 🙂

Journey’s End

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

A Summoning

Summer, you cruel devil, are you not done with me yet? Have my offerings in bucketfuls of sweat not been to your insatiable satisfaction?

Winter, you sweet thing, deliver me from this hell.

This was me tipping my hat at the seasons and, in so doing, answering the challenge the good people from Trifecta posed us this weekend:

Apostrophe: “A figure of speech in which some absent or nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of understanding.”

Regarding my particular choice of Apostrophe…if you live were i do, where Summer lasts for eight whole months with daily temperatures of 35 degrees Celsius and humidity so high that the air you breath sticks to the sides of your nostrils and liquidates on its way down to your lungs…you would understand me better.

Invasion, NY

the-boat-and-miss-liberty

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 🙂

Hidden

I know a man who owns a mask.masks

It’s made of steel and covers his face.

He wears it often;

To hide his smile,

And his eyes.

But sometimes the mask is down;

When he is unawares.

But in those times

I see beneath.

I see flesh.

I see a smile,

And his eyes.

Do I like what I see?

Sometimes.

Only…

Once…

Just once…

The flesh slipped.

And I realised;

The flesh was not flesh,

But another mask.

Underneath there was another layer.

It was made of lead;

The fatal kind.

So,

Do I like what I see?

I don’t know.

In all these years,

I have never seen his face.

***

For Trifecta. The word this week is MASK.