The bells chimed 3pm as I, Seb, Sally and Manny chased down the back street, laughing. The figure at the far end made us stop dead. Taller than any man, slender form cloaked by material that absorbed sunlight, it had a face none of us could later recall, although it extended a skinny index finger to unsmiling lips. The sun went in, we glanced up, and then the figure was gone. Cautiously we approached, found only a black cat sunning its belly.
Seb returned there the next day, a car hit him, and he died promptly on the 3pm chimes.
It could transform into a balloon, a small dog, a tree, a copy of the Mona Lisa, or, this time, a small stone hovel in the Scottish wilderness. It seemed so innocent, and might have stayed there for centuries, posing for cute photos in a picturesque setting, eating hikers and foxes out in the wild, but it got unlucky. A lady reported it chewing up her husband and her best friend while she’d peed, luckily out of its sight. Of course we had to fight and destroy it, the battle ended by flamethrowers. We emptied the bones from its belly.
Thank you for reading. Constructive comments welcome.
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Warning: This went a little dark, I reckon – I saw that huge glossy shadow in the lower section and was totally drawn into it….
Keep your eyes peeled, girl.
They move between dark places when the shadows shift. Between buildings. Inside homes.
My neighbour was left with a cave for a face.
They spread in shadows, their domain increasing as storms get fiercer, knocking out power, soaking firewood. They caused that too, of course. Moment they landed here the bastards were blotting out our sun.
So never blink. Be vigilant and you’ll catch a lifesaving glimpse. A spidery leg here, a scuttle at the corner of your eye. Shoot the bastards.
Keep ‘em peeled, girl. Here’s a razorblade. I can help, if you’d like?
Almost alone on a semi-deserted junk world, Kaylee badly missed her beloved Benji-dog.
But she’d finally found a new friend within the scrap heap.
The dusty robot gratefully consumed all the batteries she’d scrounged. He sucked thoughtfully on each one, his red headlamp eyes growing brighter, and his spiny fingers twitched and rusty claws flexed.
“KB is ready,” KB finally announced in a scratchy, staccato voice.
“So we can play?” she said.
“Yes, Kaylee.” said KB. “What shall we play?”
Razor sharp teeth chomped the last cell.
“I have a great game,” she grinned, “Huntin’ the varmints who murdered Benji!”
A strangely psychotic piece this week – think it was partly prompted and crystalised by everyone’s shock, including my own, at the hideous air crash where the pilot apparently very calmly flew himself and 150 other people into a mountain – for no good reason (all will probably be revealed, I suppose). Still, fucking unbearable to think about. Shudder.
This act of senseless brutality freaked me out and filtered its way into my story, though it’s also still inspired by the band picture. Apologies to the band people btw 😉 At least this guy has a clear motive for his dreadful actions, however dreadfully weak.
When Ben burned down the bandstand, he didn’t seem the chap. He’d always been a nice guy, we’d never heard him snap. But his one true love was music, and he had longed to play. But talent at it he had none, and the band drove him away. We saw him sulking in the park, although he waved and smiled. A light had gone behind his eyes, his grin it scared my child. We don’t know where he found the fuel, but he waited til the fayre. Then one match, poof, and up it went, and discord burned the air.
Thanks for reading and feel free to review constructively. Follow the blue frog and you can read all the other 100 word Friday Fictioneer stories 🙂
Started as a Friday Fictioneer, but as it’s now Sunday, I’ll just say it’s a piece of writing inspired by the photo from here:
An alien ship died overhead, spraying bright juice from degraded bowels. Hungry fluid chewed all life it touched. Insatiable green turned the trees to bone sculptures, fuelling a fast-growing, acidic moss that spread faster than I could ever hope to evade. Clothes burned to nothing. Everything suffocated. Holding my breath, I dived in the fountain. Water thickened with alien weeds. Moss clambered around my spine, flowers bloomed atop my screaming lips. Planets burst behind my eyes. Emerald stars burned my lungs. I swallowed the universe. Green was warm. I wondered numbly, nerves dissolving, if there were worse ways to go.
Friday Fictioneers I haven’t attempted this in a while, though I have spent a lot of time doing the 750 words.com challenges, which I highly recommend. It is, though, very gratifying to carve out a few thoughts in the 100 word limit of Friday Fictioneers, with the bonus of some human feedback. This is a bit of an experiment. If you don’t run screaming, then thank you for reading:
Under the Stump
Under the stump, the wee folk lived like kings. Under the stump, they supped blackberry wine and ate gooseberry jam and hot salted meat from puffs of wheat. Under the stump, there was a cold harsh heart asleep. Under the stump, a cockroach fought with a weevil. Under the stump, the wee folk made their bets. Under the stump, the wee folk taught ‘no regrets’. Under the stump, the sun was a myth. Under the stump, the spiders sought their juicy flesh. Under the stump, the wee folk were warm all winter long. Under the stump, they were safe from snow.
Feel I’m channelling a bit of the Arthur Machen, and Blackwood fairies here, if that’s what the ‘wee folk’ are.
Under the stump, the wee folk lived like kings. Under the stump, they supped blackberry wine and ate gooseberry jam and hot salted meat from puffs of wheat. Under the stump, there was a cold harsh devil asleep. Under the stump, a cockroach fought a weevil. Under the stump, the wee folk bet on the weevil. Under the stump, the wee folk taught ‘no regrets’. Under the stump, sun was a myth. Under the stump, the spiders sought their juicy flesh. Under the stump, the wee folk were warm all winter long. Under the stump, they were safe from snow.
Glad to have a chance to work on Fictioneering this week, with inspiration care of Lora Mitchell’s intriguing photograph. This began as a straightforward take on the idea, then it mutated into a piece of a story which I now want to develop into something longer. Hmm, maybe if I write fast…
Thank you to Rochelle Wissoff-Fields for hosting the challenge, and don’t forget to check out the rest of the stories, or as many as you can, via the little blue frog!
I showed Victoria’s mother the video. The camera slid tastefully from frozen cityscape and exuberant lilies to the frantic slewing of innocence on the bed. After watching Vicky with all four men, her fingers clenched and nails drew blood, she said, “Tell me where they are.”
“In return for the Heart. Lady Devere”
She bared her fangs.
“How dare you.” She was a tremble away from tearing me apart.
“Remember who I work for.”
Her eyes shone red. “Very well, Rat. It’s yours. Now tell.”
I nearly felt sympathy for Victoria’s lovers. But they didn’t have my Heart.
Though it’s been a while since my last Fictioneering, I’ve missed the discipline and mental exercise, and flat out fun of connecting to other writers with the same goal. It’s also moved, since the last time I did this, to here , at a colourful blog owned by Rochelle Wissoff-Fields.
And I’ve wondered, what can’t you write about a dilapidated old shack? Lots of ideas surged! I’ve missed this. In fact, I’ve missed it so much I’ve done three entries this time. Hope you like them, thank you for reading 🙂 comments welcome, I’ll aim to get to yours before the weekend is over!
Jack o’lanterns flicker inside the old shack. Five teenagers are giggling, necking and drinking piss-weak beer, and clouds of pot smoke wafts from the slashed shed wall, giving me unwanted buzz. They’re so absorbed in each other they have no idea I’m waiting outside. Not long now. My axe is sharp and ready. One girl’s bladder gives up and she saunters from the pumpkin’s glow. She’s small, blonde and determined looking. I attack, axe swinging. Before I hit her, I’m surrounded by the teenagers. They’re brandishing guns and sharp sticks, even the blonde wields an axe. This isn’t bloody fai…
I’m going to keep watching that broken down old wreck of a building. No, don’t try and stop me. I’ll stay here as long as it takes. Because five days ago, under the full moon – and yes I’d had a few beers – but I swear on my children’s lives, that I saw it turn into a goddamn castle. Golden flags, gleaming white towers, the works. Fine, laugh at me and canter on by. I don’t need you to believe me. But how else do you explain the trumpets on a cold night, or the crown in the street that time?
Meat and Poetry
The madwoman lived alone in the shack, and everyone mocked her. She didn’t care. She bought milk and meat in town, while muttering glorious poetry, until cruel children threw stones that struck her head. After that no one in town saw her for a good few days. Then a vast parade of purposeful cats filed up to her hovel. Curious folk that followed were amazed when the cats bore the madwoman’s corpse from the shack and out to the dark woods. When they saw her again in town, buying meat, singing poetry, not one stone was thrown.
A sinister image for this week’s prompt. It conjured up connotations of death camps, suffering and gruesome horror movies. And I totally went with that! Bit of a post-apocalyptic spin, I feel, too. Open to interpretation anway.
Madison Wood’s response to her photo can be found over here.
The Monster’s Martyrs are bound into a single, agonised unit of pain and forced to walk ten miles together for the annual sacrifice. This year they used razor wire. I recognise my poor brother staggering amongst them. A few pray, some sob; my brother curses, lifts his head to swear at the sky so wounds pour again. Dried blood has patterned obscenely on his flayed skin. Their suffering makes His mouth water, I’m told. Shuddering, I hide in the shallow grave I dug by His rusted tower, clutching the grenade tight, awaiting His appearance. This will not happen again.