Caught in a Stalker’s Web

Thank you, Rochelle, for posting the picture prompt. Click on her name for more details about Friday Fictioneers.

Read more stories by other contributing writers, HERE. 

That some female spiders devour their mate seems counterproductive, and I do not know why. This week’s picture of a dark spider’s web made me think of the widow-family of spiders and how they must trap the poor male. My story expands on the idea of a female predator and how the unwitting male becomes ensnared in her trap. 

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Caught in a Stalker’s Web

Norman turned away from Laticia’s fixation and grey magnetic eyes. He fumbled with his iPhone and knocked over the cola that spilled down his jeans.
He picked up his backpack and dashed out of the café.

Why was the bus always late?
She came striding towards him. Should he run?
‘Hello, Norman.’ The hairy wisps around her lips quivered.
‘Laticia I can’t—’
‘I’ve bought sheen stockings.’

He blushed at his irresistible urge to wear silk.
Laticia kissed his ear. ‘I’ll shave your legs.’

‘No. Go away, Laticia.’
‘Norman! Look.’

In stockings and otherwise naked; his picture on her iPhone.

Double Paranoia

This week’s picture is a statement of hiding behind a net curtain, with an element of distrust. Thank you Roger. Also, I wonder what our host Rochelle was thinking when she selected this for our weekly photo prompt.

More contributions to the 100 word Friday-Fictioneers can be found by clicking HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Double Paranoia

Welcome to my world. Surveillance is my trade, as state security is paramount.

For six months, I have had my laser microphones aimed at the windows of Macaulay and Donaldson’s meeting rooms. Top criminal lawyers whose clients have got away with murder and worse, passing technical secrets to dubious agents.

This is boring, listening and recording mundane conversations of carefully orchestrated discussions. I am listening for an occasional slip up with information that might convict them of conspiracy against the government.

They know they are being monitored.
For a substantial retirement fee, I warned them.

Now!
Who is watching me?

The Pyromaniac

Once again we are in the world of the Friday-Fictioneers. The Wednesday prompt gives us 48hrs to think of a story, I usually wait until Thursday, so I am early this week. Thank you Fleur for the photograph. What were you watching?

Our host’s site is found by clicking her name Rochelle.
Other story contributions can be found with this link, HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind

The Pyromaniac

Charlette ended her call.
‘That was Mum. Great news, the police found our car.’ 

Her friends whooped and cheered.
‘The camping trip’s still on.’ Charlette gave everyone the thumbs up. ‘Get packing. We’ll leave this afternoon.’

‘What about Anne,’ Jenny said. ‘Will she be coming?’
‘Are you kidding!’ Charlette shook her head.
‘She’ll go crazy.’

The Avondale camp site had built a new utility building after last year’s deliberate fire.

‘It’s a break guys, stress free.’
‘Yes, but Anne–‘
‘You don’t have to come.’
‘Oh no! I’m not staying alone with Anne.’ Jenny grabbed her bag.

Mum called again.

On The Wagon

Thank you, Alicia, for the picture which was a reminder of the western films I watched as a boy. I spent hours researching the emigration of the Scottish Highlanders to America. Mostly, they were driven out of their crofts or else were disillusioned with their miserable lives. In Georgia they secured a new future.

Thank you Rochelle for posting the prompt. Many other story contributions can be read by clicking HERE.

If you are interested my flash fiction collection. The Listener is available free on Amazon Kindle this weekend.

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

On The Wagon

Mary promised she would never touch another drop. Although Jim muttered obscenities.
He found brandy in a Lucozade bottle, and vodka in the vinegar bottles behind the gravy powder.

‘Look!’ said Mary. ‘They are full. I haven’t touched them.’
He poured them down the sink. ‘Are there anymore?’
‘More!’ 
‘The promise, no more alcohol. Ever.’
Mary held John’s hand. ‘I am fine, very sober and cheerful.’

‘I am worried.’
‘It’s okay, I’m going for a walk and some fresh air.’

Checking, John was not watching.
She drank some harsh Scots hooch from the old wagon barrel.

’I love you, Grandpa.’

The Other Woman

Thank you Rochelle, (click here for her blog), for another reminder that Friday comes along too quickly. Susan’s picture made me think of a French renovation project, even though I have never lived in France.

More contributions to Friday-Fictioners are available HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Rouchard

The Other Woman

The room was once a stable, and they built in a connecting door to the hallway.
John called it his den. A bric-a-brac dump, Mary thought. 

What did he do there all day?
Mary sat up in bed, feeling dejected. He’s left me, that’s it. Progressively, he had become emotionally uncaring and keeping out of reach.

He flirted with Janette, and with Anne in the bookshop, and Doreen in the café.
He promised an idyllic retirement together on this renovated farm.
She loved him, although hated his infidelity.

He’s gone missing.
Soon, his wife will have to know.

Mary smiled.

Truth Fades–Mud Sticks.

Thank you Rochelle for the first Friday-Fictioneers of 2024. Dale’s picture looks inviting for a refreshing walk though the woods and down to the lake, pity about the waterlogged path.

As always more stories can be found climbing HERE.
(Maybe I should place an icon here instead, maybe next time).

Photo-prompt from Dale Rogerson

Truth Fades–Mud Sticks.

Harold slung his bag over his shoulder. The catch was three rainbow trout, full and meaty. He picked up his rod and headed back to the lodge and ignored the slime and mud slopping over the top of his boots. 

He visualised the commotion that would ensure in his office when he fired the three accountants. They tried to hide the cash discrepancies and became sloppy. His scrutiny of the expense payments showing their gambling habits.

Shame, they were nice guys. Blame and mud will fly in every direction.

His secretary, Carmen, was waiting with a cosy fire.
Who knew?