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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thank you Rochelle for a lovely picture prompt this week for our weekly Friday Fictioneers. The farm homestead view brings back memories and happy times.
More stories from the Friday Fictioneers participants can be read HERE.
I love this view. Home and family, with all my wonderful years here. Ma cooked a chicken roast and baked an apple pie to celebrate my news.
‘Come back soon Jessica, ye hear,’ Pa said. After an awkward hug, he went to tend the horses. Sister Louise couldn’t swallow the pie and cream. She wiped her tears away and placed her hand over her stomach. ‘My little one is coming soon. You’ll miss out.’
‘Ma, please,’ Jessica said. Ma let go. ‘Now write every day. Ye hear?’ ‘Ma, I’ll call ye.’
Why was leaving to adventure the world so hard?
********
Journey’s Adventure.
I launched myself into the whirling world. like a fledgling falling free from its nest. My nervous stomach butterflies unfold. and release home’s hold; at last free to test, my mettle on horizon’s great adventure.
In the sweet mango forests of Belize amongst the ancient mighty Mayan ruin. In a temptress trap full of love’s disease, with tequila’s heat and full voodoo moon. Ixchel’s beauty masks the mosquito’s bite.[1]
From Hong Kong’s harbour the silent junks sails dwarfed by the modern steel container ships. Where people crowd and push round market stalls and in bright colours Chinese dragons skip, as fragile girls dance with painted white faces.
Across the Arab land of sun-drenched heat by swaying camel over seas of gravel. A life of milk and sweet dates in spiced meat. Searching for the Queen of Sheba’s marble. Wailing sandstorms whistle a homeward tune.
Lonely pyramids one late afternoon with sky like lavender on flaxen fields. My heart leaps in sight of an early moon floating above a flock of flying teals, going homeward over the Blue Nile.
My life’s journey was a long adventure, of meeting the world’s people in their homes. So full of warmth, laughing smiles and humour, filling my heart and mind with their songs. Pleading me to stay and to settle – but –
My home is on the farm where I was born, in childhood haunts by rivers, woods, and park. Soft caresses, sweet kisses in the barn. The taste of homely baking apple tart, it’s sweet cinnamon wafting warm around, familiar embers of a glowing grate.
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?
James McEwan 