Tag Archives: Friday Fictioneers

The Violation of Sister Theresa

Friday Fictioneers -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

cloister-roger-b

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

 

The Violation of Sister Teresa

‘We have only one minute to reach the gates,’ whispered Angelina.
‘Take my hand,’ said Sister Theresa. ‘Am I too late?’
‘Please Sister.’ She took hold of her elbow. ‘Come on, the taxi is waiting.’
They shuffled along the path. ‘Please hurry.’
‘The little cherub is kicking.’ Theresa stopped and gasped long breaths.
‘Come on. Come on.’
The Taxi driver helped her into the car; they sped off.
Tears rolled down Angelina’s cheek.
The church doors opened.
‘You missed prayers!’ roared the Bishop. ‘My room now!’
No. I am not Sister Theresa.
She checked her chastity belt was locked.

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The Trappist Zone

Friday Fictioneers

dawn-in-montreal

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The Trappist Zone

George, the transporter is landing.
Will I miss this place?
We did our best George, we must start over, a new beginning.
I feel a failure; all the destruction and greed.
Oh, George, remember the woolly mammoth.
Downhill since then. Where did we go wrong?
We gave them dreams and intelligence. Our experiment had potential.
Yes, we did very well, but should we just abandon them?
It’s too late, they are out of control; a self-consuming infestation.
George, the bag?
Yes, all human goodness, fully packed.
Think of our next creation; “Mensch”.
A perfect ideal; the Trappist Zone is ready.

The Return

News Flash – My short story Lilly-Anne has just been published on literally Stories a world wide short story site. Your views and comments are appreciated.

Lilly Anne – by James McEwan

*****

Friday Fictioneers   (slightly late this week, enjoy)

photoa

PHOTO PROMPT © Yarnspinnerr

The Return.

Shrouded in monsoon mist along the Chakkar Road, Jazlaan viewed the ruined and dilapidated house. Seventy years ago, Partition had driven her family away. 

Still, in the kitchen, she smelled the warmth of cardamom and cinnamon sizzling in ghee and heard echoes of children lamenting in Urdu. Dust, like Chapatti flour, covered over the floors.

Mould consumed damp walls, the moths her gowns. What wealth and chattels she saved were left to grandchildren now, or burned on her pyre. The silver blacken mirror on the wall reflected her joy as she brushed her gossamer hair. 

Her spirit was home.

Muy Calientes

Friday Fictioneers! Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

js-brand

Photo Prompt – J S Brand

 

Es muy caliente

A hoard of Mayan treasure – so much gold. The Professor was determined to register the find, his archaeological break through.
‘Our hotel?’ The Professor said,
Yea! The Henry Berrisford, perfect.
‘Rodrigo,’ he shouted. ‘What do you think?’
‘No hay aire acondicionado en.’
‘Cool and comfortable.’ I translated.
‘Las camas están llenas de chinches.’
‘The beds are soft and clean.”
‘La comida está podrida.’
‘Delicious food.’’
‘La putas son feos y cangrejos y la gonorrea.’
Rodrigo, just shut up. ‘The service is excellent.’
Shame the Professor will die of snake bites. Tonight.
Costa Rica is not too far away.