Photo courtesy of Priya Bajpal
Each morning I walk along the beach and find a shell, just one, like you did. I wash off the sand and place it with the others, counting the days, I miss you.
I write a message on different coloured paper for every day of the week.
When I lie in my bed, I can hear you unfolding the notes and reading. Yes, I need you to understand how much I miss you, love you and care.
No one knows where you are, or what happened. We do.
When I am ready, I’ll walk along the beach and join you.
Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
PHOTO PROMPT © J.S. Brand
Lightning struck and burned the tree, and the village Shaman panicked everyone with his story of angry ghosts that must be appeased.
Johann was instructed to carve a Totem before dawn.
First, he rescued an owl’s nest with hatchlings and some squirrel’s kittens.
Tears flowed down his cheeks as he carved, he couldn’t finish before morning. Tired, he fell asleep. When he woke, the trunk was done with symbols from the lives of his ancestors.
An owl landed nearby; the carved trunk winked. Johann looked around at the other carvings, and he smiled, his little friends had been very busy.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers
Tagged Fairy tales, Gedichte, Goblins and Elves, Gothic, Humour, Nature, Shaman, Totem, Wood Carvings
PHOTO PROMPT © Jilly Funell
Gather here, look at the view – on a clear day you can see the Isle of Wight and through your vision amplifiers you will see the beach-cleaners in Franconia. Every morning, they collect the dead.
THOSE WHO DARE TO ESCAPE OUR BELOVED REPUBLIC!
Since the year 2050 the Tower has served as a triangulation beacon for our killer drones protecting our Channel and executing traitors. Those disillusioned citizens determined to reach the Euro-Zone. A place full of milk and honey – you may laugh.
Enough . . . silence!
The curfew starts soon. Now go directly to your assigned homes.
PHOTO PROMPT © Nathan Sowers grandson of our own Dawn M. Miller
A Mystical Murder Trapped in Time
The remains in the burned-out shed were impossible to identify, so DCI MacLeod employed Mystical Egandor to investigate.
Egandor set up his past generator, a mirror he called Visionar, at the scene. He had to thump it to make it work, it shuddered in protest but eventually the past shed reflected in the glass.
Egandor fell asleep waiting and when he woke saw the reflection had disappeared, he thumped Visionar. Nothing.
He turned and saw the intact shed in the garden, confused, he opened the door and went inside.
Visionar shimmered and reflected a sunbeam to set the shed ablaze.
PHOTO PROMPT © Karen Rawson
Where ‘re you going Norman.
Mother, I’m getting firewood, it’s cold.
Norman! don’t be going into the creek, to them hussy girls.
Mother! There ain’t no girls. Not since —
I’m just saying Norman, they did no good.
Why can’t I Mother, why can’t I . . . just once, Mother?
I don’t want hussys in our house Norman. Don’t you love me?
Yes Mother. Here’s your steak, as we like it.
Three plates? Norman you’ve got a hussy I want her out! out!
She’s gone, Mother, she’s in the creek.
Good boy, Norman.
Mother, I’ll fetch us the steak knife.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Short Story
Tagged 1960s Classic, Alfred Hitchcock, Gothic, Horror, Muddy Waters, Psycho pastiche, Serial murder, Short Stories, Watery Grave.
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)
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.
Warning, sinister tone.
Marcel Loves Christine.
Marcel watched Christine from his vantage point. He slammed his binoculars into his backpack. Tears welled, he pinched his nose to check his anger as revenge rattled down his spine.
Forgiveness for Christine, but the man must be eliminated. He means nothing and like the others will die.
Previous girls squirmed and bled, because they wouldn’t love him.
Marcel craved Christine.
He watches and stalks, close, behind her in the bus, in the supermarket aisle. He smells her and urges to stroke her body, to drink in her aura. Marcel is convinced she loves him, but she doesn’t know; YET!.
Yew Tree Memorial
In our eulogies, we promised to gather beneath the yew and play canasta.
Our descendants keep the place fresh and painted in the summer
and, in our honour, they place the cards.
I dislike their stinking cigars.
They have forgotten we played outside in the fresh air away from satanic dens and we thanked the Lord for our community spirit, friendly companionship and enjoyment in life.
We cough and splutter as their foul smoke drifts through the branches disturbing eternal peace, we wait for sundown.
In eons, we have evolved our wisdom and take our seats to play Battlestar Galactica.
Friday Fictioneers – Friday 23rd March
Photo Prompt by Björn Rudberg
Dreaming of the Tardis.
Holmes ignored me and peered through his binoculars. ‘At last we have her lair.’
‘Same sign again, Holmes.’
‘A mere ploy, Watson.’ He pointed to the distant ridge. ‘The Tardis! we have her. Oh boy, Watson, the Doctor is here.’ He strode on along the track.
For the hundredth time the ridge came into view, as we reached the same sign on this same spot.
Is there no escape from this repetitive nightmare? I was dehydrated following Holmes on this circular looped track.
Next time round, I will push him off and jump to jolt myself awake.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Friday Fictioneers – 9th March
Which Tree are You?
Photo by Sandra Crook
“Come tell me, Louise,” he said, pulling her from the water. “What happened to you?”
“Oh, Grandpa.” She laughed. “What a beautiful house, is it heaven?”
“For some. Such a dreadful war.”
“Yes. I was wounded at Sommesous. It broke her heart.” He ruffled Louise’s hair. “Ah, my Madam Lilly de Vogue and her hospital, our noble home.”
“Yes. She saved many lives, but for every hero who died she planted a tree.”
“Is she here?”
“No, oh no.” He laughed. “She lives with her lovers in Marseille. I wish her well.”
“Which tree are you?”
“My tree is the Colonel Marcel Pinion de Vogue.” He took her hand. “Now Louise, what happened to you?”
“I couldn’t swim, Grandpa.”