Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Dale’s Broken Door.
‘You expect me to walk the dog and wash up – again!’
She slammed the door on the way out.
What did I say?
‘Weight watchers?’ I shouted after her.
It’s true, always another class.
Jogging or swimming, gossiping. I’ve married a fat ghost.
I expect she’ll stay with friends tonight. Moody!
Sorry dear, the meeting ran late, the boss insisted on a couple of drinks.
‘There is always next month you know.’
She didn’t like that.
“Look – tonight,” she pointed at the calendar.
We’ve been trying, but this organised sex is so stressful.
Honestly, I’m not ready for children.
Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple
Murder on the Express
He saw her alone in the compartment and went in.
She was exquisitely beautiful, young and naïve. Her diamond necklace, those earrings and that fur coat would sell for ten year’s rent. He’ll take them in the tunnel.
He was handsome with a charming smile and looking for company on a long journey, she thought. Something was wrong, a premonition and itch in her new Louboutin stilettos.
The train rattled into the darkness.
At her stop, she wiped the blood from her shoe. Kissed his forehead above the blooded hole. “Goodbye,” she laughed, “what a shame.”
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Short Story, Uncategorized
Tagged Agatha Christie Pastiche, Cosy Crime, Flash Fiction, Humour, Murder on the express, Romantic, Short Stories, Writing
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT © Nick Allen
Charlie’s allotment shed stored his tools and was shelter from the rain and cold weather. After planting and weeding he played bridge with his friends and the fun and laughter could be heard late into the afternoon.
Gran would laugh and say; “Hey, I am just off down Charlie’s.” She’d take her knitting basket. Everyone admired his collection of oil cans, particularly the little blue one with Gordons Gin and tonic. Martha liked the Martini from the green one or sometimes they drunk corn whiskey from the brown one.
Let’s go down Charlie’s. He, he. Life is really too short!
Posted in Blog, Friday Fictioneers, Uncategorized
Tagged Abstinence, Allotment Sheds, Flash Fiction, Gedichte, Grandad's Allotment Shed, Humour, Poetry, Relationships, Short Stories, Writing
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
Copyright Roger Bultot
Inside a Tardis
Holmes’ face lit up with joy, I wished he would calm down.
We had followed the hooded woman into a rusted police box, its door slammed and locked itself. We were trapped.
I was terrified and couldn’t make sense of the scale or the magnitude. Overawed with the illusion, I trembled as an overwhelming spiritual awakening struck me; had we stumbled into a secret dimension of our universe?
‘We have her’, said Holmes and he lit his pipe. He strode around, incoherent as he puffed. ‘The end of beginning has no end.’
Madness, the reason he needs a Doctor.
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 © Priorhouse
Where is everyone! Such diplomatic bad manners.
The Ehevan envoy, Sil Chasack, switched to transmit, she strode around
No sign of the humanoids, she reported. Typical arrogance.
She was sent by the Galactic Federation to instruct ‘Earth’ on environmental sustainability for their survival.
Where were they, don’t they care about trading coffee?
Measurements showed the Blue Planet was deteriorating in a self-consuming infestation, the Mollaks are considering a cleansing cull; as a warning.
Sil wiped the window and looked out, there were no signs of biological life in the dark poisonous atmosphere.
Pity, this Mocha Djimmah tastes superb.
It’s okay Malcolm, if you want to cry.
I’m so scared.
Tell me, Malcolm, what makes you feel so afraid?
I see colours, following me.
Now Malcolm, I am here to help, tell me what things?
I can’t, you’ll think I am . . .
Here’s a tissue, Malcolm. I understand. I am here to help.
Do you? I think you are one of THEM!
Don’t shout, Malcolm, we are all the same.
No, we’re not, you’re weird.
Malcolm, you are the one who is different.
SEE! am I the only one?
Please Malcolm, join us, be an umbrella person.
My new book cover – The Listener (0.99p)
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 © Ronda Del Boccio
On the Run
Scarface Mahoney packed an overnight bag and checked his passport.
No use; the airports will be under surveillance, they’ll be watching the bus station and they know where his Daimler is parked.
He searched the loft and found his old army rucksack. There was nothing for it, he would have to trek across the Rockies and escape into Canada. At least Mugs O’Reilly was still living in that old miner’s shack, he’ll hide out there and somehow; yea, somehow get to Cuba where his retirement $10 million was stashed.
He had to respect the code, he got the message – ‘grass’.
Posted in Blog, Friday Fictioneers, Short Story, Uncategorized
Tagged 1930s, Bonnie and Clyde, Flash Fiction, Gangster, Humour, Mystery crime, Short Story, Writing