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.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Short Story, Uncategorized
Tagged 100 word story, Creationism, Friday Fictioneers, Futuristic hope, Interstellar Aspirations, micro-fiction, SciFi, Short Stories, Space Travel, spiritual, Writing
PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young
Nightmare in the City.
I am not sleeping, who does?
Robotically, I am on the train at six am, and transfer to the tube. I stop at Costa’s, the girl who serves is an Android on a vocal loop.
I sit at my station at exactly nine am.
At twelve pm the Android serves reconstituted Panini.
At five pm I catch the tube then, I am on the train again at six am.
I’m not asleep; the rat catcher won’t trap me.
The race is on and the Costa Android winks. She feeds dirty rats in the city.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Uncategorized
Tagged Bad Dreams, Gedichte, Groundhog day, Horror, Humour, Jobs in the City, Metro, Nightmares, ScFi Dystopia, Short Stories, Writing
Do you appreciate how I enhance your life? Providing miracles as if done by magical hands, as an unsung hero I work to deliver your dreams and sooth away the mayhem of your hopeless stress.
I’d laugh with joy and happiness as you open my gifts, and even sit up with you through the nights to nurse away your fever and flu. Do you notice?
The explosion took my leg during the marathon, but now all you see is the prosthetic and sigh with pity.
Yet, I have not changed and remain the same; your loving, unappreciated invisible man.
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.
Three Line Tales, Week 115
Romeo and Juliet – Cancun style.
Oh Pedro my spider man, at last we are alone.
Si, me amor, let us elope my darling Rosita, while we are young.
The door! Quick, the cup, Pedrito. My father is home.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Three Line Tales, Uncategorized
Tagged 3LineTales, Flash Fiction, Humour, Poetry, Relationships, Romantic, Short Stories, Spanish, Spiderman, Writing
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!.
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.”
Friday Fictioneers – 2nd March Prompt
“Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee.”
Twenty years ago, they carried Mikey out in a black bag.
A wasted young life.
We were just kids, dreaming of; “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee”.
I had won the County lightweight title, we were elated, but Mikey was pissed off and jealous. He exerted his temper by hitting out.
Our coach calmed him, but Mikey broke his nose. Mikey hit me, knocking a tooth out.
It was my skipping rope knotted around Mikey’s throat.
I DID NOT do it. The judge didn’t care.
The place looks the same, I’ve changed. “What a waste of a young life”.