Nightmare

Posted: August 9, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
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Photo by CEAyr

“Gawd that’s a big snake!”
Even though it was lying on its side, eyes staring at the trees, nostrils oozing sticky yellow goo and dead as dead could be, Tommy’s knees shook as he kicked the monster’s nose.
“That there critter ate your mamma and Uncle Tony and Auntie Sis.”
Tommy spat in the crook of the snake’s half-open mouth.
It groaned.
“Lordy! Boy! You done brought it back to life! Run!”
Tommy tried. He really did. But he felt as if he were running through mud. Getting nowhere fast.
SSSSUUUPPP!
He woke, tangled in bed sheets.

 

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Thanks, Dale Rogerson, for these beautiful bouquets (haven’t I seen these beauties before?) And, thanks, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for posting them for the Friday Fictioneers.

Never sell yourself short, my beauty. Sometimes the world will require you to stay low as savanna grass; watching, waiting. Other times you must walk softly forward camouflaged as a delicate rose or an unremarkable daisy; collecting information, storing it in your heart. But a moment will come when you will be forced to take up the sword, shine like a bird of paradise in your glory and fight.
Machete resting against her fiery red dress, Rusayla strode across the sand. She had gathered and stored information about the men who stole her grandmother’s cattle. There would be no time to run.

 

 

 

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Today Pegman took us to Cape Town, South Africa. While scrolling through the sites I found this lovely sculpture on the lawn – somewhere.

“Damn it, June! You’ve hidden my eyeglasses again.”
You can’t keep track of your own nose, old man. “I think you left them on the lawn, next to the lounge chair, Samuel.” June tosses a sweater in the laundry bag.
“Why on God’s green earth would I do that?”
Why indeed. “You read out there last evening.” Five pairs of underpants and a bra go on top.
“That has nothin’ to do with nothin’. Where’d you put ’em?”
If I had a penny for every time you asked that I’d be rich. Two shirts and three pairs of slacks fill the bag. June tugs it closed before lacing up her favorite tennies and slinging the bag across her shoulders. “I’ll go check.”
” ‘Bout time you did something worth doin’.”
Junes steps on Samuel’s glasses on her way to the car, ticket to France bunched in her fist. It sure is.

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The Diary

Posted: July 22, 2017 in What Pegman Saw
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Today Pegman took us to the Great Barrier Reef to swim with turtles! How fun is that? What a wonderful place for the imagination to spin out of control.

Clutching her tattered diary, the old woman speaks.
“I’ve flown with pelicans. Sung with whales and danced with fairies in the dark. Once I rode a turtle’s back. I’ve lived inside a volcano. Built a house from coral and carried it to the top of a mountain in the palm of my hand.”
The children giggle.
“I’ve lain in fields of golden glass poppies and slept in ice caves so blue and warm I needed to wear my swimsuit.” Wink. “Or nothing at all.”
The children go silent.
“I’ve loved and been loved by dragons and kings, princesses and Gollums. I’ve been to war, caused a war and ended a war. Fire is my friend. Weakness my enemy.”
The children grow bored. The woman falls asleep.
Carefully the eldest child steals the diary, opens it. Feathers and fairy wings, fire, coral, ice, and shards of golden glass drift upon the floor.


Today Pegman took us to Cape Crozier for a wee camping trip. This is my 150-word story about this rocky place.

My Dearest Angela,
The wind blew brusquely last night. Twice I found myself braving the cold to place rocks around the tent base while Charles slept soundly. Although his face is blackened by frostbite and most of his fingers are gone, he remains a pleasant companion.
I’m afraid we shall be trapped on this outcrop until spring. Snow has fallen for ten full days and buried our supplies. How I wish I had planned better. We were forced to abandon our scientific equipment two months ago for it became too heavy for the ponies to pull. Our clothes soak up moisture and do not dry out. We have eaten our leather boots. Ice crystals tear at the wool of ours socks. They are shredded.
The ponies ran away four days ago.
We have eaten all the dogs.
My one wish is to see you. Faithfully yours, Frances

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No Luck with Magic

Posted: July 12, 2017 in Uncategorized


PHOTO PROMPT © Janet Webb

Tashira collected everything, just as the old ones had instructed. Two hundred fairy wings stored in a crystalline jar. Four dragonfly eyes, two red and two green. A gossamer gown from Princess Hashir, the troll who lived beneath the Covfefe River. She melted three bars of gold to create a candelabra that held a single candle created from the tallow of bears. All that work for nothing. William the Orange remained a king who played while his selfish children ruled the kingdom, and tomorrow she would marry the eldest son who looked every bit like Dracula. Tashira began to weep.

100-words

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Well, isn’t this desk a fine mess? It almost makes me feel like cleaning mine – almost. Instead, I wrote this 100-word story about it. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting yet another picture to make the Friday Fictioneer clan put fingertips to keyboards.

PHOTO PROMPT © Claire Sheldon

Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Timothy ripped the clock from the wall, pulled the plug on the refrigerator, threw his computer out the window just to quiet its hum. No sound should remind him of his old life. Still, his heart pounded so violently, blood rushed in his ears – like the echo of ocean waves caught inside a nautilus shell. That’s what Angie would have said. But Angie, his heart of hearts was gone. Absolutely nothing mattered.
“Daddy?”
Timothy turned from the window. And there, standing with her stuffed penguin clutched in one hand was little Beatrice. He knelt and opened his arms.

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