for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Draconian and the word limit 103.

 

The judge placed a black cloth upon his head. The words hanged, neck and dead echoed around the dingy courthouse.  Famed and feared was he for his draconian sentences. 

Afront the grey wooden gallows stood a jeering throng.  The chaplain uttered words of divine forgiveness as the masked executioner tightened his noose.  With a stamp of the Mayor’s boot, the rapscallion was no more.

Or maybe not, for that evening, in an alley, a young lad encountered a person of remarkable likeness, his neck sorely bruised.  The boy’s ne’er been seen since.

Forevermore the small-town folk will be affeared lest the monster return.

 

for Friday Fictioneers

 

 

“They think they’re clever”.

“Who?”

“Them, they’re watching us”.

“How?”

“CCTV”

“I can’t see any cameras”.

“No?” said Cocpiracy Chris. “That ‘s not a synagogue, it’s an enormous camera” 

Doubting Dave faced the ‘shutter’ and danced a jig.  “Chris thinks you’re a camera”  he sang, sticking up his middle finger and laughing like a hyena!

Suddenly people came running past. “What’s happening?” asked Dave. 

“Don’t know” stammered Chris.  “Go!”

That night, Doubting Dave was watching the TV news when his face and finger appeared on the screen.

‘Police wish to interview this man seen acting suspiciously after a shooting in Rivington Street’,

 

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and to Roger Bultot for the picture.

 

Prod the frog to see what others have come up with!

 

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where this week’s given word is Liminal and the word limit 57.

 

 

That’s it, my story’s finished.  I’ve checked the spelling, grammar, punctuation. Ten times.  I’ve changed this, altered that then changed them back again.  

The cursor’s poised over the publish tab.  Is it good enough?  Shall I, shan’t I?  It’s that linimal moment.  Okay, I’ll do it.  Eyes shut and…..bop!  Done. 

Oh no, I spelt liminal wrong!

 

for the Ragtag Daily Prompt where today’s given word is Sabotage

Let me read it to you! (may not work in some countries!)

 

 

“Who’ll win this year?” asked Marigold.

The genteel ladies of the Azalea Avenue gardening club were sitting in a circle nibbling Heather’s fairy cakes and sipping jasmine tea. The upmarket street was famed for its flower-filled front gardens, but beneath the apparent camaraderie lay deep-seated rivalry. Tomorrow they would each pluck blooms from their borders and display them in a fancy marquee on the green halfway down the street.

“Daisy may win again,” said Violet trying to conceal the snarling resentment within.

“Rose’s petunias stand a chance” suggested Primrose.

“What about my dahlias?” asked Poppy.

Just then the truck delivering the marquee rumbled down the street. They all dashed outside and started directing the driver as he attempted to reverse onto the green.

“Back” said Lilac.

“Left” bellowed Blossom.

“Forward” suggested Petal.

No-one admits it, but it’s pretty certain that the too-ing ‘n fro-ing was a deliberate attempt to sabotage Daisy’s chances of winning again. It will take her years to restore her borders after the carnage caused by the truck’s twisting and spinning wheels.

 

My first visit to the Ragtag Daily Prompt where today’s word is Deep.

 

 

Crouching in a deep hollow, they had a perfect view of the field.  The atmosphere was tense, their nerves on edge.  An arsenal of weapons was close to hand. After days of preparation, they were ready for anything.  Breathe deeply lads, breathe deeply.

The attack came suddenly. The enemy charged forward, bombarding them with missiles. A shower of soggy sprouts was followed by a riot of rotten cabbage cannonballs.

They retaliated with a cascade of stale cupcakes and a barrage of mouldy bread rolls. The food fight was in full flow.

Twenty minutes later, ankle-deep in rotten food and their energy sapped, they emerged from the ditch defeated, hands held high. The loser’s punishment was to clean up the battlefield and return the spent ammunition to the garbage bins behind the supermarket from whence it came.

 

for Friday Fictioneers

Friday, his favourite evening.  Take-away curry, and a tv movie.  He rushed through the door.  ‘Honey, I’m home’  he yelled in his jokey American accent!

But something wasn’t right.  There was an eerie silence but for the drip drip dripping of a tap.  Their cat wandered toward him and with a mournful meow began weaving between his feet.

The sink was piled with unwashed dishes.  In the bedroom, empty drawers lay open, the bed unmade.  In the lounge, their wedding photo lay on the floor, glass smashed.

They’d argued over breakfast.  A petty quarrel.  It was nothing really.  Was it? 

So why? 

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Ronda Del Boccio for the picture.

Stroke Froggie to see what others are up to.

 

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

A  mélange of fact and fiction!

 

 

Twas the month of September in the year 1666. Sebastian Felling stood on Hampstead Heath gazing at the flame-lit sky above the City of London as it burned. 

A simple argument it was.  A disagreement with breadmaker Thomas Farriner outside his bakery in Pudding Lane.  But Sebastian Felling took it to heart and that night he dropped a firey oil-soaked rag through the bakehouse window intending to set ablaze no more than his adversary’s place of work.

Little did he know his act of vengeance would lead to the destruction of thirteen thousand homes and eighty-seven churches thereby destroying the ancient inner city.

At the time, it was suggested a spark from an oven was the cause.  Thomas Farriner found it inconceivable that Sebastian Felling could have carried out such a dastardly deed over a petty quarrel.  Days later, watchmaker Robert Hubert took the blame and was hung by the neck in October that year for a crime it was later discovered he did not commit.

According to the history books, what actually happened that fateful day remains a mystery and will do so forevermore. 

But one person knew the truth.  Sebastian Felling.   And he took his guilty secret to the grave.

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting and to Katie S for the picture.

---

for Friday Fictioneers

 

 

Alarm clock rings

Hop out of bed

Leap in the shower

Drag on some clothes

 

Coffee too hot

Scald my mouth

Burn the toast

Trip over the cat

 

Make a sandwich

Stick in a tub 

Pop on a lid

Put in my bag

 

Run to the station

Squeeze on the train

Rush to the office

Stare at a screen

 

Nip to the park

Swallow my  lunch

Back to work

Start over again

 

Time to go home

Stand on the train

Pushed and jostled

Get off again

 

Rush in the door

Pour a large drink

Collapse on the couch

Take 

a deep

breath

 

Re…lax.

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and to Fatima Fakier Fiction for the photo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

rods the frogs to join in the fun.

 

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

Sunflowers talk to each other. Don’t laugh, they do!   I was passing Mollie and Mickey’s garden yesterday and overheard a conversation.

“How did you sleep last night?” asked the one on the left. 

“Not bad,” said the one on the right. “At least it didn’t rain”.

I pinched myself thinking I may be asleep and dreaming, but no, it carried on.

“How did you end up here?”

“My mother grew up here and dropped my seed before she got composted.  You?”

“My fellow seeds and I were popped in a paper packet and Mickey bought us from the garden shop. My siblings are over there.”.

“Could be worse. Some seeds are put in plastic bags and sold in supermarkets”.

“Why?”

“People cook with them”

“No!”

“Yes, and then eat them. Imagine that”

“Look, there’s Mollie with her shears. Looks like we are heading for a vase”.

“At least we’ll be able to watch television properly tonight instead of peering through the crack in the curtains.  Here she comes.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Hope not. See you indoors”.

Mollie gave them to me.   I can’t wait to hear what they say when Gardners World comes on the telly at eight o’clock!

Thank you Donna for hosting. The picture is by Janet Puddicombe