Ophelia

(100-word flash fiction)

Genre : Modern Shakespearian tragedy spoof

Hamlet sits by the boat, indecisive. Pulled out of the canal, plants still clinging to her body, Ophelia looks like a marble statue.

She opens one eye by a sliver, espies Hamlet and thinks derisively, “I am so over this indecisive fool. He thinks I am dead.”

She relaxes into musing, “It’s all planned. Laertes will come in the night and dig me out. That dude Othello looks promising. No dithering for him. The speed with which he killed Desdemona was impressive. Must check out his relationship status.”

Finally, Hamlet moves. He turns to Horatio and mumbles. “Burial at sea.”

~~~

Written for Friday Fictioneers for the photo prompt below –

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria

How to anger Farmer Gayer

(100-word flash fiction)

“Hi!”

No answer.

“Hoi! You farmer in overalls!”

Still no answer!

“Hey! You grave digger!”

Deep, deafening silence!

Excruciatingly slowly, he straightens up and turns his head in my direction, like in slow motion.

Then, in the space of a blink, this jetstream of mud is flying in my direction, landing all over me and embracing me with cloying intimacy.

“Ha! That’s better” says he, surveying me with satisfaction.

“What was that about?” I stammer, spitting mud from my mouth.

“That’s a better colour!”

“Whaaaat?”

“That’s what you get when you turn up in these parts dressed all in purple.”

~~~

I must confess, this week’s prompt didn’t prompt any stories from the muse and I had given up. Hence my rather lame attempt. But I did enjoy all the digs in the stories I’ve read so far. Such a kindly crowd is the Friday Fictioneers , even our digs are kind, and so is our kindly hostess Rochelle 🙂 ♥

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Connie Gayer

 

Hand

(100-word flash fiction)

He couldn’t get the image out of his mind. For months.

It kept dragging him back, by his collar, to his childhood. Bounced, bloodied and bruised, between foster homes, like a battered ball. An apt analogy, considering the kicks he had endured.

There was only a single, faded photo of his from back then. His last girl friend had mused about it, “Even though you had your hands in your pockets, it looks as though you were crying desperately for help.”

That’s exactly what it looked like – the white, bleached, skeletal hand sticking out of the sand.

Crying for help!

~~~

Darned life, keeps getting in the way of my writing. But I decided to court the Muse this week and not let her go until she delivered 🙂 Lovely to be back among the fabulous Friday Fictioneers, shephered by the fabulouser Rochelle 😀

Photo prompt –

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields

 

Words

 

(100-word flash fiction)

Shell-shocked, devastated, lost.  Amazed, was she that these words just floated through her mind without the corresponding feeling.

He was warm in her arms, soft and surrendering, asleep blissfully.

Blissful, content, fulfilled, alive – she had felt those not long ago. Her heart full to brimming. Joyous.

Now, her mind wandered outside her body, adrift, turning over words as though a child would pebbles, looking at them curiously, looking for clues.

Until it found two that fitted so perfectly, it decided to keep them forever.

Irrevocably. Broken.

That’s how she finally felt holding the freshly dead body of her baby.

~~~

My brother lost a few days old baby many years ago. I had wondered then, how the mother would have felt. I guess it cannot be imagined.

~~~

Another Wednesday, and it’s time for flash fiction fun at the Friday Fictioneers all captained by the gracious Rochelle. I know someone is going to say there’s nothing ‘just joyfulness’ about this story. Well, what can I say?

Photo prompt –

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Triple trouble

 

ONE

The sudden sound startled him. For, he was alone.

Whooshing sounds like the sound of soft fabric rustling, followed.

He freaked out when he began to hear an almost indistinct, thin, crawling, creepy voice.

“ have to make do ….” “not much flesh on this one …..” “to feed…..”

He looked down at the book he was reading, his study material for his Ph.D. dissertation, on schizophrenia.

No, it couldn’t be. He was so normal, he was boring.

A long ‘Whoooooosh’ made him look up.

The suspended spider was the last thing he saw, it front legs pointing at him.

~~~

I started out with the above story and I thought it is not very original. So, I asked for another one. I got two more. The good thing about composing stories when you are in the shower is that they come pouring out of the water faucet 🙂 You may stop reading, or keep on reading (at your own peril) 🙂

Rochelle, please don’t think I am trying to pass off a 300-word story as 3 100-word stories. That was not my intent at all 🙂 They came to me during different times of the shower 🙂

~~~

TWO

There were spiders everywhere.

They were in various colours. Black, yellow, brown, white.

The large ones strode on all eights, powerful and tyrannical. The littler ones walked behind them on their sixes carrying insect parts between their fore legs, feeding the large ones when they turned and opened their mouths.

“Hey!” “You!”  He turned to see a large spider behind him, looking belligerent.

“What colour are you? You have to have a colour.”

He looked down at his body. It was a featureless grey.

“HE’S AN ALIEN!”

Everything stopped and a mad stampede towards him began.

“Ding-dong,” said the door-bell.

~~~

THREE

It was Spinne, the friendly neighbourhood video guy.

“Here are all the Spiderman videos we had, Mr.Webb. We are closing down and I know how much you love Spiderman. You can have them.”

“Thanks! All the best with your new business”

No Netflix for him tonight. He was going to Spiderman-binge.

The video player was dusty and after ten minutes of fiddling, it was attached. The oldest video went in with a whoosh. He pressed the ‘Play’ button.

The lights flickered, then dimmed.

Out of the video player, there poured a steady stream of spidery shapes, marching resolutely towards him.

~~~

I can imagine we will be getting a fair share of horror stories this week at Friday Fictioneers 🙂 Head over to Rochelle’s page for the rules for participating and to read her story.

Discovery

(100-word flash fiction)

It was a ship with special powers. When the weather was just right, the white sails would turn into birds’ wings, begin to flap and gently lift the ship free from leaden water into the clouds.

There was one condition, though. The women had to sing. So they swayed, their grass skirts twirling in graceful arcs, their voices rising and falling like air currents, holding the ship aloft.

One day, while they were in the air, a young lad (with sharp eyes) glimpsed green through a gap and cried “Land!”

The singing stopped.

The ship descended and Aotearoa was discovered.

~~~~

This is a work of fiction inspired by the various legends and stories of how the Maori arrived in Aotearoa (Maori name for New Zealand which means The Land of the Long White Cloud). The actual stories are far more interesting, intriguing, inspirational and magical.

When I saw the prompt photo, I immediately thought of sails and well, it’s a new year and being the hopeless romantic that I am, there HAD to be singing and dancing and MAGIC 🙂

A VERY JOYOUS NEW YEAR TO ALL MY FRIDAY FICTIONEER FRIENDS 🙂 And a big hug to Rochelle for keeping the tradition alive 🙂

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Freedom

(100-word flash fiction)

She slid into the still waters stained crimson with sunset.

She felt free as those birds flying towards the horizon. As vast as the ocean in whose lap she now cradled in. Unfettered as the breeze caressing the water. Thousands of miles away with a perfect alibi.

If only she could have tortured him the way he had broken her spirit. Cracked her open and filled her with pain. With slow poison he wouldn’t even know he was dying.

She dried herself, sauntered lazily to the beachside cottage and let herself in.

And found him lying dead on her bed.

~~~

*  Just for the record, I don’t like the ending. It’s so unfair, especially with the #metoo campaign now on. I fought with the muse for a whole day and nothing else was given. 😦 So be it.

** Couldn’t resist the alliteration in the first line. 🙂

Many thanks to our lovely Rochelle for so devoutly hosting Friday Fictioneers week after week 🙂

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

 

Evidence

(100-word flash fiction)

“Another blurry image?” Poirot roared, gesticulating wildly. “How are we going to catch the angry bird thief if you can’t take clear photos?”

“But sir, the bird is in the photo and so is the hand.”

“Haaand? Of what use is the haaand?”

“Sir! For putting the handcuffs on.”

“You need the face for IDENTIFICATION, you imbecile.” Ben maintained a judicious silence.

“Get out!” the boss barked, flinging his cigar at his retreating employee.

Unfortunately, Ben was as bad at escaping as with gathering evidence.

A case was filed. The evidence was searingly evident. On Ben’s bum, a cigar burn.

~~~

More like Frivolous Friday 🙂 Once again Rochelle kindly provides a prompt and we send a collective call to our muses, and all of them provide a different story to each of us based on the same photo. How fascinating!

Photo prompt –

PHOTO POMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

Moonlight

(100-word flash fiction)

He woke up to a feeling of being touched. There was moonlight splayed everywhere, on the floor, furniture, bed and glowing pale on his feet. As he watched, it began to creep up his legs, slowly and imperceptibly. As though the moonlight was a sensuous lover caressing him softly, seductively.

It was when it began to spread up his body that he broke into a cold sweat. Then, as his consciousness began to fade, it occurred to him that the moon had been falling not rising and that thing outside that was shining on his face was not the moon.

~~~

It’s indeed the full moon today. And I’m loving watching it beam down at me, spreading its light over everything. And so how could I hlep but write a story about an almost-moon for Friday Fictioneers. Thank you Rochelle for the bringing us together and to Ted for the photo.

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

 

Iqbal

(100-word flash fiction)

The rain battered the roof sounding like dancing skeletons. Or machine-gun fire. Both reminded him of Afghanistan.

Behind his closed sleepless eyelids rose images of families huddled in shacks, hiding their daughters, their young sons. Their once-proud brows shrunken by war and poverty. Their once erect backs, bent.

Only young Iqbal was different. Orphaned, rudderless, hanging around the camp doing odd jobs, immune to the horrors, always smiling, as though he, impossibly, saw only light everywhere.

For him, the war ended when Iqbal was found dead, hit by a stray American bullet.

Collateral damage, they said. Bloody murder, he thought.

~~~

Ah! Wednesday night and we all gather around the Friday Fictioneers fire, led by our ablest Girl Guide Rochelle 🙂

Photo prompt –

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll