Tag Archives: friday fictioneers

The Sins of the Son

Chateau

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

John Phelps stood at the entrance to the chateau converted into a prison and listened to his sentence read by the bailiff.

“…for the crimes of your son against his family you are to be imprisoned for the rest of your life. May God have mercy on your soul.”

John’s voice cracked. “When will I be executed for I deserve death.”

“No execution,” said the bailiff. “You will be sustained as long as medically possible. Every day, you will be read the details of how your son, the man you raised, terrorized his wife and children. That’s what you deserve.”

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A Finally Perfect World

Chateau

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Ali met Marie after her tour of the old French chateau. In ages past it was the manor or palace of the noble class.

Of course, no one could live like that anymore.

“Was it enjoyable?” Ali asked. He fanned himself. The museum weather simulation was too realistically warm.

“Enlightening, though a bore,” she said stepping into ersatz sunlight.

“Hard to believe people used to live this way.” Ali strode beside her toward the hidden exit.

“I’m glad our world is completely equitable, but let’s hurry.” Feeling an uncomfortable twinge of individuality, she walked faster toward the mental conditioning station.

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A Lasting Peace

fireworks

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

November was a cold month for fireworks, especially on the river, but it was a special day for Charles and his young bride Elizabeth. They held hands as they watched, bundled up as they were in heavy coats.

“It’s over,” she murmured. Charles put and arm around Liz.

“Not soon enough,” said Charles. “Poor Elliot.”

“My brother succumbed to the terrible influenza, not mustard gas or artillery shell.”

“He still died in war,” said Charles.

“But no more will perish as he did,” said Liz.

“Armistice Day.” Charles stood a little taller. “The war to end all wars is over.”

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Homecoming

david-stewart-house

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

“Home.”

Gerald had dreamed of going home for so long. He’d had an idyllic childhood. From the white picket fence, to the front pouch where Grandpa would swap tall tales with neighbors, to the family backyard barbecues.

He stood outside drinking it all in. His dress uniform was crisp, the duffle he’d been carrying which rested on the sidewalk had been light. Gerald tried to breathe a sigh of relief.

But he was sixty years late. Instead of coming home from Nam, he was still buried in an unmarked grave thousands of miles from home. Now he could only dream.

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The Patchwork Man

stuff

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“What the hell is this?” Matthew’s new eyes flickered across the macabre collection of “get well” gifts by his hospital bed.

“I would think it’s obvious, Sir.”

He called her “Big Nurse” but the woman’s nametag said “Louise.”

“I’m back from the dead and my friends send me crap?” He tried to sit up in bed, but morphine-blunted pain restrained him.

“Sir, you have no friends,” said Louise bluntly. “You’ve outlived them all. These are from your doctor.”

“What’s his problem? I pay him well enough.”

“It’s just that he doesn’t like harvesting your clones merely to keep you alive.”

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Bad Art

ted's bad art

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

“This is just like before. Look at the image and tell me what you see.”

Ron sat across the table from Dr. Anita Smythe in the mint-green examination room, his blue eyes staring at the photo.

“Bad art.”

“Does it evoke any particular thoughts or emotions?” she asked.

“Only that I’m getting tired of this charade.”

“Ron, it’s not a…”

He slammed his fists on the table and she jumped at the sound.

The door burst open and two armed guards ran in.

“It’s okay,” said Smythe. “Reprogramming someone to be an assassin…”

“…is dangerous work,” Ron completed the sentence.

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Something Old, Something Stolen, and a Dead Cat

dales office

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Fifteen-year-old Daphne plopped herself down on the chair next to the table.

“This is stupid.” She blew a random cluster of hair out of her eyes. “We’re looking for an old book, not old junk. What is this crud?”

The backpack at her feet stirred and Skinner’s head lolled awkwardly to the side. “That ancient tech would be an adding machine and a typewriter.”

“How would a sorcerer’s familiar know that?”

“The spirit trapped in this dead cat knows a lot,” Skinner croaked.

“My great-grandma better have that stolen spellbook or we’ll never get you out of that murdered kitty.”

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Geoffrey’s Secret

david's train

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

The female attendant politely asked to verify Geoffrey’s identification. Something was wrong.

Of course, something was wrong. He was traveling under false documents on the Beijing to Xi’an bullet train at 350 kph. If he was discovered, there would be no jumping off like in some fanciful old spy movie.

His synthetic biology let him pass most scanners, though a detailed exam would reveal his true nature and the nuclear device. His detonation would kill 10 million and be blamed on the isolationists. However, his true objective was to eliminate their AI industry. No one must compete with his masters.

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All the World’s a Game and All the Lords and Captives Merely Players

cribbage

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

“Shall we play a game?” Her jailer placed the elements of Charlotte on the table between him and Ciara with notable mistakes. Ciara recognized what Isom had taken from her brother’s style but only a barbarian would have so clumsily arranged the dice on the left of the cards and the board.

“You bested my brother one game out of thousands and now you would play with me, Lord Governor?” It was difficult for her to keep disdain from her voice.

“One game between us, Princess. You win and your brother goes free. You lose, and I execute you both.”

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And the Sea Shall Claim Her Dead

roger-bridge

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

“We came to take nuclear torpedoes from an old submarine, not hunt for ghosts.” Simon, in the pilot’s seat of the deep-sea submersible, sounded almost panicked rather than his usual assured self.

“I can’t help that,” yelled Cora at the hydrophones. The banging I hear from the inside of that sub is an SOS. Someone’s still alive in there.”

“That’s bloody impossible,” snarled Vic. He was working the manipulators trying to free the first torpedo. “We’re 10,000 feet deep and that sub sank 60 years ago.”

“Tell that to them,” Cora shrieked. Then the sea’s dead came for the pirates.

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