Friday Fiction: An Unfortunate Face

Morning all! I should probably apologise for this one in advance – I don’t really believe in ugliness, not of face anyway, but this was what I saw when I got the prompt. Blame my tiny, twisted mind :D

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Copyright - Douglas M. MacIlroy

Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy

An Unfortunate Face

Some people are just too ugly for words, so you have to resort to non-words like ‘bleurgh’ and ‘yeeesh’. Greg was one such unlucky soul, his mother fainted when he was born, twice, and several times thereafter when he caught her unawares.

Then Greg’s father bought him an antique diver’s helmet for his birthday, and it transformed his life. Finally, he could hold his head up high (with his hands, anyway).

Every year they would ceremoniously lift the helmet to see if there was any improvement.

‘Sorry, son,’ said his dad, as his mother hit the floor. ‘Maybe next year…’

(100 words)

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For those who don’t know, Friday Fictioneers is a challenge to write a 100 word story from a picture prompt. It’s hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and anyone can play. Thanks for hosting, Rochelle! Check out the link below to see what other fictioneers did with this week’s prompt.

Need more Friday Fiction? Click the blue frog to read more stories from other fictioneers!

The Doctor Doesn’t Do Drugs

 

The Doctor Doesn’t Do Drugs

Margot rubbed the ice cube into her temple, it was the fifth self-help remedy she’d tried today and it wasn’t working. Her hand was numb with cold, possibly frostbite, but her head still throbbed. She called the doctor.

‘It’s an emergency,’ she said. ‘I think I may have a brain tumour.’ Then she wept, for effect.

She paid the taxi driver with a cold, wet ten pound note and a half-melted ice cube, then crawled into the surgery wearing two pairs of dark glasses and a large-brimmed hat.

The doctor was wearing sandals, in November, which wasn’t a good sign.

‘Try these,’ he said, sliding a small bottle of bright yellow pills across the table.

‘What are they?’ Margot asked.

‘A placebo,’ the doctor said. ‘But they’ll make you feel better.’

‘Not now that you’ve told me, they won’t.’ Margot pushed the bottle back towards the doctor.

‘Dammit! I’m such an idiot.’ The doctor slapped himself on the forehead and put the pills back in his drawer. ‘It’s just- I don’t like prescribing heavy medication. If you can harness the power of your mind, you can overcome anything.’

Margot noticed the string of coloured beads around the doctor’s neck. She wasn’t reassured. She remembered something she’d been told about sales: the first to speak loses. So she folded her arms and waited, glaring, although the effect was tempered somewhat by her dark glasses.

After a short pause the doctor lost the round, ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Try these then.’

This bottle was smaller and contained five round red pills.

Margot eyed them suspiciously, ‘More placebo?’

‘Nope, definitely not, no way. Not these babies, these are the real deal.’

‘I can tell you’re lying.’

‘Dammit!’ the doctor hit himself in the head more forcefully, almost knocking himself off the chair.

‘Listen,’ Margot said. ‘All I want is the magic migraine pills I was prescribed last time, the white ones with the little S in the middle. Is that too much to ask? You are a bloody doctor after all.’

‘I didn’t want to be a doctor, you know-,’

Margot rubbed her temples, ‘Spare me the life story, just give me my pills.’

‘Fine! Take a seat in the waiting room, I’ll bring them out.’

Margot did as she was bid. The music in the waiting room was a hypnotic blend of guitar and Indian chanting, gentle and soothing. She closed her eyes.

‘Here you are,’ the doctor said. ‘Your pills.’

Margot tipped the contents of the bottle into her hand and examined the small white tablets.

‘You wrote this on by hand,’ she said. ‘In biro. Look, this one isn’t even an S, it’s a number eight. What kind of fool do you take me for, you bloody quack?’

‘Dammit!’ said the doctor. ‘I’m trying to show you that there’s another way. But fine, I give up. You can have your chemical hit, and all the associated side effects. I’ll write you a prescription. Wait here.’

Margot waited, enjoying the music and the relaxing atmosphere. It’s nice here, she thought to herself, even if that doctor is a bloody fool. Then it dawned on her – her headache had gone.

So she went home.

The End

12/04/2014 Written in a post-migraine spaced out haze :)

 

Friday Fiction: Spring Cleaning in Santa Zita

I’ve got the day off work today, so plenty of time to dedicate to a fantastic foray into Friday Fiction (sorry, I seem to have gone alliteration-mad lately).

Last week I cheated massively by hyphenating the entire last sentence, but this week I’ve been good and there’s not a single hyphen (even though I was sorely tempted).

Oh, and despite my threats, Helena, nobody dies this week :)
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Copyright D Lovering

Spring Cleaning in Santa Zita

The townsfolk of Santa Zita were a bunch of lazy bastards who couldn’t be arsed to maintain the exteriors of their homes. Instead, once a year, the mayor selected a handful of men to accompany him on a pilgrimage to the highest mountain in the land, to pray to the Great Cleaning Lady In The Sky.

‘Oh Majestic Domestic,’ they implored, poetically. ‘Grace us with the lustre of your giant feather duster!’

‘And wear that French Maid outfit again!’ the mayor squeaked, barely containing his excitement.

And the men sat on the mountain, eyes to the skies, and waited.

 

(99 words)

Saint Zita is the patron saint of maids and domestic servants. So we know who to pray to when we’ve run out of clean undies :)

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For those who don’t know, Friday Fictioneers is a challenge to write a 100 word story from a picture prompt. It’s hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and anyone can play. Thanks for hosting, Rochelle! Check out the link below to see what other fictioneers did with this week’s prompt.

Need more Friday Fiction? Click the blue frog to read more stories from other fictioneers!

Friday Fiction: Britain’s Burly Boy Bake Off

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Copyright – Kent Bonham

Britain’s Burly Boy Bake Off

Mary bit into the cake. On paper, Britain’s Burly Boy Bake Off had seemed like TV Gold – take a load of larger-than-life lads and stick them in a studio baking cakes. Some weren’t bad cooks either, Mary took another bite. Delicious.

But under the heat of the studio lights, things were going badly wrong, Bob “the Butcher” Branning’s butterscotch bombe had melted, giving it a pre-digested look, and Ten-Tonne-Tony’s tarte tatin was a disaster.

Still, the cake was nice. Mary took another bite. Very nice. And it made Mary care less. A lot less. Funny-floaty cake, Mary thought, funny-floaty-fluffy cake. Mmmm-funny-floaty-what’s-in-this-cake-anyway-i-need-more-cake-because-i’m-suddenly-very-very-peckish…

 

(100 words)

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For those who don’t know, Friday Fictioneers is a challenge to write a 100 word story from a picture prompt. It’s hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and anyone can play. Thanks for hosting, Rochelle! Check out the link below to see what other fictioneers did with this week’s prompt.

Need more Friday Fiction? Click the blue frog to read more stories from other fictioneers!

Little Red Riding Hood (Granny’s Version)

It’s Mother’s Day in the UK today so I thought I’d share this little tale I wrote for my mother’s birthday last year.

Little Red Riding Hood (Granny’s Version)

Once upon a time there was a fairytale with a fundamental flaw.

It’s true that Red Riding Hood met a big, bad wolf in the forest, and it’s true that she gave the wolf Granny’s address. It’s also true that Granny was in bed, but she wasn’t ill, she’d just knocked back one too many the night before and was taking it easy, listening to Radio 4 and enjoying the peace and quiet. Everyone knew about Granny’s penchant for strong Martinis.

When the wolf knocked at Granny’s door, she wasn’t fooled for a second. She grinned and sprang into action. It was perfect timing, too, since she’d been looking for a wolf skull to add to her collection. The last time a wolf had tried his luck she’d been a little heavy handed with the hammer, although she’d got a nice pelt out of it. This time she’d be more careful.

Poor Mr Wolf didn’t stand a chance.

So what about the rest of the story? Well, Red Riding Hood still had to be taught a lesson about talking to strangers, didn’t she? And what better way to drum the message home than to scare her witless.

So you see, it wasn’t the wolf that dressed as Granny, but Granny that dressed as the wolf dressed as Granny, if you see what I mean. Not the actual wolf who’d just come knocking at the door, of course – he was still a little fresh – so she fetched the skin she’d prepared earlier and slipped on her caftan over the top of the soft furry pelt.

Red Riding Hood was utterly convinced by Granny’s ruse, and screamed her little red heart out when Granny leapt out of bed dressed as the big bad wolf.

Everything went swimmingly until the woodcutter turned up, unannounced and surplus to requirements. With the woodcutter’s axe about to split her open, quick-thinking Granny whipped off the wolf-pelt and showed him her assets, proving how thoroughly unwolflike she really was.

And in true fairytale fashion, they all lived happily ever after.

Of course, Red chose to recount a slightly different version of events, one that didn’t make her out to be quite such a gullible fool. But we can’t really blame her for that. And the woodcutter? Granny won’t tell, but rumour has it that he stayed for supper.

And for breakfast too.

The End

Friday Fiction: The Wind in the Woods

I don’t normally go with the first idea that pops into my head, but this story practically wrote itself …

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Copyright-John Nixon

The Wind In The Woods

‘Freeze everybody! Someone’s coming!’ They all held their positions as a lone rambler approached.

Willow’s weekly Yoga For Trees classes were a huge success (she was even thinking about branching out), but they were going to have to find a more secluded spot. The constant human interruptions were an irritation.

A long, low, mournful creak broke the silence, followed by the pungent smell of rotting leaves and bark mulch. The rambler held her nose and hurried on her way.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Cherry said, her pink blossom darkening a couple of shades, ‘I just couldn’t hold it in any longer.’

(100 words)

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For those who don’t know, Friday Fictioneers is a challenge to write a 100 word story from a picture prompt. It’s hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and anyone can play. Thanks for hosting, Rochelle! Check out the link below to see what other fictioneers did with this week’s prompt.

Need more Friday Fiction? Click the blue frog to read more stories from other fictioneers!

Friday Fiction: A Hundred Coffee Cups

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Copyright -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Copyright -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

A Hundred Coffee Cups

Upstairs in the dilapidated building, barricaded in, protected from outsiders, the Genius is hard at work. The room is cluttered with whiteboards overloaded with Greek symbols and squiggly lines; a hundred coffee cups sit pointlessly, their contents long since congealed; top-heavy piles of books lie open, copious notes scrawled in the margins.

The Genius is close to solving the question, the Ultimate Question. The answer will change the world, change everything. The tension in the room is palpable, even the pen feels it, as it scribbles harder, faster.  The Genius leaps up.

‘Eureka!’ she yells, ‘That’s it! The answer is-‘

(100 words)

Damn that word count!

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For those who don’t know, Friday Fictioneers is a challenge to write a 100 word story from a picture prompt. It’s hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and anyone can play. Thanks for hosting, Rochelle! Check out the link below to see what other fictioneers did with this week’s prompt.

Need more Friday Fiction? Click the blue frog to read more stories from other fictioneers!