Fear of Flying – Friday Fictioneers

AnElephantCant tell if this plane
Has wide enough seats to squeeze in his wee bum so
He sits on the wing
Has a swing and a sing
And – wait for it! – pretends he is Dumbo on a Jumbo

Once again it is Friday Fictioneer time.
Piloted weekly by Captain Rochelle, who charts a course for amazing aviatory adventures from her air-raising acolytes.
And AnElephant remains earthbound.
The idea is to write a very short story, circa 100 words, based on this picture prompt (below).
That’s it.

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Fear of Flying

She wakens in a state of absolute dread, certain of the disaster to come.
All the way to the airport she begs him not to go, to at least postpone his flight.
She has a premonition of death, and her sixth sense is powerful.
She weeps at Departures, knowing in her heart she will never see him again.
Two hours later she is still in the viewing area, watching as his plane disappears over the Alps.
As she returns to her car, the boy snatches her handbag, thrusting her into the concrete pillar.
She never comes out of the coma.

 

Posted in Daft Rhymes, Friday Fictioneer | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

The Wild Boar


The Wild Boar

I dream I am a wild boar, a powerful, magnificent beast with mighty tusks.
I charge through the hills, the forests, the fields, afraid of nothing.
Then I see another boar.
He is about ten times my size, with tusks like giant claymores.
I am filled with so much terror that I waken with a start.
I ponder for a while.
My rational mind says that to fear such a creature is normal, sensible.
But I argue with myself.
I was afraid of my own kind.
Am I a coward?
I tell my friend about it.
She fancies herself as a bit of a dream analyst.
You, she laughs, afraid? You are a Scot, nothing frightens you guys!
So we talk, and I understand.
I am not afraid of death, but disgrace.
My boar is my country, powerful, magnificent, mighty and beautiful.
The giant enemy represents those who conspire to rob us of our birthright.
The continually corrupt politicians in Westminster, of every party and including many Scots.
Led by a government run on self-interest, seeking only wealth and the power that brings more of that.
They need Scotland for Trident and for oil.
The corrupt media, led shamefully by the BBC, once deservedly world-famous, but for years now embroiled in its own scandals, a bigoted and biased organisation reflecting George Orwell’s words from so long ago.
The printed press, with the honourable exception of The Sunday Herald, are mostly long discredited for a variety of unspeakable behaviour, but still combine to flood the country with propaganda.
Lies, damned lies and statistics, manipulated for their own ends.
Sadly not all of us are always courageous, intelligent, educated or well-informed.
This poison is being swallowed by many who still trust the media.
Money and power are not only powerful motivation, but powerful tools.
I want to go back to sleep, to dream again of my gigantic foe, to face him and to slay him.
I am a Scot.
We are afraid of nothing.
There will be no disgrace.
We will say Yes!

 

Posted in Scottish Stuff, funny and serious | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Bird Shot – Sunday Photo Fiction

AnElephantCant deny he misses Scotland
The bens and the glens and the heather
Aye haggis for dinner
Is always a winner
It is such a pity about the weather

This is a weekly invitation to write a short piece of fiction (c. 150 words) based on a photo prompt (below) provided by Alastair.
Just click on the link to see some awesome outdoor answers to this week’s excellent prompt.
But please cast an eye over AnElephant’s uphill struggle first.

Copyright Al Forbes

Copyright Al Forbes

Bird Shot

It is late afternoon when I hear the first shot.
I am at the loch, starting to pack up my fishing gear.
Even my untutored ear can tell it is a shotgun that is being fired.
As I clear up and head back up over the braes to the road I hear it six or eight more times.
Then I see the first bird.
Difficult to identify, a sparrow probably, splattered across the heather.
I see six more before I reach the road, and my temper is up.
Heading towards a car maybe 100 yards down the road is a brute of a man, well over six feet and well overweight.
He has a shotgun in his left hand and is dragging a small frightened-looking woman with his right.
I drop my gear and run towards them, shouting.
They turn and watch me approach.
He looks huge and angry, ready for violence.
She is surprisingly young and pretty, they are an odd match.
What the hell was all that about, I bawl at him, gesticulating towards the glen.
Nothing to do with you, he replies, and things escalate quickly.
He is far too strong for me, begins to crush me.
I find my fishing knife and thrust it into his black heart.
Hurry, I say to her, we need to get out of here.
Thank you so much, she says, he was a horrible man, a control freak, a bully.
She pauses.
Just let me get my gun.

 

Posted in Daft Rhymes, Other Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

La Mer

La Med by anelephantcant

La Med by anelephantcant

La Med
by night
dark
calm
sparkling in gentle moonlight
soft rivers of mercury
undulating
mysterious
while
fish
in splashes
of gleaming silver
dance
along the shoreline
by day
whipped
by the Mistral
racing eastwards
in choppy
white tipped
ridges
of flying spume
myriad colours
determined by depth
by shadow
by drifting cloud
perhaps
by nature’s palette
wild and magnificent
but
from the mountains
pure glass
shaded aquamarine
my heart
and soul
rejoice
in adoration

La Med by anelephantcant

La Med by anelephantcant

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Dinner Party – Friday Fictioneers

AnElephantCant eat with chopsticks
He is less adroit than the average man so
He uses his trunk
For his food and drink
And practices a wee tune on the piano

Once again it is Friday Fictioneer time.
Presented weekly by chic chef Rochelle, who serves up a multi-course meal of marvellous messages to a tableful of tall tale tellers.
And AnAwkwardElephant picks up the crumbs.
The idea is to write a very short story, circa 100 words, based on this picture prompt (below).
That’s it.

Copyright – Marie Gail Stratford

Copyright – Marie Gail Stratford

Dinner Party

They arrive early, get the children settled down for the night.
Their new friends have a marvellous home, with top-of-the-range baby alarms throughout.
They smile at each other, quite comfortable with the arrangements.
They meet the other guests, very much their sort of people.
Their hostess serves delicious appetisers, promises a special treat later.
They all relax with an excellent wine, put the world to rights, find they have so much in common.
The time flies until dinner is announced.
Oh, this is too delicious, my dear! You must give me the recipe, what is it?
Your youngest, of course.

 

Posted in Daft Rhymes, Friday Fictioneer | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 25 Comments

The Ball – Sunday Photo Fiction

AnElephantCant play at football
He isn’t too quick on his feet
But he is quite roly-poly
So if he is the goalie
His team almost never gets beat

This is a weekly invitation to write a short piece of fiction (c. 150 words) based on a photo prompt (below) provided by Alastair.
Just click on the link to see some more rounded responses to this week’s excellent prompt.
But please cast an eye over AnElephant’s sensationally sad soccer story first.

Copyright Al Forbes

Copyright Al Forbes

The Ball

The screech of brakes and the scream of tyres send him hurtling round to the front of the house.
He sees a long black car accelerating down the lane towards the main road.
He looks around wildly, sees nothing.
As the dust settles his eyes focus on the plastic football, lying squashed in the tyre tracks.
His heart flips, his stomach churns.
His world is swaying.
Then he hears the sound of a sob.
Jack!
Almost weeping with relief, he gathers his older son, still only four years old, in his arms.
What happened, son?
They burst my ball, he weeps.
The panic is still fighting its way up his throat.
But where is your little brother?
They burst my ball!
He fights to stay calm, to speak without scaring the shaking child.
We will get a new ball, I promise. Please, Jack, where is Theo?
He went to the shops with Mummy.

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trust

trust by anelephantcant

trust by anelephantcant

she smiles at me
she takes my hand
leads me to her front door
she wipes my brow
she whispers sweet
the words that I must know

you know that you can trust me
to keep you from the rain
I always will protect you
and shelter you from pain

you know that you can trust me
my house is free from ageless crime
nothing can ever harm you
I can keep you safe from time

you know that you can trust me
you never have to worry
don’t be the slightest bit concerned
about the debt you are incurring

she flies my fears
she dries my tears
with a silken handkerchief
she makes me whole
she takes my soul
and she feasts on my belief

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments