Old Abe’s Diner

diner.jpg“Two minutes, Mr President,” Renfield announced, over the thump-thump of approaching helicopters.

Damned landslide. Stuck in Abe’s Diner all morning.

Renfield smiled warmly as the old man took his mug.

“Thanks, Abe.”

Abe grunted.

His grand-daughter hovered near the President’s table.

With the thunderous arrival of the Sikorsky, crockery shook and rattled.

Lucy crept closer.

“Is it true?” she whispered. “Are all politicians blood suckers?”

The President flashed a smile – razor sharp.

Lucy squealed.

As the Secret Service scrambled his President onto Marine One, Renfield came back.

“Thanks again, Mr…?”

“Van Helsing,” said the old man, coldly.  “Abraham Van Helsing.”    




Photo Credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The names in this story are taken from Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and it was inspired by Halloween, the Presidential election, and way too much Vampire Diaries on TV. No political bias intended, in my mind the President is neither Obama nor Romney, but rather Timothy Olyphant (with fangs) – which would make my Halloween!

Other Friday Fictioneers stories can be seen here on Rochelle’s site.

I’ll be a bit late reading other stories and leaving comments, as I have  a floor to varnish, so please don’t think I’m ignoring you.

Seeking to Renovate

French ruin

“Matthew, look at this place!” the wife exclaimed, exploding out of his car before the agent immobilier had even turned off the engine.

Her husband followed, clasping the details, while his feral children shrieked towards the stream.

Luc hung back, lighting a cigarette.

Already, the Englishman was muttering about roofing, plumbing… but still he waited.



Luc found them huddled round the photograph, drinking up its coffee-coloured glimpse of yesteryear: buckets of geraniums; lace framed windows; charming French family at the door.

“We’ll take it.”

Of course.

Sometimes imagination wasn’t enough.

Sometimes clients needed his wife’s skills with Photoshop.



Photo by Piya Singh (Bittercharm)

 All constructive criticism gratefully received.

The Great Storm


Photo by Lura Helms from Madison Wood’s site

The horned skull stared blankly from within the crook of a tangled oak.
“On the night of the Great Storm, livestock was swept up and hurled all over these woods,” my father said. “Cars…..trucks……”
We passed skeletons of twisted iron, and teenagers wrestling a blackened elm for the radiator grill lodged at its heart.
Kneeling down, his eyes met mine. “You got angry, son.  I understand.”
I stared back.
“I was angry too – when your mother died… ” He stumbled over the words. “But all this …“
“It won’t happen again, Father.”
He suppressed a shudder as I spun the Vortex quietly between my palms.
“Good lad.”


All constructive criticism gratefully received.