Nightfall

“This tower is 700 years old,” said Uncle Atticus. “The house came later.”

Lotta trailed behind. The incessant winding left her dizzy. Added to that, his tower smelt bad. Bat droppings. Damp. An unidentified animal smell that seeped beneath the doors on every landing.
Quite a start to her first flying lesson.
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Grandma’s Camper Van

Grandma parked her camper van beside a sprawling oak, leaving eight year old Lotta roadside, collecting payment. As a steady trickle of townsfolk appeared, Lotta watched Grandma delve amongst her treasures, dispensing potions for all manner of mumbled ailments.

It was sundown before the last customer skulked away.
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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.

Overnight Bus

photo by Ron Pruitt

 

I doze off to the reassuring drone of the engine, and when I wake, there’s a girl beside me, pretty, puffy-eyed, quietly sniffling.

Outside, nightfall shrouds the desert: inside, the girl shreds a dank tissue between agitated fingers.

“I’m Andrew.”

Red eyes look up.

“Car accident,” I explain. “You just got on?”

She nods. “Sleeping pills. My boyfriend cheated.”

Her fists clench.

“Forget him. Move on.”

Lights flicker.

“He cheated!”

Heads turn as she erupts from her seat.

“Stop the bus!”

We watch her leave; a ravening spectre of teenage rage.

“Anyone else?”  Death asks.

Silence.

“Another poltergeist,” he mutters.

 

 

 

I’ve altered this story following some of the comments, which suggested the meaning was a little vague. I hope that doesn’t seem like cheating to anyone who reads it now, but there’s no point asking for feedback if you don’t act on it – when you agree!

The story was written in response to the photo prompt by Ron Pruitt, for the Friday Fictioneers challenge on Madison Wood’s website, where you will find lots of links to other authors answering this prompt.

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.

“Matthew!”

Finally.

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.