HOPE WE’RE NOT TOO LATE
In the last hour, this queue has ground to a halt.
Tried using my phone to find out what the delay is but the Internet is still unavailable. Not surprising really considering what’s at stake.
A whisper came down the line suggesting the gate may have closed. But if that was true I’m sure the soldiers would have dispersed us.
I’m still hopeful of a place in the government-approved bunker. But they will have to get a move on, this rain is turning more toxic by the minute.
Another hour and it will start burning our clothes and skin.
100-word story for Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT © Na’ama Yehuda
UP OR DOWN
I’d been in the queue for days. Something about a technical hitch with the soul detection monitor at the main desk. They were having to process people manually.
When I got to the front I saw a large man dressed in a long, flowing white robe, holding an enormous leather-bound ledger.
When my turn came two guards told me to step forward.
The man looked at me, then at the ledger. I saw his fingers scroll down the page and stop.
Without looking up he said, “Stairs to the left.”
As I descended the stairs the heat hit me.
Just caught a stinking cold.
Been tracking the blighter for days. First got wind of it last Tuesday, running wild in the local school.
Then heard it had been seen trying to get into the old folk’s home. I’ve been outside, waiting, watching. Thought at one point I’d missed it. I was about to call it a day when I saw it trying to sneak in with one of the cleaners. It never stood a chance. I had it safely neutralised and boxed in minutes.
Must rush, just had a message that Man Flu’s in town and needs dealing with.
“But doctor, what about this voice in my head?”
“Stress, Mr Carson. I’m going to give you a sick note for two weeks. I suggest you use that time for a relaxing holiday.”
I first entered Tim Carson’s body three weeks ago. He is desperately trying to rationalise my presence. I’ve done my best to explain what is happening but he won’t accept it. A shame really. I’d hoped we might co-exist harmoniously.
I will use this two week holiday to finalise a total merger.
By the time he goes back to work, he will be a new man.
THE 8.37 TO BRIDLINGTON
The instructions had been clear – ‘Load your cases onto a trolley. Then, with the castle on the hill to your left. Head straight for the brick wall with the sign saying PLATFORM 7’.
We looked at one another, counted three, and charged. It worked! We’d passed straight through.
As we dusted ourselves down and looked around us our excitement turned to dismay.
The train waiting on the platform was not the Hogwarts Express, ready to take us off to our new school and untold adventures, but the 8.37 commuter train to Bridlington stopping at Collingham, Hutton Cranswick, Driffield and Nafferton.
A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
WHAT HARM WILL IT DO YOU?
Go on, you know you want to. What harm will it do?
Look at those pretzels. Don’t they smell yummy!
Or what about a big, fat, juicy hotdog with lashings of onions, covered in tomato ketchup?
Tell you what, I’ll cover my eyes. That way I won’t see you.
Honest, I promise, I won’t peak. I’ll keep them covered until you’ve finished. That way nobody else will know anything about it.
We’ll keep it a secret between the two of us.
And when you’ve finished I’ve got some ideas as to other temptations you might like to give in to.
A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.
Photo prompt courtesy of © Roger Bultot
THE RETURN JOURNEY
“Remember.” I whispered, “We walk across the bridge, dead quiet, not a whisper. Got it? And no stopping for a quick peep over the edge. Remember what happened to Jimmy yesterday.”
We got to the middle before we heard the thing sniffing. It knew we were there.
I grabbed young Sally Tompkins and tossed her over the rails. Huge, hairy arms grabbed her mid-air and dragged her beneath the bridge.
There was a cracking sound of bones snapping and her screaming stopped.
As we safely reached the other side I wondered who I’d have to sacrifice for the return trip.