Photo Source

Here is my story:

“Scream quietly, the guards might hear”
by Dr. Mike Reddy (@doctormikereddy)
[150 words]

Some clients wanted their victims to beg me or, more accurately, my employers for mercy. Most would implore me for more time. ‘Implore’ from the Latin ‘implorare’, root ‘plorare’ meaning ‘to cry out’, which seemed appropriate somehow. This was not one of those cases. This was one of the ‘not trying to give a message jobs’ that had to look like an accident. You know, the ones that in movies never work out.

Security had swept the museum. As expected. Then doubled back. I’d been lucky. Only then had this week’s very important man been cleared for his private viewing of the gallery. His examination of me added fifteen minutes to the two hours I’d been stood on the plinth; the body makeup was causing dehydration.

Finally he turned away to walk beneath his death by chandelier. The crash brought Security a minute later. Quicker than expected. Now to wait.

Photo Source

Here is my story:

“Feeling Sheepish”
by Dr. Mike Reddy (@doctormikereddy)
[150 words]

“The Will is clear in its stipulation. ‘All potential benefactors must attend a dinner in honour of Lady Blaenafon to inherit.’ Those finishing their meal, leaving plates clean with no remains will inherit an equal share in a substantial portion of her estate. Those that do not, are covered by a special codicil that, for now must remain confidential. Even I am not party to those elements, as my late employer was responsible for the witnessing.”

“So, all we have to do is chow down to cash in?” Lady Blaenafon’s least favourite second cousin enquired. The family solicitor, himself nearing retirement nodded his ascension.

“The meal in question is through this door. The six of you must remain until the dinner is completely finished”¦”

“”¦or forfeit the loot!” Lady Blaenafon’s third favourite son finished. “Hardly a challenge. The old biddy was a strict vegetarian at the end, silly old sausage.”

Photo Source

Here is my story:

“More Rain”
by Dr. Mike Reddy (@doctormikereddy)
[150 words]

The three sisters manifested without a single mortal noticing, as only the Apportioners could. Even the fashion photographer, Gundlach, who had just been shooting an uncharacteristic landscape of the flooded square, was pleasantly surprised later by the unexpectedly iconic foreground that appeared in the developing fluid.

Clotho, the youngest, sighed. “I do so hate the mid 20th century. So little made by hand. So many machines.”

“Oh, I quite like their naive sense of accuracy. Such a belief that they’re in control.” her elder, Lachesis, disagreed, before bending over her charts.

Atropos, the oldest, said nothing. So much rebuilding in the last fourteen years. She loved Berlin, especially von der Mark’s tomb, for which she’d granted Schadow more thread.

“Ah, we’re HERE.” Lachesis folded her charts. “This way.”

Clotho followed, unconsciously twisting some thread. “Who is it again that needs our personal attention?”

“It’s complicated.”

Atropos silently tested her shears.