I’m not here at all, this post is a figment of your imagination. Seriously, I am away with no internet access, and I’m going too early to see this week’s picture prompt, much less write a story. What was I to do? Resist the addiction of Friday Fictioneers, or give in to it shamelessly? I decided to do the latter, and so I’m revisiting an old story. This is one that stayed with me, and decided it wants to be a bigger tale one day. Here is the original story, and below the picture (copyright Jan Morrill) is another snippet somewhat further through the plot. You will need to read the first one for the second one to make any sense. Friday Fictioneers will not be expecting this, so feel free to move along to another story if you wish.
For those who are not already Fictioneers, you can find out more at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields blog, and you can access this week’s proper stories there, or write and contribute one of your own. I will be back on Sunday, and hope to get to at least some of the other stories then. Last week hit a new record of 80 submissions, which I’m sorry to say is more than I can hope to visit, so I apologise to everyone I miss out.
Two Years Later – Glastonbury, England
Alison’s team assembled with silent stealth on the dark street.
Intel was that an illegal meditation group ran at this address. Thankfully, the legislation outlawing such groups had reduced the torrent of unexplained diappearances, in the UK anyway.
Still, illicit meetings happened, with a steady trickle of souls never seen again.
At Ali’s signal, Bob forced the door. She immediately spotted one of the men seated in the circle beginning to flicker and become translucent.
Ali reached for her handcuffs – just in time. But she knew her aunt’s voice would plague her dreams tonight, claiming she was wrong to interfere.