Kreative Kue 384

Kreative Kue 383 asked for submissions based on this photograph:


John W Howell is a multiple nominated and award-winning author who blogs at Fiction Favorites. Details of John’s books can be found on his Amazon author page

The Call by John W. Howell © 2022

“Yah, hello.”

“Who’s this?”

“What do you mean who’s this? The phone was ringing in this booth and I answered it. Who’s this?”

“You first.”

“No way. I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait. Is this the Sanford residence?”

“No. This is a phone booth on Sussex.”

“Where on Sussex?”

“Why does that matter?”

“It might be close to the Sanford residence.”

“So what?”

“Maybe you can run over there and tell Mrs. Sanford, she has a call.”

“Not on your life. I’m hanging up.”

“Wait. it just may be my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was told to call Mrs. Sanford and tell her to deliver one million pounds to the park or her husband gets it.”

“Why not call the police?”

“They told me not to do that.”

“What do you care?”

“I’m Mr. Sanford.”

“And you don’t know your damn phone number?”

“I do but I think I misdialed. I’m a tad nervous.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a dark room.”

“Can’t you call for help?”

“They are only letting me make one call.”

“And you muffed it.”

“It appears so.”

“Okay, then what’s the address.”

“126 Sussex. Tell her the thugs will call with a location.”

“Okay then. You sure you can give the thugs the right number?”

“Good point. I’ll try but could you stay by the booth just in case?”

“I’m on holiday and other things to do.”

“More important than saving a life?”

“Pretty ignorant life at that.”


“Nothing. I’ll go to your house then standby the booth.”

“You are a mensch.”

“How long?”

“How long what?”

“Till the thugs call?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Could you?”


“Ask them.”

“When I see them I will.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Thank you ever so much.”

“Sure. What’s in a holiday anyway.”

Raymond Walker offered this intriguing tale. Raymond is a prolific author whose main web site is at Details of Raymond’s books can be found on his Amazon author page

Fear the dying of the light © 2022 Raymond Walker 

I could hardly see at all, shadows grey upon black, the moon and stars hidden by a bleating overcast sky. I dropped my mobile phone in my first rush of fear as I ran.

I could hear, just the pounding of my feet, the thudding of my heart, my labored breath, blood pulsing in my veins, the suggestion of wind in the trees: the ocean in the distance, rumbling.

I could feel the pitted and uneven path beneath my feet. Stones, sometimes sharp, pushed through the hard packed dirt and bruised my feet. They hurt even through my trainers. I had not run in this way since I was a boy and that was a long time ago, but I pounded down the pitted, pockmarked path. I had to escape the evil that haunted my heels.

I smelled woodsmoke, Pine and the citrus smell of rotting leaves more than the rot, the death of summer, the dying of the light but I smelled the rot, hiding behind all. Rot: the beast carried like carrion and rutting pigs, of vultures and vermin.

The earth seemed to rise before my running feet, I had not run in this way since I was a young man. The rumble of roads ahead drew me on, this fantastical beast would not dare neon and crowds of humans no matter how daunting it seemed.

The grass turned to concrete, the country to town, still I ran, darkness unto twilight, twilight into Neon and LED and I ducked into an amusement arcade. Fled to the rear and held my breath.

On the morrow I called my mother from one of the few remaining telephone boxes and swore to do as I was told from now on.

My effort was:

Please groan quietly

“Operator, can you confirm where I am, please?”

“Of course, Sir. You are in the UK exhibit.”

“The United Kingdom is a country, not an exhibit!”

“That may be the case where you come from, Sir, but here, it’s most definitely an exhibit. As are the French, German, Spanish, Indian and many others.”

“And where precisely is here?”

“Here, Sir, is the EPCOT centre, but you know that already, don’t you? Did you not, after all, purchase a ticket to get in?”

“I most assuredly did not!”

“Did you have a special invitation or pass?”


“Then, perhaps I should call security. If you entered without buying a ticket and without a special invitation or pass, you are, by your own admission, committing an offence under the NEEWAT Act.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s the No Entering EPCOT Without A Ticket Act, Sir. Infringements carry a heavy penalty.”

“How heavy?”

“Five thousand pounds, Sir.”

“We’re in America, yes?”

“Of course, Sir. The Sunshine State.”

“And you use Dollars, not Pounds.”

“Only for money, Sir. We use Pounds for weight.”

“So, when you say the penalty for breaking this… whatever this so-called Act is—”

“The NEEWAT Act, Sir.”

“Whatever. You said the penalty is five thousand pounds.”

“And that is a heavy weight to bear, Sir.”

“This is getting nowhere. Look. I got into a telephone box in Trafalgar Square… that’s London, you know. London, England.”

“I am aware of that, Sir.”

“So, explain to me how I’m now in bloody Florida.”

“I fear that is beyond my remit, Sir.”

“You mean you don’t know.”

“I mean I don’t know.”

“And it was snowing in London. I was wearing a greatcoat. Now, suddenly I’m in a t-shirt. Can you understand my confusion?”

“I can, Sir.”

“Tell me this is just a dream. Tell me that, in reality, I’m still in London in the winter.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sir.”

“Is someone testing some kind of psychoactive drug on me?”

“Unlikely, Sir. That has been outlawed since the Pharma Testing Act of 2073.”

“Now I know this is a set up. You know as well as I do that this year is 2021.”

“Aah! I think I may have an idea what’s going on, Sir.”

“Enlighten me. Please.”

“I believe you may have entered one of our MTMs – multi-phasic transport modules – and inadvertently activated its temporal transit mode.”


“Is it possible that, in your conversation with whomever you were calling, you used the words time travel or similar?”

“No. I said I sell culinary herbs. I travel in thyme!”

P1010357aUsing this photo as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put your offering (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at before Sunday evening UK time. If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here. Thank you for taking part.