Friday Fictioneers and its repeat week. I’ve taken the easy route and am using the original story I used for this photo prompt back in April 2014. Two years later I may be older but still no wiser 😉
I said I was sorry!
I heard you the last time.
But you said you wanted more excitement.
You thought I wanted this?
Well, not this exactly, but you sa…..
Stop, don’t say it again, what if next door heard?
I’m sorry Brenda,
Oh my god, what if they come round?
I locked the front door,
They have a spare key!
I’m sorry Brenda,
Stop saying sorry, just untie me.
And take that bloody helmet off.
I’ve tried, it’s stuck,
This isn’t working Brian!
Sorry Bren. I could be Zorro next time?
Back from a few days away and time to blow the writing cobwebs. Where better than the fab Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words (you’re not shot for going over) of fiction based on the weekly photo prompt. Follow the link and give it a go.
Photo Copyright : G.L. MacMillan
Certain places, like certain people, can instantly announce their character. In the case of the living, no particular feature need betray them; on the surface an open expression or an innocent smile and yet there’s a certainty that somethings amiss. Perhaps the same could be said of places. A feeling so intense that it tingles the nerves.
Moira ran from the tent clutching the love potion to her chest. The sky grew darker and the wind grew stronger as the old gypsy cackled in the background,
“Change those labels Fred, ‘Madam Ruby’s Love Elixir’ is going to sell way better than ‘Mrs Ruby’s Lemonade’ ever did”.
This weeks contribution to the ‘Sunday Photo Fiction‘ hosted by Al Forbes. The challenge is to write a short piece of fiction 100 – 200 words based on the weekly photo prompt provided. Get yourselves over, read the others and have a go yourself, it soon becomes addictive.
This is a follow up for an earlier piece I wrote for the same challenge – The Gift
She’d left the house running. Her feet blistered and sore were rubbing against the coarsely worn threads under her soles. When the chance came she hadn’t stopped to think, no time to put on shoes or a shawl over the lightweight shift she’d gone to bed in. She ached to stop, but knew that stopping would mean surrender, and she would rather die than surrender. She swallowed the bile in her throat that threatened her resolve. Gasping in the cold night air, she quickened her pace, trying to ignore the pain.
As the last evening star faded into dawn, she stopped. Wearily lowering herself onto the dew soaked grass. She thought of the child, her child. Tomorrow, or today she thought now as she watched the sun slowly rise across the hillside. They would make her hand him over. Make her give away her baby as if it was a parcel of meat or a new set of clothes. She looked down at the bundle, tightly wrapped in its blanket. His eyes opened. He looked into hers and sealed his fate on her soul. The clouds opened and a new day rose. Today he was hers.
It’s time for the wonderful Friday Fictioneers (even though it’s only Wednesday). A 100 word photo prompt from the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Why not give it a go, just follow the link and take a stab,
She flailed, she kicked and she desperately tried to keep her head above water. Exhaustion pulled her down. She fought; she craved the air just above the surface. Nearly there, it was just within her grasp. But again she went under. The cold liquid vice imprisoned her limbs, each futile stroke lighter than the last. She tasted the water and the salt of her tears.
As the darkness consumed her and called her to sleep, she whispered goodbye to the disappearing boat. Her husband Robert, the only beneficiary of her million dollar life insurance, whispered a much drier farewell.
My 100 word piece for this weeks fab Flash Fictioneers photo prompt. Photo by Claire Fuller.
The white lady watches from atop an old stone coffin alongside the porch. When the black veil of dusk shadows the earth she wakens and walks, searching in vain. She gave birth in the church yard, alone and afraid and died at the hands of men never known. Her young body was found with a rope around her neck and a small woollen blanket lay empty at her side. The child was never found, some say it was gypsies who stole the babe away and others say her family buried their shame. Yet she searches every night for the child that she lost.
A heady sense of tension saturated the air and a whisper of ill feeling clung to the room. All was still except the dying embers of fire in the open hearth and the delicate tick tock from the clock on the mantle. A small breath of air from the opened window made the delicate lace curtain dance against the pane and a shudder of fear braced in her chest. Slowly moving back, with her eyes still fixed, she reached for the window and softly pulled it shut. Not softly enough. As a fluttering of wings grew ever more erratic and an ear piercing scream shattered the calm. “Mummy, the budgies on my head”……….
Grabbing the door keys she shot a glance in the mirror. Quickly rubbing lipstick off her teeth she re-adjusted her cleavage and lifted the corners of her mouth into a satisfied smirk. By the time she’d locked the front door, John was already across the road and heading to the park. He didn’t stop.
The marquee was pitched on the top of incline, overlooking the boating lake and the crowd were already buzzing. Sheila power marched up the slope, passing John about a third of the way up. Turning her head, she shouted back down “Well I told you wearing a bloody bee costume was ridiculous”.
Written as part of a 100 word photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2013/07/31/2-august-2013/