Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction based around the photo prompt provided. An oasis amidst the sand, pop on over and sample the wares.
Photo Copyright : ceayr
Some nights I still watch from the window. The almost light, chasing shadows over the road. Almost catching, almost touching, but they never do.
Sometimes I wonder if it ever happened at all. Memories are funny like that. One minute they’re so sharp, so vivid that the fear can steal the breath right out of your throat. Then the next just shades, like merging hues that float across your eyes.
They said that she’d left, closed the house and moved away. They said that I had dreamt it, that I was only seven and shouldn’t tell tales.
But I saw, I know I did…
Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction (or thereabouts) based around the weekly photo prompt. Too much fun to miss, follow the link and give it a go.
Photo Copyright : Jean L. Hayes
Thick sand covered the ground, but every now and again a snap of colour bit through the dirt. Reds and blues, hints of green, shades of life and hope.
A kaleidoscope of patterns distorting and reforming under a thousand different footsteps. Never the same, never repeating. Unique.
Tucumcar was like that. Unique.
A neon oasis in the endless dust. A pit-stop for the weary and the hungry. They all came. Used the restroom, filled their bellies and their tyres.
And while they ate, someone sucked the air right back outta them tyres.
Oh they all came, but they never left.
That’s what makes Tucumcar unique you see!
I’m running a bit late this week but didn’t want to miss Friday Fictioneers. Who could resist a 100 words of fiction, a bite size bit of fun that’s less calories than a treat size Snickers.
Photo Copyright : Peter Abbey
Do you wanna hold it
It’s clean, promise. Mary Jane said it was.
Mary Jane don’t know what clean is,
Yeah she does, she showed me hers. It was all pink and clean and smelt of oranges.
I don’t like oranges,
No me neither. Go on, just hold it,
Ok, but just once, it don’t mean nowt if I do it once,
It don’t mean nowt anyway, I did it with Mary Jane, Mary Maude and twice with Billy Ray, cos he let go.
Alright, but it better be quick.
Just hold my hand will ya, you talk too much.
Once more unto the breach…. or so the story goes. I’ve missed Friday Fictioneers for the last few weeks but great to catch up again. A 100 words of fiction based on the weekly photo prompt. Grab a seat, pull up a stole, sit awhile and read…
Photo Copyright : Claire Fuller
He glared. She felt a hand reach in, grip her heart and squeeze.
“a penny for your thoughts” he growled, making her gasp and step back. Fear stealing her voice.
He raised an eyebrow.
He raised the other.
Afraid of his answer but needing to know, “Can I get them back” she whispered.
“Nay, you sell em, I own em” he snarled.
Trembling, she held out her hand as cold nickel scorched her palm.
A moment later, on the back wall, the shelves were no longer empty.
She didn’t think about that. She didn’t think at all…
Friday Fictioneers, an eclectic mix of creativity that wets the appetite and feeds the soul. A 100 words of fiction to fuel any weary traveler. Follow the link and join the caravan.
In an alleyway of red brick, a single street lamp flickered erratically. The smell of rot and decay so pungent, even the rats held their nose and scurried off.
It was raining. The relentless downpour, powerless to dilute the stench.
Then amidst the deluge, a beacon.
An open shop doorway.
Hints of honey and bees wax teasing the nose. Warmth, settling over shoulders chasing away the chill.
The air singing of bygone days of grandeur and romance, of visitors and expectations. Like catching ghosts off guard, running through the shadows, slipping back into the walls.
Another stitch in time.
Another re-visit this week, this time from Jan 15. Friday Fictioneers is a 100 words of fiction based on a weekly changing photo prompt. Just dabble your feet in the water and jump right in.
Photo Copyright : Georgia Koch
I watch as the skies turn darker, as the mist sweeps in from the shore. I feel the chill seep into my centre and the tightness take hold of my soul. I know that the tide is turning, that the storm is upsetting the calm, but I can’t stay away from the danger and I can’t accept the alarm.
I drown in a sea of dejection, swallowed up by a swale of regret. Adrift in a small wooden tender, only steered by the oars of lament.
I know there’s no land on the horizon, we are just ships that passed in the night.
Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction (or there abouts) based as close as you like to the photo prompt provided. Imagination is a funny old thing, strange where each new picture takes you, follow the link and join in the exploration.
Photo Copyright : Janet Webb
She was hot, nauseous and dead on her feet, her legs almost too weak to stand. She felt sea sick. Like a small skiff cutting through the swell, each new wave hit, pulled her under, filled her lungs till she couldn’t breathe. She was drowning on dry land.
She’d waited her whole life for that perfect family. Watched her friends have their first, their second and still she waited.
And now she was almost there, doctors had said he wouldn’t be perfect.
She stroked her stomach and felt a smile warm her through. Looking down, odd shaped pebbles and rocks glistened under foot, beautiful imperfection.
Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction based around the photo prompt provided. This week’s photo is another re-visit, the original prompt was from 2014. Still struggling with time, life and all that jazz I’m re-using my original story with just a sprinkle of editorial changes.
Photo Copyright : Adam Ickes
To cross the bridge or not, was the choice really hers? Fading light was closing in and a cool chill settled deep in her bones. She saw shadows hovering above, heard voices whispering in the stillness. A faint brush of lips touched her forehead, another brushed her cheek. Each kiss stealing a moment from a lifetime of memories; each one taking away a smile or a look, a joy or a heartache.
Then heads bowed low in reverence, she took her last breath.
Dancing barefoot across the old wooden bridge, she smiled. The choice was hers and she’d chosen now.
Written for Haibun Monday – A Little Romance. Don’t we all have those moments we lock away for a rainy day?
There was no design, or plan. No thought of what might happen. It was just a touch, just an accidental touch. I reached for a glass, he reached for his, skin touched skin and just then, just for a moment, I knew it wasn’t over.
I can’t remember where we were or even who we were with. I can’t remember the song that was playing or what was in my glass. But I remember the touch.
Too afraid to let go, yet too afraid of what it meant. We didn’t move our hands.
That night we left together.
Over twenty years later I can still feel that touch. I don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing now. But I like to think you feel it too.
A moment to feel,
A lifetime to remember,
Some hurts never mend.
I’ve written so little fiction lately, I thought I’d join in the fab Sunday Photo Fiction this morning. 200 words of fiction based around the prompt provided. Follow the link to join in.
Cara Brown knew who she was. You could tell by the way that she walked, the way she held her head, looked up at the sky and said bring it on.
I didn’t know where she lived, I don’t think anybody did. She was a bright star we worshipped from afar, never daring to get too close.
Perhaps we were frightened that she wasn’t real; that the dream of her could unravel and shatter into a thousand tiny fragments of disappointment and loss.
But then one day she was gone.
And life seemed that little bit duller. It was as though the main light had been switched off and we were only left with the afterglow.
It was months before the cave was found. Hidden behind large stone boulders, overlapping in such a way to look as if the cave was completely sealed. It wasn’t until you were stood right in front that you actually saw the opening.
Inside they found clothes, cooking pots and a large ornately framed mirror, mottled with age and cracked down the middle.
Charcoal drawings covered the walls, frantic and menacing, each one the face of Cara Brown.
If only the cliffs had eyes…