He knew he was taking a chance. He needed the money to support his habit.
It was an elite private high school. His parents paid an ungodly amount to send him there. They provided the best of everything. They purchased him a $45,000-dollar Mustang for his sixteenth birthday. He knew how to play the game with them.
The backpack provided the perfect vehicle to transport his drugs. Everyone had a backpack. He made sure his did not draw attention. Plain black but lots of zippered pockets for his inventory.
He heard a whisper behind his back. It wasn’t a customer.
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Be careful and not fall. It’s a long way down and pretty rocky once you hit bottom. And if the wind picks up………you are toast.
No, it’s not Downing Street!
Photo taken In Inverness Scotland, U.K.
This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers.
The challenge is to write a complete story in 100 words or less with a beginning, middle and end using the picture prompt below.
PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
He lived in his white van. A van he purchased when times were good. His shuttered little sea food restaurant last year was a tourist hot spot. Usually this time of year is when he made almost all of his money. The empty strip-mall behind him was a constant reminder of the virus lurking all around him. The virus that killed his hopes for living.
Yesterday his van stopped running. Even if he could get it repaired, which he could not afford, where would he go. The coming winter would be hard on his seventy-four-year-old body.
“The Cambodian village of Kdep Tmar, deep in the northwest forests near the Thai border, lies within a minefield. Planted by numerous belligerent factions during Cambodia’s three decades of war, the mines are in the fields behind the houses, along the rutted track that is the only access to the village and in the forest where the villagers gather wood.
“Life is bad here,” says Pou Venh, father of three, a sad-faced man whose body is emaciated by malaria. “There is no land for growing rice, no food, mines everywhere. The school has no furniture.” He and his wife try to keep their children from wandering too far, but they don’t even know if the patch of ground around their small wooden shack is safe. Two months ago a pregnant woman was killed by a mine as she walked to the outdoor latrine 20 yds. behind her hut.”
By TERRY MCCARTHY
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.
The challenge is to write a story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
He spent his teenage summers working at his father’s farm market: “Leon’s Farm Market.” He worked seven days a week while his buddies enjoyed their summers just hanging around the neighborhood. He was responsible for rolling up the chain link fence that surrounded the market at 9 a.m. He was giving exactly $40 (one ten-dollar bill, three five-dollar bills and fifteen one-dollar bills) to open the old crank style National cash register.
He knew his first customer today. Mrs. Rosenburg was always looking for anything on sale. Looking over his shoulder she said, “How much are those garlics today Danny Boy?”
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
On that fateful morning of his thirtieth birthday, in a room bare of everything except their sleeping bags, he finally realized that they would be homeless. Their landlord had dumped everything on the street the night before. Even the child’s highchair they had bought for their expected child.
He had always though that the jobs they both had were recession proof. He had always dismissed his wife’s nagging to “save for a rainy day.”
Beside him his wife rubbed her bulging stomach. “Honey, it’s starting to rain,” she said in a sad voice that could not hide her fear.
This post is in response the Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
The movie set looked realistic. Small boutiques lined the winding narrow cobblestone streets. Mannequins replaced actual customers in the store fronts. The old blue roadster parked at the curb beneath the gas streetlights added a finishing touch to the set.
After my mother died I remember my dad taking me to dinner at Finnieston’s, a diminutive blue building on Argyle Street. We would take the Argyle Line and get off at the Exhibition Centre railway station. He would order his Bangers and mash. It was an experience a little lad like me will never forget.
“Action,” cried the director.
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