PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
German class started at 8 a.m. I hated it! The old building seemed an appropriate place to learn this old European guttural language. Even the architecture suggested a dark and troubled time.
It took two years of German classes to receive my degree. It was that or take the equivalent number of hours in mathematics. My instructor for the entire two years was Herr Blumenthal. He stood an unimpressive five foot one, always smoked a pipe, and wore had the same tweed jacket for the entire two years.
My days started with the same words “Guten Morgen Herr James!”
The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle, and end in 100 words or less. My story follows the picture prompt below. Other stories can be read by clicking HERE.
PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio
I know my my time is coming to an end. I can hear him shouting in the distance. Once I escaped I kept quiet as I ran through the tall grass enjoying my first taste of freedom. But nightfall is going to be my downfall. I’ve never been outside after the sun has set. I see the headlights of his car closing in on me. I am ready to return. There he is! I know I have caused a great deal of trouble.
He should have thought about that when he took my leash off.
PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala
Harry comes in around nine. The regular crowd has been there since eight. Been that way since ’96. Taking his seat at the piano he turns and surveys the crowd. He knows they all have to be back in their coffins by sunrise.
There’s Sara dressed in her finest white gauze and her head topped by a red bandana. Over in the corner is Old John still trying to pick up Sadie. She told him to drop dead ten hears ago. And he did!
The keys on the piano have turned to decayed wood. The sound doesn’t have to carry far.
This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr
I park my motorcycle outside Maria’s small apartment. I thought to myself: you really think she will forgive you?
I had run away. Commitment was not in my vocabulary. I need time to think I told her. “I think you are making a huge mistake,” she had shouted at my departing trail of stones my bike kicked up.
Ten lonely months on the road had convinced me she was right. Time to suck it in and make amends.
Looking up at her widow I see the shadow of a man in a bath robe looking down at me.
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
On the day Fritz was released from jail for the last time, staff dropped him off at a Metro stop in suburban Chicago. He had forty three dollars in his pocket, money he had earned in prison, and a one day bus pass. He had nowhere to stay.
Convicted on a voluntary charge of manslaughter he had served twenty three years behind bars for killing his own brother in a family dispute over money.
As he looked up on the window at the familiar brownstone building he wondered. They say a mother’s love is never ending.
This post is submitted to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge where we are tasked to write a short story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less. My story follows the picture prompt below. For other short stories from much more talented authors just click HERE.
PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala
The man that Clark has come to kill is called Jeremy. He is mesmerized by the small fire he sees. He can see Jeremy in his sleeping bag. Now he is close enough to hear the slight breathing patterns of his prey. He thinks about the money Jeremy’s wife has paid him to have him killed. The half in his pocket and the remained to be collected once she has proof of his death. His breath is hot and while behind his ribs his heart crashes about. He reaches for his knife. Suddenly the sleeping form turns and fires.
This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers. The goal is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less.
My story follows the picture prompt. Other stories found here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Renee Heath
The elders had spoken. Chief Ahtunowhiho had personally summoned him.
He walked toward the tepee in his formal black death attire. The family, formally dressed and solemn, met him at the entrance. As he pushed open the tent flap the smell hit him: old blood, feces, infection. Communication with the spirits of the death was his profession.
In his purse he carried red dye to paint the eyes, a yuca leaf to wash the body, some hawk feathers to tie around the head and some sage to smudge the face.
“Are you the Gatherer?” the boy asked.