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.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We are challenged to write a complete story (beginning, middle, and end) in 100 words or less. My story follows the picture below. Other stories may be found by clicking here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Priya Bajpal
The sweet smell of her perfume still lingers in the room. It was her room. The room she escaped the hectic life she lived. It was not a crowed room. It was clean and sunny. Here she would keep a few of her most precious possessions. The sea shells collected from their favorite beach. A small art project she had started after a recent trip to Japan.
He still remembers the first time he saw her. An introduction at the place they worked. A feeling that she was the one. The first and only time he felt that emotion.
This post submitted to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Object is to write a story based on the photo prompt in 100 words or less with a beginning, middle and end.
My story follows the photo. For other stories click HERE.
PHOTO PROMPT © Russell Gayer
It was her birthday present.
“Just for you honey bun,” Jack had proudly proclaimed. “They don’t come any classier than this baby. Mercedes S-Class Coupe, yes sir. Nothing but the best for my gal.”
After a bitter divorce fight the car was hers. Now on her own she headed out west to clear her mind. She never had completely understood all the gauges and dials on the car. The road sign indicated the nearest town was forty five miles away. She glanced at the instruments on the dashboard. One in particular caught her attention. “Range. 6 Miles.”
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, tasked us to write a complete story (Beginning, Middle, and End) based on the photo prompt provided in 100 words or less. My story follows the picture prompt. Other stories can be found by clicking here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Randy Mazie
“Are you hungry mister,” my wife asks as she rolls down the car window.
“John David Thomas” the figure in the old faded Army fatigues with crutches across his body slurs. “Yes Miss I am.”
“Here’s some food we have left over from dinner at Harry’s”, Carole says.
“Are you homeless,” my wife asks.
“I live down by the cemetery with my old mother and my goat,” he mumbles.
As we leave he continues “You have an extra three dollars you can spare. Liquor store is just down there. Hey! What’s in this bag anyway.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers
Copyright – Adam Ickes
I was always running. Running away from what I could not explain. When relationships became too encumbering I vanished. Careers were suddenly torpedoed from an unknown fear. My family gave up on me. Always starting over. Nothing ever lasted. No future, just memories.
A memory I banished from my time with her surfaces: We stood on her front step after our first kiss, and she waited for me to respond. I wanted to tell her how I felt.
This time will be different I say to myself.
“This time take off your shoes and stay a while,” she said.