Forgiveness?

This post is written for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneer’s challenge. 

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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.

 

A Time To Kill

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.

bonfire-anshu

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.

 

 

 

The Gatherer

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.

from-renee-heath

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.

97 words

 

 

 

 

The Death of a Gatherer

This post is submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction. The challenge is to write a story using 200 words or less based on the picture prompt.

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Photo Credit: Joy Pixley

He had visited the Kubo-yan many times. Every visit produced excellent results. Back then Gatherers were considered to be dreams of deranged minds .

A sudden noise shattered his daydreaming. A hunting bird took flight. They rarely appeared here, preferring the dry desert where lizards were the prey that wetted their appetite. The locals considered it bad luck to see them outside of the rainy season.

He slipped into the compound without anyone noticing. He would wait here until well after dark.

Nothing could distract him now. The object of his mission lay straight ahead. A Dreamer who’s life was about to be over. The Gatherer would make it a painless death. He settled in a crouch on his hands and toes and peered at his victim. The slight smell of perfume reached his nose. She slept alone.

Too late he heard the sound of padded feet against the stone. He felt something cold and sharp strike his shoulder. He glanced down and saw his left arm on the shiny tile. His intended victim turned and smiled. The smile of the devil was the last thing he saw in this life.