This post is written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, where the challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words of less using the picture prompt below.
Photo Prompt Credit ==== Roger Bullet
Spring came early that year. He had not planned on early warm temperatures. Climate change was spoiling his plan. The snowplow had covered the black plastic sealed shoe less body in over six feet of snow three days ago.
His internet searches gave him an estimate of two weeks before the under staffed snow removal teams would clear enough for the body to be visible to anyone passing by. Plenty of time to escape.
The snowplow driver had one more street to plow before his shift was over when he heard someone shout, “Raise the damn plow.”
Their relationship fell apart after three months in the wilderness. She missed the city life. He loved nature and hated the hustle and bustle of the city. The final fight was nasty. More violent than he expected. She put up quite a fight. When she left the city she told her friends she would never return. She was correct.
The brackish waters off the Kenai Fjords in remote Alaska provided the perfect place to dispose of her body.
He watched the final bubbles from her last breaths disappear beneath the water. Her replacement would be difficult to find. But not impossible. He had work to begin his search.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneer’s. 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.
He avoided most of the other anniversaries. After ten years things started aging. The heroes of high school footfall games returned from wars damaged both physically and mentally. Their minds numbed by what they had witnessed. The destruction of an entire country happened before their glazed eyes. For the vulnerable, and there were many, their sanity ended there.
Scanning the gymnasium he could recognize one or two. They had started to crumble. Some were bent over, a shell of their former self. Others folded into their wheelchairs. His former heroes lay like Roman ruins.
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.
I remember watching my grandfather squatting in front of the black and white television in his bid overalls ranting at all the political candidates .
Together with his brothers they dug a basement and then moved his home over it. My Uncle Luther ran his tractor into the basement wall.
I followed behind him and his tractor picking up rocks so the field could be planted next season. He couldn’t afford the cost of burying of any family member. I heard stories of family members being buried under those rocks.
I’m still superstitious about homes build with rocks.
This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words of less. My story follows the picture prompt below.
“What’s going on?” Roger asked. Rarely had he seen so many people crammed into the town’s library. Looking around he noticed people who he knew for a fact had never been a library in their entire life.
“Cindy called a meeting to discuss our current inventory of books,” replied Brenda, the school librarian since 1962. She claims there are books our kids would find offensive.
“What kind of books,” said Roger.
“The ones that talk about gender identify, the LGBTQ books, enslavement, sex and religion.”
Roger looked in horror as Cindy picked up a can of kerosene.
This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers. 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.
That’s why I had to get rid of him. The abandon trailer was soiled and reeked of mold and rotting food. He showed up smelling of booze and cigarettes. I shared what little I had with him. I discovered he had no money. The question than came as to how to get rid of him. The butcher knife needed cleaning anyway. Every day after that I had to step over him to get to my truck. His body fit perfectly in my large tool box on the truck. The desert never gives up its dead. They just rot away.
The pea hit me in the back of my neck. Turning around, I always sat in the front, I saw Kent smiling with his hands folded on his desk with an innocent smug smile on his ugly mug. Ignoring him I turned around and tried to focus on what Mr. Baldwin, whose thick black glasses were always sliding down his large nose, was saying about personal hygiene. Almost all of us hated health class.
Another pea whizzed by my ear and landed on the floor in front of Mr. Baldwin. Picking up the pea Mr. Baldwin motioned me forward.