Evening walk

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story, beginning, middle and end in 100 words of less. My story follows the picture prompt below.

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

They enjoyed their late evening walks along the beach especially at sunset. It was their favorite time together. They always looked up and were amazed at the beauty of the birds as they used the cliff to draft their effortless flight in the waning light. Tonight he walked alone after their nasty argument. Suddenly he realized these were not the regular birds. They were vultures. And then he spotted the body.


This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.

We had been warned. Clouds of ash and noxious gases filled the view from my room. Famine was spreading throughout the world wiping out 16% of the population. A constant fog hung over all of Europe and the greater part of the United States. It was the coldest, snowiest winter on record here in Michigan.

The cry of my new born son reached me from the far bedroom. He didn’t know he was doomed. I knew what I had to do. He didn’t have a choice. I did.

The White House

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.

They had made the reservations months in advance. They had visions of what they would see. The Oval Office, the East Room, a walk around the Rose Garden, these would be the things that they would tell their children and grandchildren. In their wildest dream even the President stopped by and said hello.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS on their rental car announced.

“Carole, this can’t be right,” Ted said.

“I put the White House in the search bar.”

Ted, looking out his car widow saw the sign: “White House Pub and Grill.”


PHOTO PROMPT © Bill Reynolds

This story is written for Friday Fictioneers.

That day was hot from start to finish. Yesterday the building was full of people wandering around all the leafy plants and green shrubby. Now there was nothing but glare and dust, the two elements of hell. The flower beds and and lawns of the local town will have to wait on their promised beauty. The gutted interior is invaded now by a swarm of insects that buzz with their new found home.

The ambulances and fire trucks have since departed. He can still here his daughter’s question when he arrived home. “Where’s Mommy?”

Decision Time

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 works or less. My story follows the picture prompt below.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

His thirty day leave of absence expired tomorrow. He either had to return to his current position or resign. He had his signed resignation letter ready to mail. A decision had to be made. It helped being single with no family to support.

The serape felt comfortable, not like the boring three piece suite he was required to wear in his current job. Too hot here and too cold there.

One more year and he made partner. Here,in his unfurnished apartment with the cockroaches dropping from the ceiling, was his latest unfinished manuscript. To mail or not to mail.



This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.

The old man looked into the thrift shop and politely inquired, “Where’s Iris.”

“She’s not here today Mr. Jennings.”

“Tell her she’s been in there long enough. She decided on that wedding dress yesterday and just wanted to have it fitted today. We’re to be married next Thursday you know.

“Come back tomorrow Mr. Jennings perhaps she will be ready by then.”

“Seems like I’ve been waiting years for her.”

“It has Mr. Jennings. You have been coming back every year on this date for the last ten years. Please come back next year and I think she will be ready.”

Going Down


Elisha looked down from his platform. Seventy feet below him workers using hoists and a rope and pulley system started to raise heavy equipment to his level. It was hazardous work, because if the rope broke or the laborer lost hold of the rope, the whole yard was in danger of being crushed by heavy falling objects.

He ordered his helper to cut the rope that held the platform aloft. The spring enabled the metal prongs which brought the platform to halt.

He turned to his helper and said: “I’ll call it an elevator.”

Elisha Otis

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.

Times Change


This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.

That night in the summer of 1963 was especially hot in Detroit. That didn’t matter for a thirteen year old boy. My dad had purchased tickets in the center field bleachers for two dollars each. Tonight was going to be magic. It was the Tigers vs. the New York Yankees. Al Kaline, Rocky Cocovito, and Norm Cash for the Tigers against Whitey Ford, Stan Williams and Yogi Berra for the Yankees.

I sat there for the entire nine innings with my baseball glove on ready for what I was sure to be a home run ball.


PHOTO PROMPT © Carole Erdman-Grant

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.

For the last 35 miles there had been 73 (he counted them) signs advertising Pedro’s restaurant. The kids in back read aloud every one. Actually it became a shouting contest between them.

“Your Always A wiener at Pedro’s.”

“You Never Sausage a place.”

“Pedro’s Weather Report: Chile Today, Hot Tamale.”

And the most appropriate one: “Keep Yelling Kids They’ll Stop.”

He knew they were in trouble when they crested the slow climb of I-95 into South Carolina. Looking to his right he saw what once was Pedro’s.

As they passed by the last sign said: “Back Up Amigo, You Missed It.”


PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.

He retired from the military financially broke. Some thought his drinking was the cause of his poverty. Some thought it was because he was taken advantage of by his friends. Writing his autobiography was the only way to support his family. He wrote outdoors in his distinctive script with his woolen scull cap to keep him warm. Neighbors and enslaved laborers helped him build this ugly log cabin. Julia did her best to decorate the place. Despite all their efforts the little house looked so unattractive that they called it hardscrabble.