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 submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction. The challenge is to write a story using 200 words or less based on the picture prompt.
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.
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.”
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
The snow was unexpected. It was not in the weather forecast. The yard was like a large whiteboard waiting for the artist. The snow presented a problem.
Sara’s husband Richard worked third shift at the factory. Normally Peter could spend the night and leave with no trace early in the next morning. The affair had been going on for some time. He had become comfortable with the arrangement. He would arrive around eleven thirty at night and leave around five in the morning. Plenty of time to enjoy the company of Sara and leave no trace behind.
© Eric Wicklund
He did the math in his head. It was just over 60 years ago that he carrier her over the threshold in an overpriced semi-clean motel in San Mateo, California.
Then their respective careers took off resulting in them being transferred numerous times. After retiring they spent a good part of each year traveling abroad. A dozen years ago they had travelled to China. She was past 70 then and still feisty and lovely in her own way.
Now her memory is failing. Her once beautiful dark hair is now nothing but white wisps. She can’t walk, and can’t stand up without help. Every little move can result in another fall and the possibility of more broken bones. She sleeps most of the day. Now she seems halfway gone mentally.
Modern medicine has kept her alive despite the fact she has expressed her desire to die. She is surrounded by teams of doctors and nurses, medical students, respiratory therapists and countless other health care providers. She is too weak, and too meek to protest.
My fear is someday we will look back and say: “What in the hell were we thinking?”