This post is in response the Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
The movie set looked realistic. Small boutiques lined the winding narrow cobblestone streets. Mannequins replaced actual customers in the store fronts. The old blue roadster parked at the curb beneath the gas streetlights added a finishing touch to the set.
After my mother died I remember my dad taking me to dinner at Finnieston’s, a diminutive blue building on Argyle Street. We would take the Argyle Line and get off at the Exhibition Centre railway station. He would order his Bangers and mash. It was an experience a little lad like me will never forget.
I am finding it very hard to find a job in Milan. I touted my many skills to potential employers. I have mention my ability to design bridges, waterways, cannons, armored vehicles and public buildings. Surely one of those many skills will make an impact on my future.
Perhaps my potential employer has enough candidates better qualified than me. Should I tell him I can also paint.
This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
My grandmother kept a meticulous record of every family member in her large white bible. Each child’s birthday was recorded in her beautiful handwriting. She lived long enough to record some of their deaths.
Near her death I was sitting beside her as she remembered each one with a special story.
I noticed one entry labeled James that had the same birth and death date. I asked my grandmother about it.
“That was your uncle Jim,” she said crying.
I never knew I had an uncle. “What happened to him,” I asked.
Write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end using 100 words or less. My story begins after the photo below.
It was a warm and, thanks to the blooming bougainvillea’s, a pleasingly fragrant night in Arles France. He saw Paul sitting at their favorite table drinking his glass of absinthe. Paul’s wife was, of course, not there.
He approached the table. He was holding the bloody blade. He appeared to be in a trance. He pressed a towel to his head to staunch the gushing blood. Taking the red soaked towel from his head he turned this head toward Paul.
The night deepened. They were closing in on him. He could hear the hounds wailing just beyond the trees in the distance. The cacophony of the tracking dogs and horses trampling through the woods was putting him into a sheer state of panic. He was unable to rest or stop. His terror was growing by the minute. Planning for his escape had consumed his thoughts the last five years of his imprisonment. His immediate mission was to vanish into the vast Hinderlands of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
“It is just like the flu. Believe me nothing is going to happen to you. Just a few of my friends will be there. One day we will look back on this and laugh. Everyone is healthy; everyone is just fine. Put that ugly mask away my faithful friend. Whatever happened to your devil may care attitude?”
It wasn’t the way things were supposed to work out. The promise of having friends and family visit was one of the main selling points in moving into assisted living. The ability to maintain contacts would keep him from going insane.
Now it’s just the staff. The same old staff now wearing masks. What the hell has happened. They say the most terrible legal sentence to impose on someone was solitary confinement.
Far beyond the window, at the edge of some tall willows and behind the gate, he can see his granddaughter. Even from here he can see her crying.