Flash Fiction

Give my regards to Davey Jones, mate.

/ michaelwynnauthor / 27 Comments

reflections-ceayr

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr

Toby gloated over the estate and raised a glass, “Here’s to you mate. Never knew you’d made me your heir. I suppose being an only child, having the money, the girls, but never marrying, it makes sense you’d leave it to your poor old playmate from the village.
The times you fell in that lake. You were a good swimmer in those still waters but the ocean’s another proposition.
I didn’t know until a week ago, that is. Just before you went overboard for the last time.
Funny, you didn’t know it was me rocking the boat back then, either.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Alice Down the Corridor

/ michaelwynnauthor / 37 Comments

2016-09-30

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Amy Reese

Alice approached the blue blazered beaver.
“Rabbit hole?”
“The entrance, Miss? Down there, PVC door.”
“Down this corridor? But it’s so sterile.”
“Thank-you, Miss, we try. Please disinfect as you go. Dispensers placed at regular intervals.”
Rooks like skinny-legged priests loped the length of the corridor, inspecting nothing, very importantly.
“The hole’s too dangerous. Your grandmother was lucky not to hurt herself falling down it the way she did. There is a plaque though.”
Beaver slapped his tail on the marble floor summoning a bevy of jackdaws out of nowhere,
“A few details for security.”
“Sign in.”
“Take a lanyard.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

 

The Imperfect Plan

/ michaelwynnauthor / 41 Comments

from-roger

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

As Lydia revived, her eyes flinched from the reflected light of his damn chandelier. She hadn’t envisaged ending up unconscious at the foot of the stairs. He was supposed to die and remain undiscovered until the big house was re-opened in the spring, when she’d be faraway, ensconced in her new identity.
A bloody knife told she’d hit home in the struggle. Clearing her head, she thought to escape but her limbs wouldn’t respond.
Her husband appeared, staggering and clutching his gory shirtfront. “Why?” he mouthed.
“Help me!” she pleaded, panicking. “Paralysed!”
He collapsed, lifeless beside her.

“No!” She screamed.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Portal Pandemonium

/ michaelwynnauthor / 14 Comments

shaktikiff2

 

 

 

 

 

Image © Shaktiki Sharma.

Yesterday it was derelict, only the floor tiles judged redeemable, now the doorbell tinged welcomingly and rosewood shelves polished to mirrors, held large jars boasting everything from rice to pear drops.
The shopkeeper, dressed in a green apron over checked shirt, gabardine trousers and robust artisan shoes, addressed her in a tone clipped to the civility of the period.
“Madam?” Sonia stared in wonderment at the display.
“Wow, takes me back.”
“Back where exactly, madam?”
“The 1960s, of course.”
“This is 1965, what time has madam come from?” He said patiently, while his forefinger dialled the first nine of three.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Carry On Sewing

/ michaelwynnauthor / 38 Comments

crook2

 

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

The old sewing machine juddered along the cloth before clunking to a catastrophic halt. Patsy sighed. “Dropped stitches everywhere. It’ll all have to be unpicked. If that maintenance guy spent as much time servicing the machines as he does Barbara in the storeroom, we might achieve something.”
Suddenly, he was beside her, curls and mischief framing his cheeky face. “Machine stopped? Let me see.” As he leant across, a heady mix of musk and oil assailed her.
“Needs a new hoojamaflip. I think there’s one in the storeroom. Care to help me find it?”
Patsy blushed, “Oh yes, Mr James.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here

Normal Procedure

/ michaelwynnauthor / 28 Comments

vijaya

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT -© Vijaya Sundaram

I say to the man growing out of the drain, “I’m looking up at the stars.”
His reply merges with the painful patter of the rain, ‘cause the world’s spinning, dizzy, giddy, crazy, again.
On his black tunic, silver buttons explode with the fireworks. My head pounds, a butt burns my fingers, the bottle rolls away.
*****
I awake to a pigeon obsessively rolling ‘coo’ round its tongue. The sound collides in my head like a pinball against bumpers.
“Can I go now?” I ask through the bars.
“Time for your weekly caution, Mr Wills. Artistic bent is no excuse.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

 

Heroic Boat

/ michaelwynnauthor / 24 Comments

boatpilxr_-antiqued

 

 

 

Photo Credit: Georgia Koch

“But mum, it’s just an old boat. I could build you a nice patio there, some garden furniture, it’d be lovely. Better than looking at that rotting hull.”
His mother fixed Glen with a stare, “The boat stays. In his name, it stays.”

Glen sighed, “Why Mum? Dad’s been gone years. It’s your garden to do with as you please.”

“And I shall. Your father always said there were seven of them returned from Dunkirk that day, him his five mates and that boat. The boat has stood in memory of his mates and now to him. The boat stays.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

The Pebble Collection

/ michaelwynnauthor / 25 Comments

wasp-nest

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Janet Webb

He stuffed her clothes into a bin bag then dwelt on the titles of paperbacks stacked in a cardboard box. “She liked her romance.”
Jewellery was set aside to sell. From a rattling vase, he tipped out a collection of pebbles. She always brought souvenirs from beaches they visited. He counted them like rosary beads, each one a memory.
“We were happy then.”
He shivered, “Can you take your memories with you?”
Just in case, he drove to the woods and sought out her grave. He wept as he sprinkled the stones, “If only she hadn’t pushed me so far.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Taking Precautions

/ michaelwynnauthor / 8 Comments

adamickes-boardwalk

PHOTO PROMPT – © Adam Ickes

Firstly, I’d like to apologise for the fact most of you didn’t receive a comment from me last week. I’d written quite a few before I realised they weren’t getting through. If any of you did get a comment once, you may have received it up to 3 times. I know Rochelle seemed to get one eventually in her spam folder.

I’m not sure if the problem is fixed, so any thoughts on how to correct this would be welcome. If you get a like from me with no comment following, you’ll know I still have a problem.

Anyway, here goes with this week’s story:

 

“The painting?”
“It’s here. The money?”
“I give you the painting, there’s nothing to stop you sailing away with both.”
Andretti pulled a gun.
Sweat ran down his temples and his hand shook.
“If you’re messing me…”
Buoys bobbed over the numerous lobster pots fishermen had planted earlier in the evening, white, orange but mostly pink.
“I always think how pretty those pricks of colour are.”
“Which one?”
Julian threw Andretti a mobile phone. “I make it back off this jetty alive with the money, I’ll text.”

As he sent, ‘The Pink One,’ he chuckled, “That should keep him busy.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

All the evil, pretty bottles

/ michaelwynnauthor / 16 Comments

icon-grill-ted-strutz

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

I loved the bottle shop. Dad said it’s our secret and don’t tell mum. It was fun having a secret.
Shelves of pretty bottles. Brown and amber, some green ones and lots with no colour.
What’s the point of that? Dad said it’s to do with the drink inside.
Dad bought lots of the ones you could see through, if the label wasn’t in the way.
Then Dad got poorly. In hospital he turned a funny orange colour.
One day Mummy said Dad’d gone to heaven and it’s all the fault of the bottle shop, so I hate it now.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.