PHOTO PROMPT – © Emmy L Gant

The sun beat back the night but not the chill. The rows of trees and terraced houses blurred in shades of grey and mauve. Too early for breakfast lights.
I brushed the irregular stone wall of the bridge, felt the prickly shards of frost snap under my hand.
I heard her first, her heels clacking on the cobbles seemed to scream, “She’s getting away!”
Then I saw her, coat flapping through the mist, leaning to one side, both hands heaving her heavy case.
I ran to her. When her husband woke the lights in their house, we’d be well gone.

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

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PHOTO PROMPT – © Al Forbes

Marcus threw another sack of clothes in the boot. “Why couldn’t she love me the same?”
His records would have to go on the back seat.
Why couldn’t those he forced himself to date, have her beauty?
The car bulged. Too much baggage.
“You can’t run away from a life if you insist on taking it with you.”
He started to unpack the car again, but the heaviest baggage he couldn’t leave behind.
Hefting a box he felt a spasm. He straightened, kneading his back, “Unrequited love and back ache; until you’ve suffered them yourself, you can’t appreciate the pain.”

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

PHOTO PROMPT – © Sandra Crook

A time-beaten old man, wearily surveyed the dusty way he’d come,
His path, laboriously trodden, burnt hollow by a glaring sun.
Bare, black-boned winter trees, stood as skeletal avenues of honest intentions,
Where leather rags flapped in the breeze, from the grinning skulls and carcases
Of former lovers, and relations. Grim signposts to missed destinations;
Unrealised procrastinations.
Yellowed sheets of scribbled paper, uncompleted lines on life’s experience,
Expectations of something meaningful, but nothing left in remembrance.

I hope I come this way again and leave without regret,
I doubt I will as I know, I’ll not recognise my chance yet.

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

PHOTO PROMPT © The Reclining Gentleman

Peter was nervous but Import Export was his business, he was good at it.
Stern men of business stared across the table.
His nose itched. “Don’t touch it!” A swarm of thunder flies seemed to invade his nostrils. “Don’t pick it!”
The flowers on the sill grew gargoyle heads and spat at him. His nose dripped. Suddenly, he exploded a sneeze.
Tissues were distributed; faces and lapels wiped down.
“Hayfever,” he spluttered apologetically, pointing to the flowers.
“Mr. Ryan, very impressive credentials.” Peter relaxed.
“But we can’t offer you the position. We’re Borgen Horticulture Ltd, we buy and sell flowers.

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

PHOTO PROMPT © Erin Leary

The herons stalk the water on the far side, picking their steps carefully through the lilies and swards of weed. Cocking heads in preparation to strike for frogs, whilst on the other shore children splash, hunting the same frogs and hoping for newts. Tentively they wade further out, feeling the depth with sticks, prodding and dredging until the water clouds and becomes black with the disturbed decay of years of submerged leaves and rotting branches. They giggle when the water soaks their clothes, laugh at the black mud stench that rises, then scream as her face, Ophelia-like, breaks the surface.

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

PHOTO PROMPT – © ceayr

The old house boarded up. It’s coming down to make way for a new sea view hotel. We thought ourselves witty when we named it Château de Sable, sand castle. Near the beach, built on sand.

But you shouldn’t build on sand, because it shifts and sand castles always get washed away by the sea.

The new build will be delayed though. When they find the bodies. It was lazy to bury them there when we were so close to the outgoing tide, but then again sand is so easy to work with when you have so much to bury.

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

Flash Fiction – Warm Memories for Fuel

by Mick Wynn

Photo courtesy of Jan W. Fields

Such sweet memories. Christmas carols each year and how many party renditions of Roll out the Barrel? And Uncle Arthur and Uncle Fred doing their Hinge and Bracket renditions. Oh, the laughter that rang through this house.

Mum polished that piano every day and her mother before her. They called it Daisy. Pampered, like an old, trusty friend.

They’re all gone now and it’s cold outside. It’s laid down a foot of snow, even if I could walk; but it’s cold and there’s no coal left in the house. The polish should help it burn hotter.

Written for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word story inspired by a photo prompt. Pop over to host Rochelle’s blog and read the other entries here.