Copyright – Roger Bultot

She leant on the rail of the great liner, like a bird on a wire preparing to fly south.
Their love had followed the seasons, verdant shoots bursting open-hearted in spring and ripening into voluminous colours of summer passion.

While guiltily hiding their illicit love, cruel autumn crept up and green turned brown.
She chose to stay with what she had. “For the best,” she said, “Doomed compromise.” He thought, “Cold winter’s looming.”

Looking up into the midday sun, he felt the tears slide down his cheeks and fancied he saw others drop from the rail of the top deck.

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

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

He looked up in amazement. She’d hung from the ceiling a collage of all his favourite things. Albums of music he cherished, books that had inspired him along life’s journey, dangled with his own writing and pictures he’d painted.
Photos of times of joy, celebration, success and triumph. His old Paisley shirt and pointed brogues he’d never throw away. His first guitar.
It all swayed in the breeze like a mobile reflection of his life.
But George had never learnt when looking up, to beware of trap doors. She’d found someone else. The memories diminished and faded as he fell.

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

PHOTO PROMPT © Kent Bonham

A time and tide etched seaman, set his book upon the shore; lovingly crafted from whale bone, its pages inset with strange symbols and characters carved from walrus ivory and seashells. Retreating to his shack in the dunes he watched the village children trudging along the sand, one half-sighted girl trailing behind.
The first boy seeing simply a pile of bleached bones asked of another, “What d’you reckon it is?”
“Dead dolphin bones?”
But the girl caught the sun’s rays splintering off the mother-of-pearl and saw a story in every sparkle, of mermaids, serpents, and sirens. The man smiled contentedly.

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

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

The empty factory windows stared soullessly back at Tom like the dead eyes of his cherished Margot. He hobbled into broken glass and pigeon guano, the punch cards racked as they were that last day.
He read the faded names; Barker, Binley, Blackwell and hers, Bloomfield M, above his.
They’d met here, making shoes, loved, married, made shoes and raised children making shoes.
She’d denied the gossip, but there was life to read in her bright eyes then.
Gnarled hands tore at Barker’s card, the scraps fluttered down to settle with the rat tracks and his tears in the dust.

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

I did two this week simply because so much goes on in hotels and I couldn’t decide which to post.

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

He watched her sleek skin glistening like a chestnut bay in the sun as she came out of the shower. As she dressed he gloried in the memories of the night.
“So just the money now.”
He handed her some notes. “What’s that? It’s £1,200.”
“What? They said £100. I haven’t got £1,200.”
Eyes narrowed, she pulled a paper from her bag, “Look, it says here room 306, all night service, and complete repertoire.”
“But this is 307, I ordered the £100 deal.”
Opening the door she saw white stilettos disappearing down the corridor. “Hey, cheap slut, stop right there!”

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

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

Tweaking his tie Brad told himself, “Go get ‘em country boy!”
In the corridor he was hit by a cocktail stink of shit and scent; people addressing company expenses excesses of the night before. He joined others in the lift.
“Christ! How much beer did the big guy sink last night?”
His stomach heaved. “No breakfast, need air.”
The sun beating off windows sizzled a pavement oyster at his feet. He turned too late, the image ingrained; a stench of baked dog turd and fast food restaurant bins stormed his nose.
“Sod the job, I’ll go back to the farm.”

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

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.