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.

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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.