The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide.
Somehow the possibility just hadn’t occurred to him, not that it was impossible, but as it had never risen to mind he’d never confronted the reality until he’d arrived at the site. There was nothing left, nothing except the shattered remains of some sort of shelf or cabinet.
Everything else, every frame and timber and Tupperware, was gone as if it had never been.
“Holy Heck,” he mumbled, stunned into just standing and staring.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He took a breath to speak, closed his mouth. Tried again. “This is the site. This is the site but…”
“Nobody’s lived here for years.”
He cocked his head. “Yes… no.” Looked around at specific points which proved this was the correct plot. “Where could they have gone?”
He heard her walk away, glanced back, before moving over to kneel before the cabinet.
“Virginia,” he whispered. “Where are you?”
Knife-craved on the back of the cabinet were the words Croatoan II.
Better late than never:)
Week of 04-26 through 05-02-2016
Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
1. A prompt photo will be provided each Tuesday to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.
2. Linking for this challenge begins on Tuesday and runs to the following Monday evening.
3. Please credit photo to photographer
4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.
The tables were laid for the reception, linen tablecloths, dessert forks and crystal glassware. Candles and flowers adorned each table. The catering staff hovered nervously in the doorways. The only thing missing were the guests.
He sank down in a chair, loosing his cravat. She’d made him wear a damned cravat and then didn’t have the decently to appear. No call, no show, and a church full of guests expecting the wedding of someone’s dreams.
Too bad she’d never mentioned that this wedding was her fantasy and he wasn’t included.
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
Week of 03-15 through 03-21-2016
This week’s photo prompt is provided by pixabay.com.
“I won’t abandon you, ” I whispered. We were partners and partners never left the other behind. Command ordered the dogs left. Use’em and leave’em was their mantra. Not mine. Nor the other guys in the unit. Sampson was going home. He had a forever with me.
Johnny walked up. “Ready?”
I curled my fingers in his short fur, closed my eyes. As much as I wanted to save him, I knew anything could go wrong. Money talked but sometimes went silent. Sampson whined, moving his head to lick my face, his way of telling me everything would be okay.
God, dogs, you gotta love them.
I’d never been a dog person until Afghanistan. He’d saved my life times over and I’d saved his. He curled against me at night, keeping me warm. Curled into my lap when I was so shell-shocked I just wanted to die. He knew me better than anybody. How could I abandon that?
Rising, I nodded, giving Sampson one last hug. “Later, boy.” He barked as Johnny led him off to join the other dogs.
Mission Rescue had begun.
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
She stood on the opposite bank, hair tangling her face, stark against the abandoned buildings surrounding her. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew. I wanted to scream the strength of the current, gentle rapids roaring into whitewater beyond the river’s bend. It hurt crashing against rocks, the ups and downs, ins and outs, ups as downs and downs as ups. Hurt until the drowning, the letting go of any claim of control. She’d wouldn’t have been perched there if she had control.
I wanted to but I couldn’t. The water had taken away my voice, too.
Posted on March 3, 2016 by rogershipp
This challenge is open until 11:00 pm Thursday night, March 10th, 2016.
The opening sentence for the March 4th Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: “I know it’s only been three weeks…”
…but it seems like years. She promised to come back, promised once she found a home, she would be back. Time stands still here for there is nothing but time, time to wait, time to wonder, time to fear.
What if she forgets me?
“Lilly,” calls Mrs. Linden, “come back now. You have work.”
Work. It seemed there ought to be something besides work. I remember a wide white porch, dawn dampening the thick green grass. Rolling around like a puppy while somebody laughed in the background. Was that Mother? I couldn’t remember. Mothers didn’t seem real anymore.
I glanced out the window one more time, heart jumping at the plumb of dust in the distance. Was it her? Would she come?
Mrs. Linden watched me with impatient patience. Sometimes, I thought she understood, but how could she? Had she been abandoned, too?
She lay a hand on my shoulder, guiding me back down the aisle, back to the clicking of sewing machines, the snip-snip of scissors, damp endless time folding outwards before me like an impossible dream.
If only she would come.