Sunday Photo Fiction 4-30-2017

Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in around 200 words.

Sunday Photo Fiction

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He stared down at the keyboard, blinking away sweat and tears. Hands shaking. Sick, sinking, feel in his belly. Meal bitter on his tongue.

The fly was cleaning its wings, moving one to the other. Flaunting its power. Its contempt.

He read and re-read the ten words flashing on his screen. Ten words between life and death. Ten words until the end.

Nine. He shouldn’t have done it.

Eight. Shouldn’t have listened. Should never have listened.

Seven. Panic. Heat. In his hands. On his face.

Six. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

Five. Too late. Too late.

Four. Eyes. Begging. Blank. Blank. Blank.

Three. Deaf. Nobody told him he’d be deaf. Nobody told him.

Two. So much blood. Too much for one body. Hands and face and in his mouth.

One.

The fly was gone.

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER 3-28-2017

securityThe challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Wednesday morning, March 22nd. Allow the prompt to take you anywhere you want to go! (Limit your stories to 200 words.)

This challenge is open until 11:00 pm Friday night, March 31st, 2017.

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner

“Another day, another donut,” Claude muttered as he rode the escalator to the ground floor. Springham Mall wasn’t a bad place, but it wasn’t police work. Thirty years a policeman before forced retirement and a job at the freaking mall.

Still, he tried to make the best of it; keep the owners and patrons safe.

At the sound of a shot, he broke into a run, pandemonium of screams leading him to the book signing in front of Walden’s Books. Confusions of patrons scattered every which way.

Calmly, he searched for the shooter, seeing nothing until he bumped into Davies. The policeman stared at him. He stared back.

“Davies?”

“It was all lies,” Davies said. “You know it was lies.”

The signing was for a book about police corruption.

“I know. All lies. Give me the gun.”

It hurt to see the crazed panic in the other man’s eyes.

Everything happened too fast. One minute he was talking Davies down. The next, another shot and he was looking at the fallen body of his old partner.

“Another day, another death,” he whispered. “Officer down.”

 

Sunday Photo Fiction – January 1st 2017

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. Please try to keep it as close to the 200 words as possible.
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He stood in the shadows of the balcony, watching the lights above radiating out like stars, welcoming the nights chill to keep him focused, keep back the mounting depression sweeping through his body. He’d meant to call Jay, but he hadn’t. Deep down, he hadn’t wanted to call. Deep down, he wondered if this time would be THE time. Would he? Could he?

Rock Gods died young, but he hadn’t. Not yet. His cell lay on the wrought-iron table nearby.

Call, he told himself. Call. Pick up the fucking phone and call!

The night lay silent. Still. Nothing around to stop him from doing it. Slit his wrists. How many times had he tried in the past?

Beside his cell lay the knife. He could feel the solidness of the handle in his hand, the sharpness of the blade against skin.

Call! Call! Fucking call!

Let go. Find peace. Let go.

He slid down the cold stone, coming to rest on his haunches, hands over his face. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

Why wouldn’t the voices leave him alone?

Clumsy, he knocked the phone off the table.

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! 

Pushed speed dial.

“Jay, it’s… Chris.”

 

Sunday Photo Fiction – June 19th 2016

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.

/https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2016/06/19/sunday-photo-fiction-june-19th-2016

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“Well, Yorick, any suggestions?”

“I had some ten hours back, but obviously they were wrong.”  Never had a skull spoken with such sarcasm and loathing (since last time we’d had this discussion.) It was becoming far too regular for my tastes.

I sighed. Cast him in one play and he never allows me to forget. I turned from my work table to scowl at him.

“That’s not helpful.”

“I never swore to be helpful.”

“Obviously.”

He would have rolled his eyes if possible. It wasn’t, so I stole the chance to do the same to him.

“You’d be nothing without me.”

“True.  I’d have a peaceful, quiet, life.”

“Humph. Nobody listens to the skull.”

“This surprises you why?”

Unintelligible mumble.

Silence surrounded me except for the scratching of pen across paper. It was a game we played; who can hold out longest.

He broke first; his ego didn’t allow anything else. “You can’t have Oberon do that in Act 3.”

“Why not?”

“Because of what he does in Act 4.”

A scramble through pages. “Oh.” He was right. As always.

“Like I said, Bill, you’d be nothing without me.”

FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #23-Surprise.

Word Count is off! Let’s focus on the theme of the thing. Not many actually stick to the word count anyway. (SUGGESTED-No more than 500 if you want to try that.)

  • Using the prompt of ‘Surprise, WRITE. A surprise can be anything. Surprise me with yours. (REQUIRED)

DEADLINE IS:

23:59 EST (New York Time) Wednesday.

To read more about this challenge, click Here.

 

The surprise was she came at all. He hadn’t expected it. She never did the expected.

“So,” she asked, swinging easily down in the chair across from him, hair dancing about her face. Sexy. She was so damn sexy, but he forced his mind to focus on the important.

“I’m surprised you came.”

“Darling, you know I adore you more than anything.”

Thing. Yes, that was the reality of the matter.

“Yes, whatever.” He paused, turning his coke can, laying ring after ring of condensation on the dark tabletop. “I’ve been thinking.”

She laughed, reaching across to touch his hand. “You know what I’ve told you about that, darling.”

“What?”

“Thinking too much.”

He grimaced. This was what she did, distracted him from his real purpose, his truth.

“I’m busy today,” she went on, eyes loving him.

It was a lie, but a lie he desperately wanted to believe.

“Can we do this later?” She cocked her head, smiled. “Tonight, when we have all the time in the world.  Just us.” Her voice softened to a purr, smile promising things he couldn’t refuse.

He was addicted. That was the thing.  Addicted.

She rose, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Tonight, darling.” Her voice promised things he’d never have.

Which came first, the chicken or the egg?  Man or mouse? Man or mouse?

He watched her walk away, swing in her hips affecting him deep down inside. Finally, he faced the truth.

She owned hm.

He ran towards her, calling out her name. The street and sidewalk were busy all around, forcing him to duck and dodge.

“Valarie, wait!” he called, skirting around a parked car.

To his surprise, she turned.

Man or mouse? Chicken or egg?

When he stepped in front of the truck, her irritation turned to confusion and then, at the last second, to surprise.

Finally, he’d surprised her.

Friday Fictioneers 3-16-2016

 

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PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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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.