Friday Fictioneers 11-19-2017

 PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

She ran towards the building, screaming.

A fireman caught her around the waist. “You can’t go closer, lady, it’s too dangerous.

“But, my baby!”

“Your baby is in there?”



She pointed to a window just above the raging fire.  That floor, too, would soon be engulfed in flames.

He ran towards the building, Half hour later, he walked back, a bundle in his arms.

“Oh thank you!”

He deposited the wiggling bundle into her arms. A little brown head poked from the bundle, licked her nose.

He just smiled and walked away, vanishing into the smoke

Friday Fictioneers 11-11-2017

PHOTO PROMPT ©Marie Gail Stratford



“Have fun,” he said, handing over his credit card.

“I want to buy you something!”

“With my credit card?”

“For being a smart-ass, yes.”

She pulled him up and down and around, picking out this and that, things he didn’t need, but the joy on her face was worth the spent money.

“I’ll need a fashion show,” she declared at the exit, his arms filled with bags. “Briefs first.”

“Briefs first, we won’t get to the rest for a while.”

She smiled mischievously.  “I know.”

Where were all the damn taxis?

Friday Fictioneers 11-4-2017

PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Ann Hall


“They’re all ugly.”



“The auctioneer might hear you.”

“So what? Not like it’s a news flash.”

She slapped his arm. “I want that one.”

“The big-ass ugly yellow one?”

She hit him again. “And the red one.”


“And the two blue ones… and oh…. that cute little multi-blue one right there.”


The lot was taken to the front.

“Buy them all.”


She glared.

He raised his hand. “Ten….ah…” Glanced over.  “Twe…..ah….. thirty!”

Taking his free hand, she smiled.

Friday Fictioneers 10-20-2017

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Jay looked at the house behind the huge oak.

“My grandparents’,” Chris said. “Gramps and I built the wall.” Smiling.

‘”You did the top?”

“How’d you guess?”

Jay snorted.

“It’s gonna be hell selling this place.”

“Can’t your brothers….”

Chris gave him that look.

“Ah…okay. Gotcha.”

Chris hopped the wall. He’d spent many happy times here. Cook-outs. Water fights. Catching lightning bugs. Sparklers. Days before the fame, the wild life, the depression ruling his life. Happy, happy days.

Jay touched his arm.

“Come on,” Chris grinned. “Just gotta get something and then we’re gone.”

Time enough tomorrow for the sorrow.


Friday Fictioneers 2-3-2017


roger-bultot-flowerPHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot


Chris glanced out the window to the lot below. What the hell was he doing in New York in the middle of fucking winter? He could have chosen LA – warm LA, mind you  –  or even gone home for studio work.

She came up behind him, slipping arms about his waist. “You can’t leave already.”

“I’m supposed to be working, you know.”

She turned him around, hands sliding behind his neck.

“You are working. You’re working on me.”

With a laugh, he let her slide the shirt off his shoulders, shedding clothes as they returned to the bedroom.



The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Thursday morning, January 5th. 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 Wednesday night, January 11th, 2017.


The Lancia hugged the curves, Chris at the wheel, Jay white-knuckled in the seat beside him.

“You’re going a bit fast,” Jay remarked, trying to sound normal.

Chris glanced down. “A hundred?”

“That’s thirty-five over the speed limit.”

Chris snorted. “Live a little.”

“It’s not the living I’m worried about, it’s the dying.” His glance slid to the guard rail and then back; thought he saw Chris smile. At least, he was smiling.

“You’ve had accidents before, remember.”

“I was going faster.”

Jay wasn’t sure if the depressive or manic phases scared him the most. Probably both in different ways. Time to change the subject.

“You ready for tomorrow?”

Tomorrow the entire band would return to the studio to prepare for the second leg of the tour.

Chris shrugged a shoulder. “Am I ready to be an asshole?”

“What? You? This kinder, gentler, you?”

Chris glanced over.

This time it was Jay who laughed. “You’re an asshole all the time, Mr. Crenshaw.”

The car started to slow

“Thanks,” they both said, at the same time.

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.

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.”


Daily Post One Word Prompt – Maddening



He set the book in his lap and leaned back, nape of his neck resting against the rough horse-hide of the chair. Not his choice of sitting accouterments, but then again, this wasn’t his place. More a borrowed place.

Regardless of ownership, he loved this place. It allowed him to escape the endless ebb and flow of the world. Of reporters and paparazzi; a million people calling his name, pulling him in a million difference directions. The second leg of their tour started in two weeks and he was wiped out. He loved touring, loved interacting with the fans, but the older he got the more downtime he needed if, for nothing else, the fragile thing he called sanity.

Not that he considered himself anywhere near sane. Life in the music biz had never been sane. His parents had called him high-sprung; his friends crazy and the band members, probably, an arrogant prick.  Which, he was. He was all of the above, but fronting a band like The Secret Agents and being the main creative genius, didn’t tend to engender one towards sanity.

Jay walked in and sank down into the other chair, shifting around to get comfortable. “I hate these chairs.”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “And you are sitting there why?”

“To bug the hell out of you.”

Chris snorted.  “Well done, Jazzman. Well done.”

“The call earlier was Kerry,” Jay said, leaning over to look at the book in Chris’ lap. “He’ll be back by the beginning of next week.  Rudy should be here by then, too.”

Kerry was thir bassist. Rudy the drummer, both coming in upon the departure of an original band member.

“So why the hell are you here and not amongst that gypsy band you call kids.”

“It’s so not a gypsy band,” Jay protested.

“How many kids is it now?” Chris asked.  “Ten… twenty?”


“And one on the way.”

“Well, yeah.” Jay blushed, faint redness spreading across brown skin. “I’ll be heading home for few days so I can be back with the others.”

They fell silent.

“Are you all right?” Jay asked.

“Yeah,” came the answer, more upbeat than was the truth. He was never wholly all right, but he’d learned to keep himself to himself. It made things easier all around. No one need know the maddening world inside him.

He felt Jay watching him, figured  he wasn’t fooling the other man.

“No more broken mirrors,” Jay said, suddenly serious.


“Make sure you eat.”



“Yep.” He was lying and they both knew it.

Rising, Jay lay a hand on his shoulder.  “Call me.”

“Yep.” He didn’t watch Jay walked out. Heard the faint sound of the outer door closing behind him.

Alone folded him inside. Hidden, sinking into the disorder of his own mind.