The ship went down quickly. Those who could made for the life rafts; the rest jumped overboard. I was one of the lucky. The night air chilled my skin, but I never noticed the cold. A woman next to me grabbed my hand and held too tight. Thank God I thought. If I felt pain, at least I was alive.
No one spoke. A line of yellow lights glowed ahead no one wanted to break the spell.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this challenge and Carla Bicomong for this week’s prompt.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. This weeks unique photo is provided by Anurag Bakhshi.
Her true name was Lily Rose but folks in town called her Crazy Flower Lady. She was a gardener, the last of her kind in this part of the world. Years of drought turned the once fertile valley into a desert where only cactus survived. Everywhere except the patch of land where Lily Rose lived. There, plants and flowers thrived in a brilliance of color. No one knew how she kept a garden without water. Some said on the night of a full moon, she stood in her yard, arms stretched upward, beaconing the plant gods to breathe life into her ‘children.’
No wonder they called her crazy.
I knew the truth. Plants only survived when there is water. For the sake of all who lived in the valley, I needed to know where to find it.
I drove the dusty road to her homestead, aiming to confront the old woman. “Tell me where to find the water,” I demanded.
The old lady’s cackle sent chills down my spine. “Truth isn’t truth. You have your truth, and I have mine. The flowers bloom because they like it here.”
Quickly I left, not entirely convinced she was crazy at all.
This photo reminded me of my childhood. My Grandmother was a true gardener, able to grow anything from a sprig taken from a plant, which she often did secretly when visiting nurseries. I don’t believe witchcraft was involved but her talents were amazing. Unfortunately, I inherited none of her green thumb. I have to admit, however, that the story was shaped based on a comment I heard on television this morning. ‘Truth isn’t truth’ is just too juicy to let go. The story ended up being more menacing than originally intended, but I believe it is better for it.
My eyes lock on the coffee table, littered with cigarette buds.
Nearby lay the victim in a pool of blood. Just like my last case.
That should have been an easy win, except for that sleaze-bag’s attorney.
Lack of evidence my ass.
Now a killer walks the streets. That is not something I can live with.
I picked up the gun by the victim. This is no longer a suicide. I place a cigarette bud in the ash tray.
Outside, I call the evidence team.
“Bag the table,” I said. “Everything we need is right there.”
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this challenge and Yvette Prior for this week’s prompt.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. This week’s photo is courtesy of Fandango.
“The loony who dressed up like his mother and killed the blond dame in the shower. In the movies.”
Pete and Harvey sat with legs dangling over the edge of the 41st floor. High-rise construction was a lonely business, and Pete was glad he had Harvey to help pass the time.
“What makes you think your brother-in-law Jimmy is like Norman Bates?” Harvey asked.
“He has one of those shower obsessions. Last week I was out back burning some burgers when, you know, nature called. I walked to the bathroom, and there was Jimmy, standing in the shower, smelling the soap.” Pete stopped to take a bite of his ham sandwich. “You don’t think he is one of those…?
Harvey paused before answering. “What kind of soap was it?”
“It was the missus’ soap. Dove maybe?”
“Yeah, I like Dove. It makes the wife’s skin smell clean.
“It does have a nice aroma.” said Pete.
“About Jimmy, don’t worry about him. Once I caught my brother Davy holding up the wife’s brassiere to his chest. You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your friends. Know what I mean, Pete.”
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this challenge and Ronda Del Boccio for this week’s prompt.
Amy had one wish…solitude.
Her hectic life kept her busy morning to night.
Always doing something for everyone else, never herself.
She often dreamed of running away, someplace quiet, and peaceful.
Taos sounded nice.
The speeding car came out of nowhere.
Everyone said Amy was lucky to be alive.
Quietly they whispered, she might not be so lucky after all.
What kind of life was it to exist on a breathing tube, paralyzed from the neck down?
Through the small space between the planters on her window sill, Amy silently watched the world go by.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. Thanks to James Pyle for submitting this week’s photo.
“Step on a crack…break your mother’s back!”
Daisy heard the superstitious chant from her older cousins and believing them to be wise beyond their seven years, took care to avoid the cracks in the garden walkway. It was not always easy, especially when Mommy called to come inside for hot cookies and milk.
Inevitably, Daisy forgot to be careful. As soon as she stepped, the ground felt different under her Buster Browns. Peering downward, Daisy began to shriek. Certain her daughter had been stung by a bee, or worse, her mother rushed from the kitchen.
“Daisy, what’s wrong!” her mother cried. Daisy pointed to her foot and mumble a few words about breaking mommy’s back.
Relieved, her mother gathered Daisy in her arms. “Nothing bad will happen when you step on a crack,” her mother assured her. “Come on. I have hot cookies for you.”
Daisy wiped her eyes and followed her mother to the kitchen, no longer careful where she stepped.
As night approached, a grisly light emitted from the widening cracks in the garden path. Long, grayish fingers grasped hold of the edge. Daisy’s mother was wrong. Dreadful things do happen when you step on a crack.
This story is based on the old superstition that cracks in the pavement were portals to the underworld, and by stepping on a crack, you released the demons that lived there, bringing bad luck.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this challenge and Sandra Crook for this week’s photo prompt.
Ben flattened his body into the corner, desperate to blend into the wall. Before long, the invaders would claw their way into the room.
If only I had killed the first rat that invaded the garden shed, Ben thought. Winter was oddly cold this year and kind-hearted Ben knew the varmint wanted to stay warm. One nest would not matter.
Ben did not take into consideration biology. When the shed could no longer hold the hoard of rats, they looked for a new home.
Ben begged for madness as he noticed the whiskers chomping on the wooden door.