Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. This week is my 1-year anniversary hosting this challenge. To celebrate, I am recycling my very first flash fiction prompt and a revised version of my story. Thanks to Al Forbes for today’s photo and for creating this amazing forum. If you would like to read more stories based on this prompt, just visit Sunday Photo Fiction
Gabby’s memory turned to that frigid day, long ago, when her mother brought her to the zoo to see the giraffes. She was what, four…five years old? Seeing the baby giraffe for the first time startled Gabby; she thought her Grandmother’s dragon puppet had come to life! There was an old woman there that day, a docent; she gave Gabby a carrot. Even now, Gabby could not help but smile when she remembered the tickly feeling as the giraffe nibbled at the carrots in her hand.
That was long ago.
So much water under the bridge, as they say.
From her perch high above the zoo entrance gate, Gabby peered through the rifle scope, checking her aim. The Senator would be entering the park soon with his grandchildren. Such a shame their day will be ruined. Gabby was certain they would have enjoyed the baby giraffe.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. This week’s photo is one I took. No surprise, it was taken in Vail Colorado. If you are interested in contributing your own story, or to see what others have written, please visit Sunday Photo Fiction
‘Thea wanted a new life. Vail was exactly what she was looking for: snow-capped mountains, open-spaces, and green living.’
‘Thea sold her car and bought a yellow bicycle. On days when distance was more than her legs could handle, Thea rode the bus. That’s how she met Jack.’
‘Handsome and charismatic, Jack was a dream-come-true.’
‘When Jack caught her staring one to many times, he invited her to join him in conversation. It was as if they had known each other for years.’
‘Thea began spending all her free time with him; she stopped seeing her old friends.
‘Thea became obsessed with Jack.’
‘There was something about Jack that was just not right.’
Two hikers discovered Thea’s yellow bicycle alongside the mountain road. It did not take long to find the blood-soaked snow bank where her bludgeoned body lay.
‘The bicycle ride had been Jack’s idea,’ her friend Becky told the police.
Detective Osborne avoided looking at the crime photos and closed the case file. He had seen enough. There was a monster on the loose, and Osborne knew this was not his first kill. Picking up the phone, he dialed the Seattle homicide division.
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.
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 Karen Rawson for this week’s prompt.
They called him Mr. Lucky, a hackneyed moniker granted Ray for wriggling out of tight spots. Ray credited the rabbit’s foot he carried for his good fortune.
Once, Ray almost stopped believing in luck. For days, he had tromped through the mucky Louisiana bayou, in search of civilization. On the verge of hopelessness, Ray discovered crude stairs leading up the hill to a house. A human silhouette stood in front of the window.
Mr. Lucky smiled. What’s another dead body when you have two life sentences hanging over your head?
He never noticed dropping his rabbit’s foot in the muck.
A full moon hung on the edge of the horizon. Only a few more hours of twilight; they should hurry. The fugitives boarded the boat already packed with supplies. They would be a million miles away before they needed more.
As Mark pushed the boat away from the docks, police sirens blared in the distance. Lisa’s heart pounded, not from fear but from the arousal that came from being with a dangerous man.
She was his Bonnie; he was her Clyde.
As the sirens passed, Lisa relaxed. It would be days before they found the bodies.
Friday Fictioneer’s 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 Ted Strutz for this week’s prompt.
The old gumshoe sat in the smoky bar drinking bourbon, when up walks his baffled friend, inquiring once more on how he solved his latest case.
“It was the shoes,” said the older gent. “A perfect match of the footprint found next to the victim.”
“Impossible,” said the friend. “The suspect’s shoes were covered with cobwebs and dust. They hadn’t been moved in years.”
The detective sipped his bourbon, then said, “The suspect placed the cobwebs on the shoes himself and the dust; nothing more than baking flour.”
“Your intellect amazes me,” the impressed man said.
word count = 98
Friday Fictioneer’s 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 Sarah Potter for this week’s prompt.
Tornados rarely formed during the hot Oklahoma summer, but the still, humid air signaled a coming storm. Joe stood on his porch, watching. Hearing footsteps, he turned and saw a man standing a few feet away, a baseball bat in hand.
“Jesus Boone, you scared the shit out of me. What’s up with the….”
The bat connected with Joe’s head before he could finish the sentence. Toppling off the porch, Joe landed in the dirt, blood pooling in the dead grass. As thunder clapped, Boone raced toward the road.
Standing in the shadows of the front door, a small figure watched everything.
This story was inspired by Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneer’s . Thanks to Rochelle for providing this week’s photo.
After months of secret negotiations, we reached an agreement. The information I held was so top-secret that the only logical place for exchange was in plain sight. Concerned for my own safety, I insisted on a place public and what’s more public than the London Eye. I arrived early, suspicious of a set-up. I may just be a reporter but I’ve read enough crime fiction to know that ‘come alone’ is just a suggestion. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, I entered the glass pod as it slowly inched its way above the London skyline. My contact stood next to the window railing. The pink flamingo tie gave him away. I moved next to him and we exchanged pleasantries, as tourists do. Then came the fun part. I reached inside my jacket for the envelop. Proof that could destroy democracy. My hands shook and the coolness on my brow came from sweat.
Crime novels don’t lie. I felt the sharp stab at my left side, producing a slight dampness near my ribcage. To my right, pink flamingo tie whispered, “You’re coming with us.”
I looked through the glass at London below, knowing it would be for the last time.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short, 200-word story inspired by a photograph. Many thanks go to Al Forbes for supplying this week’s photo.
When Edison arrived, there was a glass sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. A small, clear glass filled with a clear liquid that looked like water. How very odd, thought Edison. The room had been vacant for over a year; yet there it was, a clean glass with water that looked like it had come from a Fiji bottle. Edison glanced around the room. Dust covered everything: the pine wood floor, the cheap coffee table. Dust even muted the colors of the floral couch and coated the window blinds. But no finger prints or foot prints. Wouldn’t you think that whoever left that glass of water would have left some sort of prints?
The glass bothered Edison. According to the landlord, the last tenants left just before Christmas. In a hurry. That’s when the City shut off the utilities, so where did the water come from?
Edison took inventory. A deserted, dusty room with no fingerprints or foot marks. A clean glass of water that came from nowhere. And a three-day old corpse laying on the bed.
Turning to the officers on the scene, Detective Edison asks, “Does anyone else find this strange?”