Little Pink Houses

Good Sunday Morning.  I missed last week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge due to other priorities but glad to be back this week.  This week’s photo is one of my own, taken near the  Myriad Botanical Gardens in downtown Oklahoma city.

Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding

For those who don’t know, Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge, hosted by yours truly, to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. I am sure there will be many interesting stories this week, so why not wander over there and read for few. Or better yet, write your own story and add to the collection.  You can find this week’s challenge HERE

Now for this week’s story.

At the end of the cul-de-sac sat a tiny pink house, sandwiched between houses three-times its size. Millennials Joe and Beth Campbell owned the quaint cottage, boasting to their neighbors they were no longer slaves to their positions.

Until they won the lottery.

No sooner had the for-sale sign been staked when the couple heard a knock at the door. A strange little man with a long white beard and pointed nose looked up at them.

“The name’s Rump,” he said, “I can pay your asking price.”

The Campbells each wondered what their neighbors would think.

“I will pay more,” he offered.

The heck with the neighbors. The Campbells took the offer.

Before they could sign the papers, they hear another knock. A bent-over old woman clothed in a long black dress stood on their steps. Rump introduced his wife, Hilda.

Joe and Beth disliked their neighbors but selling the house to characters out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales seemed wrong.

“We changed our minds,” they said, slamming the door.

Rump glared at his wife. “Hag, I told you, stay in the car! Now what are we going to do? Houses like this don’t come on the market every day.”

 

 

 

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The Devilish Mr. Jones

Just under the wire! This week’s Tuesday Scribes challenge is to write a 25-word story, called Hint Fiction.  Writing a story in only 25 words is not easy, but I gave it a go just the same. If you like it, let me know. If not, well let me know that too. 

The deteriorated wooden door at Number 3 Amherst was an open invitation to neighborhood thieves.

 And that was just how Mr. Jones wanted it.

The Wall

Welcome to this week’s edition of Friday Fictioneers. The goal is to write a complete story using 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. This week’s story is a rework of a longer piece I wrote a year ago. I don’t know what is more challenging; writing a completely new story or editing a longer story so it maintains the essence of the original. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this challenge and J Hardy Carroll for this week’s photograph. If you would like to add your own story, or read other stories like this, head to Rochelle’s Friday’s Fictioneers.

Photo Credit: J. Hardy Carroll

Ziggy sat on the edge of the couch, mesmerized by empty space between the steeple clock on the mantel and the ceiling above. Her tail twitched as a guttural growl erupted from deep inside her throat. Ziggy’s odd behavior concerned her owner Charlotte. A recent bee sting had sent her daughter Adeline into anaphylactic shock. Another occurrence could be deadly.

Placing Adeline against her shoulder, Charlotte examined the wall. Relieved to find nothing there, Charlotte turned her back to the clock, facing Ziggy.

“Silly cat. There is nothing….”

Charlotte’s words were cut short by Adeline’s screams of terror.

The Pipes Played On

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. Thanks to C.E. Ayr for providing this week’s challenging prompt.

Photo credit: C.E. Ayr

 

Every seasoned firefighter knows, today may be his last. But in the beginning, they are all invincible. Andy Gow was no different on his first day at Station 29. After roll call and shift change, and a rousing welcome, Andy and rest of the squad settled in for an uneventful day.

The call came at 11:05 a.m. Apartment fire on Elm. Everyone jumped into action, including Andy. Adrenaline flowed through their veins as they rushed to the scene, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Andy was living his dream at last.

The scene was worse than expected. Flames engulfed the apartment building. No one believed anyone could survive inside. No one except Andy, who rushed in as the floors collapsed. Why did Andy ignored the yells to come back? Some say it was the Siren Song of the firefighter, luring Andy to his death. I say, Andy was just living his dream.

That night, as the squad privately mourned the loss of Andy, the haunting sound of bagpipes playing Amazing Grace filled the station. Where the music came from, no one knew, but throughout the night, the pipes played on, in remembrance of the fallen hero, and their brother.

Alliance

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 Gah  Learner for this week’s prompt.

Photo credit: Gah Learner

Harold curled his body into a tight knot, holding the bed-covers close. The room felt cold as a refrigerator and it was only October. What would December bring?

Next to him, Harold’s wife slept unaffected by the freezing air. He thought back to the early days of their marriage when on cold nights they snuggled to keep each other warm.

That was before The Change.

Now, no matter how cold it was outside, Harold’s wife insisted they sleep with the window open.

All Harold could do is wrap himself in blankets and pray for Summer.

The inspiration for this story (with slight deviation) comes from a quote by George Bernard Shaw

Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can’t sleep with the window shut and a woman who can’t sleep with the window open.

Hope

PHOTO PROMPT © Carla Bicomong

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.

Word Count = 78

Lily Rose

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.

Photo credit: 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.

Justice Insurance

PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette Prior

My eyes lock on the coffee table, littered with cigarette buds.

DNA.

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.

Justice Insurance.

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.

Between Friends

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.

Photo Credit: Fandango

“Norman Bates.”

“Who?”

“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 41^st 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.”

“Yeah, Harvey. I know.”

 

 

 

Step on a Crack…

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. 

Photo Credit James Pyle

“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.