Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. Thanks to C.E. Ayr for this week’s inspiration.  If you are interested in contributing your own story, or to see what others have written, please visit  Sunday Photo Fiction

Photo Credit: C.E Ayr

The town clock chimed 12, signaling the gentleman to make his way toward the river. He sat on the stone bench under a willow tree, waiting. His dapper dress suggested a man of means and distinction. Yet those who passed by paid him no more attention to him than they did brushing their own teeth.

At 12:08, he crossed bridge that separated the financial district from the merchants. No doubt which side of the river the gentleman belonged; he was a trusted advisor and guardian of the town’s wealth. At the center-point of the bridge he noticed a granite plaque. Age had faded the script, but the gentleman could recite the words by heart.

Henry Adams jumped to his death from this spot October 29, 1929.

At 12:18, the gentleman climbed to the top of the railing as he had done every year since the day of The Crash. As he leapt from the bridge, a young boy clicked a selfie from the same spot. Disappointed with the blurred image captured in the background, the boy deleted the photo and tried again.


City of Dreams

City of Dreams

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. If you are interested in joining in or reading other stories like this, just click HERE.

 The photo below is one I took on my visit to New York City a few years ago. New York is such a magical place, but surprisingly, I struggled with a story. Too many options.  One of my favorite Frank Sinatra songs is  ‘New York New York and I wanted to include it, although in the end, I simply elude to it. The rest of my inspiration came from personal life and growing older. I hope you like this week’s story. Let me know if you do.

SPF July 8 2018 (2 of 1)
Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding

The old woman gazed out the bedroom window, capturing the images of her world for the last time. Far in the distance, the Hudson River caught the light of the morning sun. Morning gems, she called them.

Outside the room, the stairs creaked with each step of her daughter’s ascent.

“Time to leave, Mother. The taxi is waiting.”

“I could have been a Rockette,” her Mother said to no one in particular. Everyone said so. I just wasn’t tall enough.”

“You father danced too you know. In the early years he was in a small troupe. Not Broadway, but it was only a matter of time. But then your older brother was born, and well…. It was a blessing your father got the job at the post office.”

Patiently, the daughter nudged her Mother back to the present.

“The taxi, Mother. It’s waiting.”

The old woman surveyed the room, now empty of everything that once made it hers.

“Where are all my things?” Her voice rose to the level of panic.

“They are in your room, at your new home. Waiting for you.”

“We could have made it,” she said sadly as she walked out of the room forever.



Regrets (Friday Fictioneers)

Regrets (Friday Fictioneers)

Photo Credit: Ken Bonham

This story takes place in the 1940’s and should not be judged through 2017 eyes. Back then women had few rights when it came to their children, marriage, and divorce.

Rose left her children before they formed memories of her.  At 16, her step-dad arranged a marriage, a means of ridding himself of her. By 18, she was the mother of two healthy boys: a perfect baby-making machine.  The marriage soured like the alcohol on his breath and at 21, Rose walked out the door, leaving her babies behind.  Because this is what the women in her family did. They moved on. But before leaving for good, Rose sat in her car, across from the school yard, watching her boys play; hoping she did the right thing.


This story was inspired by a photo prompt posted on Friday Fictioneer’s, a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less. Photo Prompt provided by Ken Bonham.