Friday Fictioneers – Random Shooting

Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!

I was uninspired this week (my bad – the prompt is good) so I wrote about an event that actually happened to me in 1973. Yes, it’s a true story!

PHOTO PROMPT (C) TED STRUTZ

Random shooting

Rush hour was past, and there was only one person in the carriage with me as we squealed and rattled towards the suburbs, through a canyon of tenement buildings with mean back-yards. I gazed out, enjoying the last of the daylight.

A man emerged from one of the houses.

‘Heavens! He’s got a gun!’ I thought.

He raised the weapon.

There was a ‘Bang!’ and the window just forward of mine cascaded onto the floor in a thousand crystalline shards. The other passenger and I exchanged glances, both of us unharmed.

I never knew who did it, or why.

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Friday Fictioneers – Berkeley, and a Life

Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!

PHOTO PROMPT (C) CAROLE ERDMAN-GRANT

Berkeley, and a life

“Wot’yer doin’, yer lazy bastard?” called his mother.

Caleb hastily fumbled the g_n out of sight.

“Goin’ out.”

He felt the money pouch under his clothes, stuffed with the proceeds of dealing. Soon, people would have to take him seriously.

“Don’ wait up, Ma” he said, and disappeared into the night.

He crept into the old factory where the gang met, concealed himself and waited, listening intently.

A motorcycle! But whose?

Very cautiously, g_n in hand, Caleb peered out.

Thank goodness! It was Steve. Caleb ran across, kissed him, and jumped onto the pillion.

“Next stop Berkeley and a life!”

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Friday Fictioneers – Rob’s Chair

Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!

PHOTO PROMPT (C) DALE ROGERSON

Rob’s chair

‘I shan’t be needing that again,’ said Rob, as we watched the first snow cover his garden chair on the terrace. I gave his arm a squeeze; there was nothing I could say.

He died mid-winter, and I got on with life, but even when spring came I left the chair where it was. It was Rob’s chair, to help me remember him, his laugh, his joie de vivre.

Eventually, I met someone else I could love and winter gave place to spring. We’re quietly happy together.

I haven’t told him about Rob’s chair – but I think he’s guessed.

Inlinkz – Click here to join the fun!

Friday Fictioneers – Compulsion

Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!

PHOTO PROMPT (C) DAVID STEWART

Compulsion

Go on.

Have a fried egg. Just one won’t kill you.

I glare at the laptop. I must write.

One fried egg and a rasher of bacon.

No!

I write two pages and make coffee.

Two eggs, bacon and a tomato. Tomato’s healthy.

I fight the cravings all day, then go to bed.

Thirty minutes later, I get up.

Bacon. Six rashers under the grill.

Two eggs…I look at the box. There are five eggs. What the heck…I take them all.

My plate is piled high and Cameron, my husband, walks in.

‘Oh, Penny…’

‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ I weep.

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