PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg
‘Where did it happen?’
‘Perhaps it’s best if you don’t hear all the details -‘
‘I need to know.’
‘Further along. Past the sign.’
‘I want to see the exact spot.’
‘I don’t know why -‘
A sigh so deep, it cracked in his throat. ‘There was a point she could have stopped. Saved herself. I have to know why she didn’t.’
The ground was marked with police tape, scuffed by dozens of heavy boots. But there, beyond the yellow line, two small footprints.
Jerry gazed across the wooded valley, smelt the almond blossom on the warm breeze. And he knew.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the pic and write a tale. See here to join in, read and comment.
‘Tell me again why you were here, Stephen,’ said Walker.
The kid’s preppy clothes were grubby, shirt cuff button missing. His knuckles were scuffed bloody, one cheek purpled by a bruise the size of an egg.
‘I said.’ Stephen sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Everyone comes to Cedar Pond in the summer. We hang out.’
‘Yeah.’ Walker crossed his arms, leaned against the squad car. ‘I came here when I was your age. Swam. Smoked some blow. Were you guys smoking , Stephen?’
The kid’s head dipped, eyes on the ground.
‘Man, we used to get up to some stuff.’ Walker crouched beside the boy who winced as he took his hand. ‘Never ended up with knuckles like that though.’ He stared into the terrified eyes, then past him, across the wide glassy black of the lake. ‘My girlfriend never went missing either. Where is she? Where’s Jennifer?’
Written for What Pegman Saw, the writing prompt that uses Google Streetview as its jumping off point. Do join in, share, read and comment on the other stories. See here to do just that.
I know the trees in the picture aren’t pines, but something about the area – and the dark tales surrounding Clinton Road – reminded me of ‘In the pines’ also called ‘Where did you sleep last night?’ I was familiar with the Nirvana Unplugged version and Kurt Cobain’s screaming last chorus (always makes my hair stand on end – in a good way) but I only today listened to an early Lead Belly recording. Equally magical.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
The world was swollen that night, heavy snow turning hedges and curbs to fat pillows. Beneath were the same thorns, the same sharp corners to catch unwary toes.
As she looked across a garden glazed white, she realised that was what her marriage had always been – pristine to the casual observer, while beneath that shallow surface …
Despite everything, she saw beauty in those contrasts of soft and sharp, sweet perfection and hidden terror.
Her favourite contrast lay beyond the misted window pane. Crisp, white snow, smeared and speckled crimson.
Her grip slackened around the knife’s bone handle.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the pic and write a tale and don’t forget to read and comment. See here to join in.
All she could remember was the stink – that’s what she told the WPC with the baggy face and the red-rimmed eyes.
Urine – sharp enough to prickle her nose. And paint fumes – aerosol paint. How did she know it was aerosol paint? She shrugged. She just knew.
She wanted to get clean, to wash the smell from her sticky skin, but the WPC said no, not yet sweet. So she sat in the paper suit that crinkled when she breathed and thought of her rabbit Snickers. Of how his eyes had been rimmed with red before he went to the vet and never came home.
Photo by Daniel von Appen on Unsplash
It was a simple lie. I didn’t even have to form the thought into words, Weber saw to that.
‘A yes is all we need. A yes and all of this can be over for you.’ His shirt was dark with sweat and even from the other side of the desk, I could smell last night’s schnapps on his breath, the sharp fug of raw onions.
One ‘yes’ and Professor Greenspan’s room became a store cupboard, his class taken by the oily Professor Marlin.
I walked past Greenspan’s apartment today. The windows were boarded up, misspelt obscenities scrawled across the warped wood. With a pen, I wrote in shaky text, I’m Sorry.
Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See the pic and write a story. Go here to join in and to read the other tales.
‘The Sands of Love.’ Sy pulled on one glove then the other, his fingers resembling over-stuffed sausages, straining against the latex.
‘What was that?’
‘Her first film role. Nineteen fifty three. Blink and you’d miss her.’
Francie looked down at her paperwork. ‘Never seen it.’
‘Not missing much. Gangster B movie. But she had glamour. Stood out, you know?’
Francie scribbled her signature at the bottom of the form before looking up.
Soap scum floated on the bath water, strands of long grey hair looped on the enamel. A crumpled square if tin foil – grubby brown shining at its centre – lay by the taps. One of the officers had found a teaspoon and a lighter in the bottom of the bath wedged under the body. She must have wriggled some as she died.
‘Doesn’t look too glamorous now. Okay, Sy. You can move her.’
Written for Stephanie at Word Adventures’ #tuesdayuseitinasentence. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
The sun slumped low in the sky as we pulled into the drive-in. Kids clustered at the entrance, the girls whispering and giggling behind cupped hands, a boy tossing a ball on baked concrete.
Mansell turned off the engine, cuffing his top lip. His shirt collar was dark with sweat, his tie hanging limp. ‘Damn this weather, eh? Hot as asses out here.’
My partner was king of the meaningless expression.
Pulling on his suit jacket, he nodded towards the drive-in shelter, its corrugated iron roof, its strings of dusty bunting. ‘The boy’s parents run this place, you say?’
I checked the manila file on my lap. ‘For the last five years. Mother and stepfather.’
He opened the door to the SUV, pulling his jacket collar straight. ‘I’ll lead.’ He nodded to the open file. ‘Keep those photographs hidden. We need answers – the sight of blood only ever brings more questions.’
Written for What Pegman Saw, a photo prompt using Google Streetview. See here to join in and to join in.