PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
Newt shuffled along the dusty tabletop so Mama could perch next to her.
‘And what was this bit?’ Newt traced the lines on the picture with her finger, the crosscross patterns, the dark bobbles with their raised paint.
‘That was grass, the brown lines are paths. That blue was a lake, the blobs are trees.’ Mama coughed, the sound rattling like dried beans caught in her chest. ‘Let’s go. Dark’s coming.’
As they hurried back to the tunnel and the oildrum fire, Newt tried to imagine Lake, Trees, Grass …
Tried to imagine a world coloured blue and green.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers, the finest flash writing prompt you’ll find. See here to join in and to read the other, wonderful tales.
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
It’s still early, indigo just crawling up the sky, eating the stars. The diner feels secluded still in its bubble of light, its coffee and pancake fug.
The door opens. Merv Klitschko, greasy trapper hat pulled low, ear flaps creased at his shoulders cos the guy’s got no neck. He’s at the counter, just gets coffee which is weird. Merv’s a man of habit – bacon, eggs, waffles, maple syrup, every morning for the last fifteen years.
I look to see if it’s raining, cos something’s dripping from Merv’s coat, puddling round his boots.
Then I see what that something is.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Write a story to go with the photo, but in no more than 100 words, please. See here to join in and to read the other, stunning tales.
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
This set of lights is so slow. Red, red, nothing but red lights all the way home. His heel bounces impatiently, knee tapping the steering wheel.
He hates the colour red, always has. Something threatening about it, something he can never quite put his finger on. Trina says, ‘red wine, cosy fires – my hair. What’s not to like?’
But still …
Finally, the light shimmers amber, green. Home, then, and fast.
Something flickers in the wing mirror. A girl on a bike, scarlet coat flapping like a broken wing. She’s there then gone.
Horns blare. Red, red, nothing but red.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. See the prompt pic and write a tale, but do visit here to read the other stories.
PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
They arranged to meet outside the mairie, where the brightly flowering baskets hung frothy with bumble bees.
She watched the council officials come and go, the men in their shiny suits, the women with their coiffed, brittle hair and stiff, painted smiles.
As the town hall clock chimed twelve she sat outside a cafe in the square, fingers tapping between the checked tablecloth and her cafe creme.
When she heard the sing-song siren she just smiled, standing ready for the gendarme to handcuff her.
They’d almost made it too.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers, the grandest flash prompt flying round the ether. See here to join in and to read the other, glorious tales.
PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young
Shaun gazed down the steep slope, past the apple trees and their blushed blooms. ‘Strange place to have a burial ground.’
‘Still a couple of hundred bodies under the grass.’ Grace kicked through a drift of empty beer cans and crisp packets.
She loved graveyards, the crumbling inscriptions, the weeping angels. He didn’t. The thought of walking over the dead made him shiver, imagine skeletal fingers reaching, clawing …
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’ve had your fun. Time for a pint.’ Blossom fluttered around him like pink confetti. ‘Grace?’ From somewhere came a sound like bones tumbling on stone.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the pic and write a tale – see here to join in and to read the other stories.
The burial ground in the story was inspired by a disused graveyard down the road from where I live. The slope is bizarrely precipitous for a spot where over two hundred people are still buried. It’s now a public park and community orchard.
PHOTO PROMPT © Magaly Guerrero
Put on the shoes.
Momba ignored the voice and turned over, pulling the bedcovers up to her ears. The storm beat at the castle, rattling the casements like a dozen jaws chattering with fear.
Put on the shoes. The girl is coming.
What if she refused, disappeared, became someone else? Something else? But without evil there could be no heroes and people needed heroes.
Besides, chuckled the Magic Ball, you’re so good at it.
Momba pushed back the covers, slipping the shoes on her emerald feet. ‘Oh, I am.’ she said, allowing herself a small cackle.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the prompt and write a tale and visit here to read the other stories.
I know anyone who’s seen Wicked will think the Wicked Witch of the West’s name is Elphaba, but in the 1910 silent film The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the title cards call her Momba, so I went with that.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
‘Did she live alone?’ Franks scanned the dressing table: wrinkled takeaway pizza, an open bottle of wine, the usual female detritus that reminded him of his mother’s bedroom.
Laurie peered down at his notepad, mole-like eyes almost vanishing into his plump face. ‘No, sir. And never married.’
Never will now.
He glimpsed her in the mirror, arm splayed across the pillow, eyes turned to the door, as if expecting someone. Her hair was only just silvering.
‘Keep me informed of the lab results.’ He sloughed off the latex gloves like shed skin, gratefully heading for the door, the traffic buzz.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. See the pic and write a tale. If you feel like joining in or reading the other stories, pop along here.