Hope everyone is well. I’ve managed to post something this week and it should get better in the next few weeks, as I’m about to retire from work…Yippee! Thanks to Rochelle for the photo prompt this week and for always being here, despite her hectic schedule.
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Word Count: 100
Holding tightly to my grandmother’s hand, we crossed the river to the island in the middle.
The stepping-stones were slippery and we had to take great care, the water was very deep.
My mother didn’t like me going there. I think she worried about the deep water. Her father had taken her there sometimes, when he was home from the sea. I’d never met my grandfather; he left my grandmother years ago, no one mentioned him.
We had a picnic and picked some flowers which my grandmother threw into the river. I asked her why.
‘For remembrance,’ she said, smiling.
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We have sun today, it makes me think Spring can’t be far away and the daffodils in the garden obviously think so too.
Thanks for the photo this week go to Al Forbes – love the old cars – and a huge thank you to our FBM Rochelle for just being there. She has also been on the radio, you can catch her interview here
Copyright Al Forbes
Word Count: 100
Stella keeps her head down, conscious of the cut above her left eye. Though her cell phone has remained silent, she senses Robert is nearby; he doesn’t like to be disobeyed. ‘Honey, I’m sorry, it was an accident…’
Years of abuse made her compliant, silent, invisible. Today, on the anniversary of her marriage, something snaps. Drawing out what little money she has managed to squirrel away, she is on a bus heading north.
Feeling safe, she sleeps. The loud blast from a horn wakes her. Robert is driving alongside pointing a gun, mouthing silent obscenities, totally oblivious of the truck.
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It’s a lovely morning here, the sun is streaming in though the windows as I write, it looks more like spring than autumn. In any event, it’s a lovely day to wish a very Happy Birthday to Rochelle and to my sister, who also celebrates today.
I watched a building, much older than the one pictured, being pulled down a few days ago, and wondered…
Word Count: 100
From a safe distance, I watch the demolition team start work. A small group of people gather at the safety barrier; I recognise a few of them, but doubt many would recognise me, now.
The place that was once my home but became my prison, is reduced to piles of rubble. A workman in the basement shouts something to his supervisor who runs across the street.
Mrs Goodman leaves the group of onlookers; she glances in my direction, a half smile forming on her thin lips as she walks away. We both know what’s been found; no point hanging around.
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The photo this week, courtesy of Jen Pendergast, reminded me of a visit to Canada a few year ago. We wanted to take a train back from Edmonton to Calgary and were told that no passenger trains ran from north to south, only west to east. On the drive back, we watched the longest freight train we have ever seen, mile, after mile, after mile and reflected that Canada was indeed a vast country.
Thanks to Jen for the photo and to Rochelle the conductor of Friday Fictioneers, collecting more and more writers each week.
Copyright Jen Pendergast
Word Count: 100
Stella took the subway. Seeking the protection of strangers, she slowly made her way through the crowd. People grew restless as the train approached; she felt pressure in the small of her back, then heard the familiar menacing voice near her ear. As she was forced forward the crowd parted, as she stumbled they watched in horror as a figure tripped over her.
Stella watched impassively as the remains of her husband were collected and bagged. She remembered his threats, what he would do to her if ever she tried to leave him, and smiled at the vagaries of fate.
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Friday Fictioneers, it’s story time again. Each week Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts a photo prompt and anyone who would like to take part, posts a story on their blog and then links it to this week’s prompt. 100 words is the target so why not join in? The photo this week is courtesy of Rich Voza
Genre: Crime (100 words)
The door closes. The plane hurtles down the runway, becoming airborne in seconds. I steal a look behind me, nothing but the blank, closed faces of strangers. I relax.
The plan to flee, to leave behind the life I’d endured, eventually filled my every waking minute. It became my solace, my relief from pain, my refuge.
When they find him, their investigations will reveal a violent, heavy drinker who has had one too many.
Unless they look too closely at the tattoo on his neck.
Would they do that?
Will they see the entry point of the air filled hypodermic?