PHOTO PROMPT © Nick Allen

Even after the investigation was over, I left the crime scene tape up in the shed. It was mine now: the house, the land, his shed.

I went in there sometimes; stood in the greasy dark, smelling the dried blood, the ancient fear, imagining the screams of his victims. And when I got used to the light, I’d see his still-intact oil can collection, and the outlines of his implements of torture on the now-empty pegboard wall. Sharp shapes; so many.

I’d look at them and wonder…would the police give them back?

And what would I do if they did?

—

100 words

This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this party and thanks to Nick Allen for this week’s photo. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson (Many thanks for the gracious loan of your photo. 😉

This year’s river ain’t no ankle wetter,
no minnow chaser,
no roll up your pant legs for a sunny Sunday wade.

This year’s river ain’t no trout fisher,
No flat-stone skipper,
no Sunday supper-dinner all strung up on a string.

This year’s river ain’t no parasol spinner,
no baptizing sinner,
no check-blanket picnic in the shade.

No, this year’s river is a bridge-out blocker, a gully road washer, a sweep you off the banks, because—

This year’s river is a baby-child taker, a widow-man maker, a trade-your-everything for mud, because—

This year’s river is a flood.

—
96 words (if you forgive liberal hyphenation-for-effect)
104 words (if you do not)

This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Dale Rogerson. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Connie Gayer

“What does Google say?”

He flattened the old coin against his palm and curled his fingers around it, not wanting to say. Not wanting her to get another look at the laurel-wreathed profile on one side, or the cryptic lettering on other. “It’s probably just a kiddie coin.”

“Were there any more of them?”

“No,” he said.

This time it wasn’t a lie. After all, he had no way of knowing if the hard clunk his shovel made was not  just a garden rock. His heart raced the possibilities. “So how soon will you be leaving for your mum’s?”

—

99 words

This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting this prompt and thanks to Connie Gayer for this week’s photo. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

The tires crunched as I pulled to the shoulder and parked. How had I never seen them before? I opened the car door.

The ancient stairs were covered in a peeling scale of fallen leaves. Those same leaves that had always hidden the stairs in all the summers of driving by.

What was it about the sight that made my heart go untethered in my chest? What was it about them that spilled hope and fear like a drug in my blood?

They waited.

What would happen if I climbed them? And if I never did, would I always wonder?

—

100 words

What a delight to find my photo on Fictioneers this morning! Thanks for using it Rochelle. I can’t wait to see where all the Fictioneers go with it.

I don’t know if mine is a story, or just what actually goes through my mind every time I walk by this spot. To date, the stairs remain unclimbed. But the place lives large in my mind as a personal metaphor.

If you’d like to take part in the Friday Fictioneers weekly 100-word challenge, click here. To read other stories inspired by the prompt, go here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Yarnspinnerr

Ryan pushed through the hedges to the porch on the back of the house where Pop used to sit, staring out at the lake, his binoculars beside him on the wrought iron table.

“Wow, he really let the old place go, didn’t he?”

“He’s been sick, Ryan. You’d know that if you ever came by.”

He ran a hand along the peeling paint, then brushed the flakes on his leg. “So. What do you think we can get for this place?”

“You mean sell it? We practically grew up here.”

He snorted, yanking at a vine. “All the more reason.”

—

100 words

This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to author Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting. This week’s photo courtesy Yarnspinner. To read more stories or to submit your own, click here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Henry hated these things. He hated the small talk and the choking necktie and the hearty handshakes as he milled about the crowd. But it was good for the Foundation, which was why he came.

Between the buffet and the bar stood a woman like a Michelin star confection. She smiled and walked over, one hand extended. “I do declare,” she said, each word basted in gumbo. “You’re Henry Hall. I admire your work.”

Her hand was as silky as a summer nightgown. “Thank you,” he said, voice husky.

“What brings you out to our gala?”

“I love these things.”

—

100 words.

This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle for hosting this party and thanks to Dale Rogerson for this week’s photo. To see more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria

“She’s doing it again,” he said.

I went to the kitchen window to see. Katie had taken over Gran’s old patio set for her ‘talk parties’, as she called them. She’d snatch fruit from the fridge drawer, and put out cups and plates. “Who’s she talking to, you think?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Gran, I suppose. I know she misses her. But sometimes she says other names. Does the name ‘Annamarie’ mean anything to you?”

I felt myself go pale. “I think it’s time we talk to someone,” I said.

“A counselor?”

“No, a psychic.”

—

98 words. This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the gracious and talented Rochelle. This week’s photo copyright Fatima Fakier Deria. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, or to submit your own, click here.

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

“He’s coming for you,” Tammy whispered. She fell back on the bed, giggling.

Linda got up from her own twin bed and padded to the window. She lifted one corner of the blind.

He was halfway up the block, heading toward the club, just like he did every day this week. Her eyes traced the swells of his sculpted arms. “They say he’s going to fight this weekend.”

Ma would’ve said he was no kind of man for her, but she was one to talk. No, Linda was getting out of this overcrowded flat, and soon. “I’m going downstairs,” she said.

—

100 words

This has been an edition of Friday Fietioneers. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting this party and to J. Hardy Carroll for this week’s photo.

To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

The flowers were always there on his grave. Every year on Memorial Day, and on his birthday too. Tiger lilies, with great curling petals as ginger as his hair.

New graves are marked by holidays, bearing ribbons, frames, and wreaths. But as the years go by, the holidays go forgotten.

Each year, his grave saw fewer flowers, as those who remembered passed on, each to their own grave. Until the only flowers left were hers. And when she died, the last petal fell, to be caught by the wind. Ginger as the hair that no one remembered.

—

97 words

I may have watched Coco one too many times.

This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the talented and generous Rochelle Wis0ff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Marie Gail Stratford. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

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