When All is Done; Nothing Left to Fight

 

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Leandro had painted his last. He awaited his graduation like all the others; school, college, and marriages; his ultimate release. He lifted a buttock and farted. The adults gasped, the children giggled. “Father!” screamed Millie, the ruddiness of her embarrassment matching his amusement. He beamed, “It’s about as rebellious as this old body will allow me nowadays.”

“These people are here for you father, show some respect.

“They’re not coming with me, so take offence who wants.”

As though to a dear friend who understood, Leandro smiled at a clock ticking its unsympathetic toll, folded his arms and closed his eyes.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

 

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The Chicken Farmer and the Mad Vegan

 

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

I wouldn’t break while there was still blood in my cheeks and he, outside the cage, with the pallor of dried lentils but…
“Now you get to appreciate the overcrowded conditions in one of your stinking cages,” he menaced.
‘Overcrowded?’ What could he mean?
Suddenly, he produced my wife and three sobbing children from outside the room, violently prodding them toward the cage.
“Not my children,” I pleaded; “they’re innocent of whatever you hold me responsible for.”
“The hens are innocent; you kill them after six weeks.” His cackle seared like lightning.
“Muse on that. You have six weeks.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

A Leg up the Ladder

 

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

A little bit of whimsy this week.

“You’re not trying hard for promotion are you PC Dilley?”
“Well I…”
“What’s the major piece of evidence in this case?”
“A prosthetic leg was left behind, sir.”
“And what do all the suspects you’ve trooped in have in common?”
“Two legs, sir.”
“Exactly, they’ve all got two legs. We hardly need strip searches to determine that.”
“No sir. I just thought maybe the leg was a red herring.”
“You mean planted to confuse us?”
“Yes sir.”
“And consequently this lot are here because…?”
“They all work in the prosthetic limbs factory, sir.”
“My God, Dilley, you’ll make Sergeant yet.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

 

The Lost Light

 

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The room’s acoustics resonated perfectly; the sparkling new instruments readied for action arranged with OCD precision. Gone were the days of starving for his music and making do. His fingers danced along the frets of a guitar, spewing out a few of his time worn riffs.
‘I’ll lay down the guitar part first; it’ll be like the old days.’
He hummed and strummed his signature tune. Worrying the tuning keys and hazily turning knobs, he smeared a tear across his cheek.
He was waiting for something to come but his mind was a museum, important exhibits but nothing new within.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Hidden

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria

Our old barge nudged the quay.
“Tie us up!” Papa shouted.
I held the rope as though it were something peculiar. ‘Do everything normally,’ Papa had said. Suddenly, I didn’t know what that was but then we’d never hidden an allied airman before.
My eyes tracked across the soldiers and the policeman waiting to inspect the boat.
“You hot?” barked the officer.
“Been cooking breakfast,” Papa interjected, drawing calmly on his pipe.
The officer’s eyes flicked from me to the cabin door; trickling sweat stung my eyes.
“Going north?” he asked, adding impassively, “Might be best to unload before Amsterdam.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Born Free but Chained to Obligation

I have been a little self indulgent this week. This is an adapted extract from my recently completed novel about a tramp, nicknamed Wordsworth for his quirky,  homespun philosophy and his penchant for reciting poetry in the street. He  guards his freedom jealously but ends up joining forces with a road sweeper to solve a crime of abuse and exploitation.

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT submitted by Courtney Wright. © Photographer prefers to remain anonymous.

It’s hard to determine where the dirty clothes finish and Wordsworth himself begins. Filthy dreadlocks hang from beneath his beanie and his face resembles an unkempt garden, hair sprouting wherever a follicle can get a foothold. His worn boots are held together by string and tape.
I’d seen him about town but was as guilty as the next person of paying him no heed. I offered a pair of my old boots.
“I take those and you’ll start asking things of me. Wordsworth is beholden to no man.”
“But they’re just a pair…”
“No,” he interrupted me, “They’re a contract.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

Now or Never

 

 

 

 

 

PHOTO PROMPT ©Jill Wisoff

Laura stared at the city lights imagining the party people guzzling champagne and caviar. She was of this city too; they were the lights of her youth’s dreams, so why was she serving stolid stew of the cheapest cuts every night?
“Buck,” she called to a man with a helping of her stew hanging from his moustache, “Is this it then?”
Buck was nonplussed, “Good food, good company. What more is there?”
‘Hell!’ she thought. She flipped the closed sign round on the door. “Lock up when you’re finished.”
“Where you going?”
“To find company who know how to eat.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.