Photo prompt by
“Robbie I’m scared” Rebecca whined.
The cryptic patterns of the hillside seemed to shift in our dehydration. As if they were living, writhing like tentacles.
“Calm down babe,” I cooed. “It’s just weathering on the sandstone.”
I looked back at our wreaked minivan. It was blurred in the heat haze on the horizon.
“It looks so
It’s all in your head!” I shouted.
I wasn’t entirely sure though.
The squirming dune to our left was non-relenting. A burst of wind howled through it’s winding creases. I grabbed Rebecca by the hand.
“It’s not real, but walk faster.” I whispered.
This story was written as part of Friday Fictioneers. Every week there is a prompt that is accompanied by story 100 words or less!
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Photo prompt courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
When I was fourteen years old they finished construction of the Bay street bridge. It connected the north and south sides of Mindenville.
I had many fond memories crossing that bridge to see Betty, my girlfriend since middle school. She lived on the south side of town.
Its funny how fast things fall apart.
Heroin hit Mindenville hard in 1994. Soon after Betty stopped going to school. More often than not, I would find her under that bridge.
When she died I left Mindenville.
I pass through sometimes on business.
I always spit out the window when I cross the bridge.
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Photo prompt courtesy of Roger Bultot
What separates museum curators from the exhibits?
I ask myself that every day as I clock in.
We’re both stuck in this place for people to gawk at.
The only difference is that I am only here a few hours out of the day.
I get to taste the outside world before voluntarily heading back to my prison.
They stay here forever, oblivious to the outside.
Often I am jealous of them, because they can’t look through the skylight at the world they are missing.
When we die, I hope that there is no afterlife.
I’d rather be an exhibit.
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Photo courtesy of Sandra Crook
Sasha fingered through her collection of driftwood, shells and carbonate rocks. With sudden anger, she swept the treasures off the table with a swift arm. They cracked and shattered on the floor.
I watched from the open doorway as she collapsed onto her knees and wept.
Since she was a girl, she saw magic in the world. It was hiding on the cusp of the Pacific.
Last night she had gone out to watch turtles hatch on the beach.
Last night she was pulled off the sand and into a stranger’s truck.
I could tell that the magic was gone.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers- Check out more takes on the photo prompt with the link below!
Photo courtesy of
Fat raindrops pattered against the windowpane. Wind howled as it slammed against the front door. A storm, finally.
For the third time today, I polished the floors. I chuckled because they would only get muddy when people came to check in.
I brewed a fresh pot of coffee. If guests came in seeking refuge from the weather, they would want something warm to drink.
I checked that the bar in the lounge was stocked. Spirits are a must.
Then I sat at reception. Waiting. They would come sooner or later.
To save me from the loneliness of this damned hotel.
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Photo prompt courtesy of
I had never thought of my father as crazy, but since the divorce he had loosened his grip on his mind.
I recall driving to his house in mid-July. I got in late and let myself in though the back. While I walked I noticed hundreds of umbrellas suspended above his patio.
I wondered if he was expecting rain.
The following morning, I noticed my father sitting outside.
The sun filtered through the colored umbrellas and cast a flurry of vibrant colors below. He saw me standing in the open doorway and grinned.
“I found the end of the rainbow.”
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Photo prompt courtesy of
J Hardy Carroll
The clock had taunted me for weeks. I drove by the house every night for merely a glimpse.
Tonight I had decided to make it mine.
The door was unlocked, it creaked mercilessly as it opened.
I walked to the parlor where the clock stood grandly overlooking the room. The moonlight brushed its ornate design. When the minute hand of the clock hit twelve, a deep bell chimed.
While I stood there in awe, the lights flipped on.
A woman froze with her finger still on the switch.
We made eye contact.
She didn’t scream loud enough to save her.
For the sequel please refer to my previous Friday Fictioneers post-
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