PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Tornados rarely formed during the hot Oklahoma summer, but the still, humid air signaled a coming storm. Joe stood on his porch, watching. Hearing footsteps, he turned and saw a man standing a few feet away, a baseball bat in hand.
“Jesus Boone, you scared the shit out of me. What’s up with the….”
The bat connected with Joe’s head before he could finish the sentence. Toppling off the porch, Joe landed in the dirt, blood pooling in the dead grass. As thunder clapped, Boone raced toward the road.
Standing in the shadows of the front door, a small figure watched everything.
This story was inspired by Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneer’s . Thanks to Rochelle for providing this week’s photo.
Photo Prompt by Al Forbes
After months of secret negotiations, we reached an agreement. The information I held was so top-secret that the only logical place for exchange was in plain sight. Concerned for my own safety, I insisted on a place public and what’s more public than the London Eye. I arrived early, suspicious of a set-up. I may just be a reporter but I’ve read enough crime fiction to know that ‘come alone’ is just a suggestion. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, I entered the glass pod as it slowly inched its way above the London skyline. My contact stood next to the window railing. The pink flamingo tie gave him away. I moved next to him and we exchanged pleasantries, as tourists do. Then came the fun part. I reached inside my jacket for the envelop. Proof that could destroy democracy. My hands shook and the coolness on my brow came from sweat.
Crime novels don’t lie. I felt the sharp stab at my left side, producing a slight dampness near my ribcage. To my right, pink flamingo tie whispered, “You’re coming with us.”
I looked through the glass at London below, knowing it would be for the last time.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short, 200-word story inspired by a photograph. Many thanks go to Al Forbes for supplying this week’s photo.
When Edison arrived, there was a glass sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. A small, clear glass filled with a clear liquid that looked like water. How very odd, thought Edison. The room had been vacant for over a year; yet there it was, a clean glass with water that looked like it had come from a Fiji bottle. Edison glanced around the room. Dust covered everything: the pine wood floor, the cheap coffee table. Dust even muted the colors of the floral couch and coated the window blinds. But no finger prints or foot prints. Wouldn’t you think that whoever left that glass of water would have left some sort of prints?
The glass bothered Edison. According to the landlord, the last tenants left just before Christmas. In a hurry. That’s when the City shut off the utilities, so where did the water come from?
Edison took inventory. A deserted, dusty room with no fingerprints or foot marks. A clean glass of water that came from nowhere. And a three-day old corpse laying on the bed.
Turning to the officers on the scene, Detective Edison asks, “Does anyone else find this strange?”
In response to Sunday Photo Fiction February-26th-2017
Image credit: A Mixed Bag