Lyin’ Eyes

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Photo Credit: Eric Wicklund

I knew I was in trouble.

As soon as I walked in the door, Mom demanded to know where I had been. I didn’t want to tell her Jimmy and I stopped to have a coke at the corner store because that would lead to a range of questions about where I got the money and a series of more lies.

I told her had stayed after school, to help my teacher. I regretted the words as soon as they left my month.

Let’s go see Aunt May.

The old woman living at the end of Main Street wasn’t really my aunt. It was a title given her out of respect for her longevity. I never knew her true age, but her leathery gray skin screamed of ancientness.

As I said, I knew I was in trouble because Aunt May was the town lie detector. One look at you with those piercing green eyes and the secrets of your soul were exposed.

I didn’t need to think about my decision. I knew the facts would come out, one way or another. I saved us both a trip to the end of Main Street and told my mom everything.

 

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short 200-word story inspired by a photograph. This week’s photo is provided by Eric Wicklund.

Friday Fictioneers: The Agreement

Dalia anxiously waited for the call she feared would never come. Nearby, the detectives huddled in a circle. Were they talking about Steffen, she wondered, or just shooting the breeze. For 10 hours, they speculated as to why Steffen abandoned his car on the bridge after a minor accident. Dalia’s head pounded from the incessant questioning.

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PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

What did she know that she was not telling them, they demanded.

Tight in her hand, Dalia held the tattered reminder of their pledge; a binding agreement made when they first came to America: Protect Yourself. Say Nothing.

And she wouldn’t.

 

This story was inspired by Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers, a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. To join in and to read the other stories, take a look here

 

Friday Fictioneers – One Last Look

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Photo Credit Dale Rogerson

Eric turned to look at the old apartment building one last time. When the fire alarm sounded, the residents hesitated, believing this was another drill. Eric yelled ‘Fire!’ and that got them moving. Some lingered close to the front entrance. Unfortunate collateral damage, but nothing he could do. The mission was too important to give anyone warning. Continue reading

Friday Fictioneers: Blood Pact

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Photo by Sarah Potter

It started as a childish prank. Go to the old Miller house and enter through the sunroom. The wooden desk stood in the corner. Nick your finger with a knife, just enough for a few drops of blood, and trace your initials on the desktop. The blood pack guaranteed a carefree adolescence, or minimally, a date to the prom.

What they don’t tell you, however, is the pact binds you forever to an insatiable spirit. With each passing year, the demands grow greater. Breaking the pact was not an option.

He thought of this as he stalked his next victim.

 

This story was inspired by a photo prompt posted on Friday Fictioneers, a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less. Check out other great stories or submit your own at Friday Fictioneer’s June 9 2017

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction: The Last Move

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photo credit: A Mixed Bag

The Director held the phone in his hand and considered his next move. The events of the past few days unnerved him in ways he never thought possible. During his 25-year tenure with the agency, he had learned the secrets of the rich and powerful. He knew what men, and women, were capable of when push came to shove. But this man; he was ruthless. He would stop at nothing to salvage his legacy.

Do you really want to do this, Jimbo?

In the corner of his office was a chess board. As a boy, the Director mastered the game and in return learned one of life’s most valuable lessons: always look beyond the next move. He out-maneuvered his opponent so far. With this phone call, the game would be over.

His contact answered promptly and agreed to the Director’s request. He called his wife and told her the car would be there in 10 minutes, taking her to safety. Before he left, he looked at his office for the last time.

This is the right thing to do.

They arrested him as soon as he stepped through the door. He would go quietly.

Smiling, he thought to himself, check-mate.

 

Sunday Photo Fiction:The Devoted One

The Embrace

@c.e. ayr

She did not need to read the tattered letter in her hand. She knew the words by heart:

My dearest Daisy;

How I have missed you! Time away from you has been torture. All I want is to hear your voice and feel you in my arms. You will be glad to know that I have permission to come home. I arrive at the bus station at 4:00 pm on Friday. Counting the days until we meet again, I am faithfully yours….”

Daisy sits on the wooden bench nearest the doors, intently watching as passengers hurry to find those who wait for them. She notices a young couple eagerly embrace, holding on to the moment for as long as they can. Smiling, they walk away, hand in hand.

The old clock tower chimes four times It won’t be long now, she thinks. Any minute and I will see his face.

As shadows began to fall, Daisy realizes that her lover will not arrive today. As she has done hundreds of times before, Daisy picks up the small suitcase that holds all she owns and walks toward the homeless shelter, three blocks away. There is always next Friday.

 

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short 200-word story inspired by a photograph. This week’s photo is provided by c.e. ayr

Sunday Photo Fiction: Weedy Road

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A Mixed Bag

Every small town has a horror story. Ours was the house at the end of Weedy Road. Unsolved murders lend themselves to folklore and for us, the killer evolved into a gruesome figure; almost reptilian. It became a teenage rite of passage to visit the road on a moonless night, and so we went; me, Jack, and Harry. Jack drove his ’73 Impala, Harry sat shotgun, and I was in the back. The old Weedy house looked more like its name-sake than ever before.

We sat while the car idled.

“Turn the engine off, otherwise, it doesn’t count.” Harry knew all the rules.

Jack reluctantly moved his hand toward the ignition, paused, then turned the key.

The silence was earsplitting. No one dared breath.

I jumped out of my skin when Harry spoke.

“I knew it was a gag,” said Harry. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jack twisted the key to the right.

Nothing.

Our breathing intensified as Jack frantically turned the key. Miraculously, the engine started.

Gunning the accelerator, Jack reversed and raced toward town. Another tale for 1st hour on Monday.

Except for the part where I saw something standing in the middle of the road.

 

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short 200-word story inspired by a photograph. This week’s photo is provided by A Mixed Bag.