Amarah tore her eyes away from David’s face. Focus! She shook fantasy images out of her head. Under the lamplight they studied the crime scene photo’s for the hundredth time.
“We’re missing something.” David pondered.
“The victim was alone. Husband’s alibi is watertight.”
“From all those tissues and drinks, it looks like she was upset.”
“We know they argued.”
“Yeah, still..” Amarah stared at the photo. Her intuition poked at something. She picked up the photo of the body. No lipstick. “There’s lipstick on some of those cigarette butts.”
“Another woman was there that night. An unidentified woman.”
Wowee! I struggled with this week’s prompt. Wrote one story, deleted the whole thing. After repetitive attempts, this is the final piece. If it’s not up to scratch, I may have over-thought everything. What an awesome prompt, (courtesy of Yvette Prior) it really conjured up so many possibilities that it was difficult to settle on just one.
Andersen found mowing the lawn unexpectedly therapeutic. At first he loathed it. Now he found it strangely satisfying to see it cleanly cut. A car pulled up at the house opposite. A tall man emerged. Andersen smiled, waved at his neighbour. It had only been a few months but he knew him so well already.
He waited till he closed his front door. Then Andersen lit a cigarette, eyeing the plumbing van on the street.
Swat teams emerged in stealth mode from the van, surrounding his neighbour’s house.
Oh yes, Andersen loved the satisfaction of a job well done.
Grass to marijuana to drugs to human trafficking or other crime syndicates. That was my thought process for an undercover agent story 😉
Nancy loved pottering about with Mum. Today they were planting flowers. Or they would once Mum found her garden tools.
“It’s as if they crawl off on their own.” she muttered to herself digging through piles of junk in their garden shed.
“Maybe the gnomes came to borrow them.” mused Nancy.
Mum mumbled something about gnomes and arses.
Cinnamon sticks poked out off one shelf, catching Nancy’s eye.
“See! The gnomes replace what they borrow with cinnamon sticks.”
“Flip! so this is where I stuffed these bloody cinnamon sticks. Maybe I should check the spice cupboard for my garden tools.”
My very first instinct was to write some grisly murder / thriller. Images of leaves, dried twigs and wintry scenes has this effect on me. I pushed myself to find something different, stretch my creative muscles a bit. Get the rusty cogwheels turning. There’s a bundle of twigs on the makeshift shelving that look like cinnamon sticks. (Left on image). And I went with that!
Hope you enjoy the break from my dark side. Anyone who is a busy parent juggling work (housework or career or both), fitness habits, hobbies, child-rearing will know that feeling of confusion upon discovering misplaced items. And I doubt that Mum will find her tools in the spice cupboard. That would be too easy.
Write a story in 100 words or less, and join Friday Fictioneers. Hosted by our friend Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click the icon to read more flash fiction in different genres.
His question caught her off-guard. The room spun around her and she gripped the edges of the lectern to steady herself.
“Ms Silver, how would you explain the Hannah May incident?”
It was no secret that she had been Hannah’s life coach. A fact that tormented her. Buried guilt rose from past failures. Oversights.
It was she who had encouraged her to push past her fears, return to her love of sailing. She died in the storm of 2004. Neither sailboat nor her body was ever found.
Ms Silver found her voice, “Hannah May was brave enough to follow her dreams.”
Life coaches are amazingly positive people. And I’m sure they have their demons too. Ones they wrestle with and from which they find their own growth. Whatever the situation, it’s important to face fears that keep you from your dreams or the change you want to make in your life.
The human body is capable of amazing things. Contortion is one. Bending with extreme flexibility. Just like Jimmy was now, crumpled into a lobster trap. Except that John had to break Jimmy’s legs at the knees to get it to fit. His face was blank and slack. Nothing left of the shock that twisted his features looking down the barrel of John’s gun. Six bullets fired into his chest.
Now, pushing the trap off the boat into the water, John felt nothing of the cold shock that seeped into him when he found out Jimmy had betrayed him.
Brought back an old character from one of last year’s flash fiction, John the Baptist. Organised crime boss and ruthless with his enemies.
Click the icon to read more flash fiction by other amazing writers. It is amazing to see the different stories and genre’s that an image can prompt. I’ll be impressed if this image courtesy of Liz Young inspires any romance stories!
Her dress was a cornflour blue, the same colour as her eyes. The latest fashion in a princess line style, puffed sleeves and lace trim. Now half of it was covered in grime from the cramped dungeon she woke up in after the ball. Nine days ago. Once a day a meal was shoved through a flap in the door. Then the music would play. Was it Mozart or Bach? Drifting down to her dungeon, through the floors and the walls from somewhere above where her captor waited. If only she knew what they were waiting for.
What an inspiring picture of musical instruments for this week’s prompt, courtesy of Rochelle. Took me to a dark place in 19th century England it seems. Admittedly not my best. But hope you enjoyed it anyway.
As much as Madame Christie enjoyed Venice she was anxious to get going. “Whatever is the holdup, Christo?” she snapped at the receptionist.
“I am sorry Signora Christie, but we cannot check you out.”
“Orders from Investigatore Alfonsi.” Christo pointed at a gentleman in uniform, who spoke above the hum of agitated guests gathering in the lobby.
“Listen closely everybody! Last night a couple was murdered in their beds. Nobody is allowed to leave without being interviewed.”
He twirled the ends of his moustache. Madame Christie knew she had the perfect character for her next series of novels.
Unfortunately I have not been able to write for some time due to many upsets in seemingly every area of life. I’m keen to think of this phase as transformation and not the mess that it is. To create, one must first destroy. Applies to many things beyond cooking and other creative pursuits.
SO when I sat down to write this week’s flash fiction, I was pleasantly surprised to see my photo as the prompt. I suspect it was our group leader, Rochelle’s way of sending a smoke signal my way to get back to writing!
Can’t wait to read everyone’s flash fiction.
This was written for Friday Fictioneers, a weekly challenge to write a story in 100 words or less. Hosted by leading author, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Click the blue frog icon to read more flash fiction.
Flux23 dropped to her knees, panting on the rooftop of the skyscraper. In seconds she morphed from a suit-wearing white male into herself. Brown hair and pale skin. A blue scaly patch behind her ear the only tell-tale sign of what she was.
The city lights blurred in front of her. She felt woozy. That little girl caught her unawares, staring at her, then at her father lying in a pool of blood. She threw the gun into an air vent. They’ll catch up to her. She would run anyway. Her life as an assassin for Nation444 was over.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words of less. Thanks to Jill Wisoff for this week’s prompt!
Every week I intend to write comedy, and everything but comedy finds its way onto the post. This week, it is sci-fi. Shapeshifters. Loosely based on the X-men character, Mystique.
Click the blue frog to read more awesome flash fiction from other writers.
He gazed at the delicate line of her neck, tracing with his eyes along her collar-bone.
“Josh, are you listening?” Carrie cocked her head to one side, blue eyes sparkling, blonde hair flowing with the breeze.
“Huh? What were you saying?” He slipped his hand into his pocket.
“So you always come here?” she looked at the bubbling creek, and bare trees.
“It’s better in the spring.” He tried not to think of the other women.
She shivered. “It’s cold.”
He drew a blade from his pocket. Only the trees heard her screams, but they would never tell.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Thanks to Karen Rawson for this week’s prompt which inspired me to write my thriller-date-gone-horribly-wrong flash fiction.