Fear is Grey


The two young girls lying bound in the trunk could hear nothing, see nothing, to help them escape. They were cold and  terrified.

It was supposed to have been fun, going to a party with the two cool older guys who had picked them up. “Come with us, come on!” They never saw the third man behind them holding the syringe.  A prick, then nothing.

They should have listened. They should have stayed with a crowd of friends. Should never have gone with guys they didn’t know.

Too late for remorse. Too late.

The Dark

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Dark clouds gather above as darker evil took place below. The bodies had been found in the basement of the condo, tied back to back and mutilated beyond recognition. Whoever was responsible had been thorough in his work, leaving no trace of himself behind.

Detectives were combing the grounds, flashlights glowing in the gathering dark.

Upstairs on the fifth floor, a man watched. His mouth twitched in mirth at their stupidity. They’d already interviewed him, giving him the usual cop-speak and learning nothing.

He was much too smart for them.

More would die. They deserved it.

The Shed

PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Potter

 Old Jeb knew how to  build, but time had caused decay, and now the old shed was a haunt for any animal–or plant–that cared to work its way through the crevices.

Jeb watched in dismay as the woods surrounded and conquered his little haven. Once, it had been his hidey-hole; his shelter from the storms within his household as well as Nature’s  tantrums.  No one else had a key. No one else dared violate his sanctuary.

But now? Years had passed. He was alone. He was at peace. Maybe he would choose this place to die.


Surviving the Storm


Abbie fisted her mother’s tangled hair in one hand,  daddy’s shirtsleeve in the other.

“Why did the ‘nado come, Mommy?” she whispered.

“We don’t know, Sweetie.  Sometimes they just do. But we’ll be okay.”

Daddy hugged Mommy and Abbie very close, squeezing so that Abbie could hardly breathe. “We’re going to fix your bears and your dolly,”  Daddy whispered. “We’re going to clean them up and they’ll be just fine.”

Tears dripped down Mommy’s cheeks. Abbie wiped them away, letting go of Daddy’s shirt to hug Mommy’s neck.

“Don’t be scared, Mommy. It’s okay.”

More than a Fender-Bender

Friday Fictioneers:  The photo prompt, by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields:

The police called a tow truck for my crippled car.

They took me to the hospital. The impact damaged my pride more than it damaged my body, but they wanted to check me over.  I had a concussion and a bloody nose.  Nothing else.

The real injury, I feared, would be my husband’s wrath when he saw the damage to my brand new car.

He never let me see that, though. Instead, he just wrapped me up in his arms. I was pretty sure I felt him sobbing.

He denied it.

DISCLAIMER:  Because so many of you assumed this was a true story, or asked if it really happened, I hereby declare and proclaim that this is FICTION.  I promise.  It didn’t really happen.  At least, not to me 🙂

Old Yvette

Will you forgive me if post another one?  I have a better idea, and I really wanted to write it. I may take down my first effort, which I really don’t like very much 🙂


PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Every day,  in rusty black, Yvette hobbled to the square that held  her family’s old home.

Every day, she lowered her body to sit on a bench, folding her gnarled hands over the head of her cane. Every day,  she visualized the gardens and the birds that had lived there in such joy.

Every day,  she hated war and loss.

Every day.



The ghost on the bench sighed.  Of course, no one heard. She gazed at her tombstone, where the chiseled words had worn off and the stone tipped to one side.

Her eyes wandered to her beloved garden, and in memory she saw it as it had been two hundred years before. Clean, full of color and joy, scenting the air three seasons of the year and resting in the winter.

No one tended it now. All that remained were brittle branches and weed-choked walkways.

Rising from the bench, she floated above her tombstone, dissolving into nothing.

The Shoes

PHOTO PROMPT © Magaly Guerrero

She wanted, more than anything, to study art. She coveted the title Art Historian,  She loved beauty, mystery, romance, the vistas of a world she would never see for herself.  Art would take her away from her invalid chair and her dreams of dancing.

The only reminder of her lost gift was the pair of high-heeled dance shoes she refused to throw away.  How she had whirled, twirled, romped and stomped  through her routines, feeling as if nothing could stop her from flying away from earth’s gravity and into the vast universe.

If only. If only.


PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Cold pizza. Rich with cheese and herbs, the grease spotted the delivery box  and stained the granite counter underneath.

The wine bottle, left uncorked, was half full. Only one goblet, which indicated the person had been alone.

Bits and pieces, the flotsam and jetsam of life, littered the dresser top around the pizza. There weren’t, however, any real clues as to what had happened.  No indication of a fight in the hotel room.  A couple of shopping bags were still full. A brief case was unmolested.

Nothing explained the crumpled body on the sidewalk far below.


PHOTO PROMPT © Jellico’s Stationhouse

The bicycle had  been left unsecured and unguarded. “People should know better,”  thought Pete.

He leaned against the light pole that propped  the bike, looked at his watch, glanced around. He just looked like a guy waiting for someone.

Finally, he mounted the bike.  Again, he glanced around as if making sure the person he waited for wasn’t coming.  Checking traffic, he pedaled off with confidence.

“Home free!”  he thought, a smirk twisting his lips. “People are so stupid!”

The whoop-whoop of the siren gave him a jolt.

“Gotcha, Sneaky Pete!” The cop smirked, too.