for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

She looked on from a distance, dressed to blend with the dismal surroundings.

A column of grieving mourners snaked its way through the graveyard.  As the procession came to a halt, the ornate coffin was lowered to the ground and a priest muttered a few comforting words.  Two children clung to their expressionless mother.  Some dabbed their eyes, most just stood and stared. 

Still, she stood and watched.

Paul Peters had been the perfect father and a loving husband.  Why would he take his own life?  Nobody understood. 

But she did. 

They had no idea he’d led a double life.  A life with someone else.  He’d hidden it from both parties until she uncovered his duplicitous ways.  

He was discovered in the wood, suspended from a tree, head hung in shame.  In his pocket, a note.  Sorry, it said.  But it wasn’t suicided at all.  No, it was a well-executed plan.

She watched as the mourners wandered away then she removed her sunglasses.  Her finger hovered above the screen of her mobile.  As the wife approached the black limo she tapped the glass.

‘DCI Jones to all units’ she shouted.  ‘Arrest Sally Peters for murder and Molly Jones for conspiracy to commit murder’.

 

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting and Colby Renee for the photo.

 

Click below to see what others have written

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt # 128

 

*Not certain you’ll get this, but here goes anyway!

 

 

 

Never have I met two more different twins. 

One a mouse, the other a lioness.

He, ponderous, dull, drab and a whisperer.

She,  outgoing, flamboyant, colourful and aurora!

 

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for Friday Fictioneers

 

To you, it’s just a street of shops. I watch as you arrive empty-handed then leave with bulging bags.

To me, it’s home, or it will be soon when the shutters rattle down and the bright lights fade.

I did okay today.  Enough for a burger.  I’ll spend as long as I can in McDonald’s before settling down for the night in my cosy shop doorway.  It’s damp but not too cold.

It’s different here at night.  Rats roam around.  Foxes and cats too.  I’ve more in common with them than with you. 

Sleep well tonight. Maybe I will, maybe not. 

 

 

Thanks to Rochelle both hosting and supplying the photograph.

 

Prod the frog to see what others have come up with!

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

Beggarly folk sought refuge there at night.  But the dilapidated house held a secret, for beneath the floor lay the lifeless body of Molly McQuin.

In The Pitcher Inn, they were singing, laughing and gambling when suddenly the door crashed open. Sergeant Forester slammed his baton on a table and the bar fell silent.  Constable Solomon stood a pace behind.

“Last night Molly McQuin was bludgeoned to death in the alley behind this very hostelry.  Her shoe and blood were discovered there. For sure, somebody witnessed this dastardly crime.  Did you sir?”

“Nay Sergeant”

“Or thee?”

“No”.

“Landlord, what of you?”

“I did not Sergeant”. 

Constable Solomon stared menacingly at Patrick Postlethwaite who placed his flagon for fear his shaking hands might spill his ale, for ’twas he who’d witnessed the Copper battering poor Molly McQuin to death then dragging her away. 

“Tell and you’ll be next” the Constable had forewarned him.

But rumours spread as rumours do and fearing he’d been found out, Constable Solomon fled.

One year later Patrick Postlethwaite saw a down-and-out begging for bread and beer.  Despite his tattered clothes, grimy face and unkempt hair he looked vaguely familiar. The ragamuffin drew back his coat a touch to reveal a glinting steel blade.  

Patrick Postlethwaite dropped a shilling at his side then scurried away.

 

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Thanks to Donna for hosting. The photo is courtesy of David Meredith.

 

for the  Saturday Six Word Story Prompt

 

 

 

 

Thank you, Shweta Suresh, for hosting this unique challenge!

 

 

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt  # 127 where the given word is Replace and the word allowance, 89.

 

 

It was a beautiful day.  The sun smiled at me.  Trees bowed and birds tweeted twello.  I waved at a flag and it waved back. 

Unfortunately, I tripped on a dancing dandelion and my hat flew off.  I asked a passing gust of wind to bring it back.  Blow that it said and kept going.  My shadow tried catching it but sadly he slithered down a drain.

I miss my shadow, we had so much in common.   He was always by my side.  How will I ever replace him?

 

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for Friday Fictioneers

 

 

 

That fellow would have us believe a machine will one day rival the artist’s palette and brush.

He made me sit perfectly still.  He stood behind a tree legged contraption, flung a sheet over his head and bent down.  In one hand he held aloft a device on a stick.  All of a sudden the wretched thing flashed brightly and billowed smoke into the air.   I was near blinded and almost choked.  I’m to return tomorrow to view the result of his endeavour.

No, he is wrong.  Next, they’ll suggest that machines will one day replace pen and ink.

Utter balderdash!

 

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Ted Strutz for the picture.

 

Click on the frog to see what others have come up with

for Wordless Wednesday

 

 

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*the original picture which is unedited was taken from my window!

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for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

 

I’d planned it meticulously.  Every minutest detail. 

My case contained everything I needed.  I’d checked and double-checked.  The drive to the airport went smoothly and I found a parking space close to the exit.

I checked my watch.  Two hours, thirty-three minutes to go.  Perfect.

The terminal was packed.  People queued, sat, chatted and dozed.  No one seemed to notice me.

At the check-in, I answered the usual questions.  Did I pack it?  Yes.  Have you left it unattended?  No.  Everything was going to plan.

One hour four minutes to go.

Departures, that way.

I removed my belt and shoes as the snaking queue shuffled forward.  I dropped some things into a grey tray.  Laptop, watch. Loose change.  A stone-faced security lady studied the monitor.  No problem.  So far so good.

I nervously headed for the scanner.  I stepped forward. It bleeped, loudly.  Please, no.  Legs apart, arms splayed.  They just found my keys.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

Forty-three minutes to go. 

In the crowded departure lounge, everyone looked calm.

Three minutes to go, two, one.  Ten seconds, nine…

As I pressed the button on my watch, it happened.   Something no one expected.

 

They announced the plane was leaving on time!

 

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting and to Barb Crews for the photo.

 

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Haven. 

 

 

Ten years ago, a vicious storm chased some fishing boats back to their haven.

All but one.

Every day since she’s watched the fishermen dock.  She’s certain he’ll return.  One day.  Soon.