Friday Fictioneers: Painting The Driveway

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields who provides us with a photo prompt. Each week’s challenge is to write a 100-word story inspired by the photo. Click here to play along or just read more stories.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Painting The Driveway

He came to paint the house but ended up painting the driveway. I caught a glimpse of his legs through the window moments before he plummeted to his death.

I knew who he was the moment I saw his feet. It was him. He was here to murder me. I’ve been waiting for this, preparing. It was him or me.

It turned out, he was not an android assassin sent from the future to kill me… this time. The future will never stop trying to kill me. They’re jealous of my candy corn. They want to take my candy corn!

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My first story was dark and depressing. Where’s the fiction in that these days? I wanted to do what I do best, just go off the deep end, over the top absurd.

Friday Fictioneers: Prey

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields who provides us with a photo prompt. Each week’s challenge is to write a 100-word story inspired by the photo. Click here to play along.

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields

Prey

In the minutes before the blood spray coated the hats, he watched, silently. He could see her through the hat rack, talking, laughing. She was intensely unaware of him.

His heart pounded. His chest tightened. His breath thickened. Beads of sweat dripped down his face.

He dabbed his forehead, took a deep breath.

At that moment, everyone and everything disappeared. His focus was firmly fixed on her.

She was elegant, intoxicating, enchanting. So enchanting, in fact, that he didn’t notice the assassin creep up behind him, or hear the shot, or feel the bullet crack the back of his cranium.

Friday Fictioneers: Tunnel Vision

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields who provides us with a photo prompt. Each week’s challenge is to write a 100-word story inspired by the photo.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dawn Miller

Tunnel Vision

Tunnel vision was one of the side effects of time travel.

Metaphorically, it was good to focus on my task.

Literally, it could be dangerous.

My target was Dr. Leonard Strauss, a disgruntled biochemist who would soon unleash history’s most deadly chemical attack.

I found him as he was exiting his car in front of a restaurant. I drew my gun. He lunged to the left. I fired twice.

I ducked into an alley and activated my return.

I immediately searched Dr. Leonard Strauss, author of multiple terrorist attacks, which were inspired by the murder of his wife and daughter.

Friday Fictioneers: Two Pack: Faded Pictures

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields who provides us with a photo prompt. Each week’s challenge is to write a 100-word story inspired by the photo.

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

I wrote two today. One, the second one, is very disturbing. I couldn’t post it alone. I needed a buffer. I’ve written and posted disturbing things, but this is beyond anything I’ve written or posted. The fact that it’s based on something that happens in reality, albeit a reality most of us thankfully never see, makes it… I don’t have a word. Disturbing? Sick? Depraved? Appalling? Atrocity? Unimaginable? It’s beyond what my mind will accept as reality. It’s unthinkable. It’s not something we want to think about, but it happens. The fact that it happens proves that humanity’s potential for depravity knows no bounds. Some American presidents, at least one, even referred to an individual known to partake in these atrocities as a “terrific guy.” Why did my mind go there? I’ve seen documentaries, some I couldn’t finish, and other stories relating to this recently. Why did I write it in the first person? I think it made it more real. I wanted the reader to look through his eyes, for it to unfold as he sees it. I think it makes it more powerful. I hope so. If the first one bothers you, don’t read the second. I think my introductory disclaimer is longer than both stories combined.

Another Picture

The pictures were piling up on my desk. The questions piled up just as fast. The clues… The clues were nonexistent.

There seemed to be no pattern other than they were young women, even girls. From prostitutes to socialites, they were all open game to him. He didn’t seem to care about skin tone, ethnicity, or background.

This case chewed up and spat out almost as many detectives as there were pictures. They threw themselves all in until they burned out like the cigarettes that piled up in their ashtrays.

Another picture. Another girl. She was… not just another girl.

The Great American Myth

Pictures. There were so many pictures. Young girls. Some taken from their families. Some fleeing bad situations. Some coming to America to chase the great American myth.

Hispanic, Asian, Russian, Middle Eastern… They were all represented, even American runaways. Blondes, redheads… They were there, too. Their ages spanned from 12 to early twenties.

They were no longer human. They were pictures. They were chattel to be sold to the highest bidder.

One stood out from the rest. There was something about her that caught my attention. She was blonde with blue eyes, about 13.

“This one. I’ll take this one.”

#FFFC: PT-3,000

This is a new one for me. This is Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #23. I got in a little late. It’s better late than later. I like challenges and the picture that went along with this one. It took me somewhere dark.

Courtesy Johannes Plenio@pexels.com

PT-3,000

The sun peeking through the trees caught his attention. It was going into hiding as he made his way in. He was breathing heavily and sweating. He was almost done. A couple more shovels full and whew, done. Only half an hour until he had to be to work. Sleep was overrated. He was still too amped up to sleep, anyway. He had a great night, and the bodies were buried.

He thanked God for the personal teleporter. A night like last would not have been possible without the PT-3,000. If someone saw him walking out of the woods dirty and sweaty with his tools, it could raise some questions. He still had to go home and shower before work. There’s no way he could do that and be to work on time if he had to do something barbaric like drive. The thought made him chuckle. Nobody had driven for years.

He teleported home, showered, synthesized some coffee and made it to work with three minutes to spare. He gave himself an adrenaline injection and was ready to go for the day.

No one suspected a thing. They never did. One would have to be quite dull, indeed, mentally speaking, to get caught doing a crime since the advent of the PT-3,000. If it weren’t for the thrill of the kill, murder would actually be pretty boring.

It finally happened. He slipped up. He got careless. It was too many nights with too little sleep. Coffee and adrenaline injections could only carry one so far.

It didn’t matter. When the cops came knocking, he simply transported out of there. That night, he watched the sunset from a mountain in Fiji. He laughed a shrill cackle of a laugh.

His laughter was muted by the padded walls of his room.

Flash Fiction: Long Live The King

This was written for Carrot Ranch’s Flash Fiction Challenge. Each week’s challenge is to write to a prompt in exactly 99 words. This week’s prompt is eminence.

Long Live The King

His rise to eminence was halted by my hand. He wasn’t hard to find. Everybody in town knew where he hung out.

I pulled out the gun I took from dad’s nightstand and pointed it at him.

“Whoa! What are gonna do with that, little man?”

“I’m gonna be 10 next month.”

“All right, big man. Put it down before you hurt somebody.”

He reached for it, and I pulled the trigger. The kick knocked me down. The bullet knocked him down.

He was the only person I ever killed. My sister was the last his drugs would kill.

Flash Fiction: Chiseled

This was written for Carrot Ranch’s Flash Fiction Challenge. Each week’s challenge is to write to a prompt in exactly 99 words. This week we’re writing stories involving a chisel or something being chiseled.

Chiseled

Clarice stood before Leo in her black negligee. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Yeah, I just need to add some finishing touches.”

Two years later, Clarice had enough of Leo’s sculptured women being prioritized over her. She would leave him, but the prenup assured she couldn’t continue living the lavish lifestyle to which she had become accustomed.

One night, Clarice returned from a trip to Paris to find Leo in his studio lying in a pool of blood with his chisel protruding from the back of his head. She had to let her smile dissipate before calling the police.