STRIKE - a 100 word story

STRIKE

I promised her she’d regret leaving me, so when I’d collected enough pills I dissolved them in my morning coffee. Bloody doctors and a stomach-pump put paid to that plan.

I faint at the sight of blood, so knives are out of the question, I’ve no idea where to buy a gun, and the gates to the canal towpath were locked.

So here I am on this railway bridge, sitting with my legs dangling over the edge, waiting for a train, and I’ve just remembered the drivers’ strike. Who would have thought it would be so flaming difficult to commit suicide?

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Another story prompted by a photograph on Rochelle's blog  https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ , from whence you can follow the link to read how other Friday Fictioneers interpreted  C E Ayr's photo.

WHO DARES? a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers

WHO DARES?

Twice daily the guard from this end marches across for a shared smoke, the boom of his boots reminding us how deep the ravine is. Sometimes, while his back is turned, daring lads run on tiptoe to spray graffiti, their parents unwilling to forbid these small tastes of freedom.

But this morning the unthinkable happened – both guards disappeared. After an hour, two lads ventured across, and vanished without a sound. No yells, no shots, just a deathly silence. Eventually their fathers went looking, and they haven’t returned either.

We’ve been waiting all day. We don’t know what to do.

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After several attempts to copy the photo prompt, I believe I've managed it. I hope you can see the picture of an enclosed wooden bridge, otherwise my story won't make much sense! Thanks to https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers - follow the link from her blog to read other 100 word stories.

ISLAND PICNIC - a 100 word story

ISLAND PICNIC

When Tom was young his parents used to take him over the reed-bed to picnic in the summer-house.

“Walk quietly,” his father would warn, “Don’t wake the troll,” and Tom would tiptoe across in delighted terror.

Later, Tom played the troll game with his own children, and even his worldly-wise grandchildren trod softly over the bridge.

One afternoon, at an island picnic, Tom collapsed. His sons raced homewards carrying him, their footsteps loud on the bridge, and they were halfway across when a massive arm reached up and snatched the body.

 “It’s what Tom would have wanted,” they said at his coffin-less wake.

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Firstly I am proud to tell you that I have had a poem accepted for World Poetry Day, which you can read under the 'Melting Pot' tab on Liz Brownlee's blog at:  https://messagepoemstotheplanet.wordpress.com/
Secondly I would like to say 'Welcome' to another two followers who have appeared out of the blue - thank you for your interest in my blog!

And thirdly, this week's photo was taken by Adam Ickes. I remember the photo, so presumably I have written a story about it before, but I can't remember when or what, so here's a new one! The prompt was posted for Friday Fictioneers on Rochelle's blog  https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/  To read other stories, follow the Blue Frog trail from there.

BLUEBELLS and a 100 word story

I have spent the past two weeks in England visiting family. I won't bore you with the details except to say that roughly 60 people attended my granddaughter's christening, and about two-thirds of those were related to the baby!

Spring in England is glorious, and especially so in Sussex and the South Downs. One lovely morning I went with my two daughters, their husbands and the baby to admire the bluebells around Ditchling Pond, and this photograph prompted my first 100 word story of the month.

TROLL

 They peered over the rail, trying to locate the source of the sound.

“I told you to tiptoe across,” Mandy scolded, “Now you’ve woken it up.”

“Nonsense - that was only a frog.” Alan raised a chauvinistic eyebrow at Jon and they stamped their feet defiantly.

“Stop it!” Debs pleaded, “I’ve just got her to sleep,” but it was too late. As Millie began to whimper, Debs wheeled the buggy away towards the bluebell field. Mandy treated the lads to a withering glance and followed her sister.

“Women’s hormones,” Jon scoffed, just as a huge hairy hand grabbed his ankle.