THE BURGER VAN - a story in a hundred words

THE BURGER VAN

Music was so unlikely in that dingy street that the night ladies paused in their negotiations to gather round the hatch.

Dale served everyone burgers and coffee, each burger-wrap and coffee-cup printed with a girl’s face.

“My daughter,” he explained.

They curled their lips. “What did you do to hurt her?”

He looked beyond them at the towers of wealth. “I turned my back when she needed me most. If you meet her, ask her to come home.”

He drove away, and the wind blew discarded cups into a corner where a ragged bundle huddled unseen.

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I can't get excited about cities - nasty noisy rushing places that hurt my soul - so this week's flash fiction was bound to be down-beat. Thanks to https://rochellewisoff.com/ for posting the picture prompt taken by another Wisoff - read Rochelle's blog for the full story, and follow the link from there to read others.

I have been busy working on the latest draft of Wolf Pack, the next book in my series. If you haven't read Book One yet, the link to A Volcanic Race is at the top of this page.

COFFEE, ONE SUGAR - a one hundred word story

COFFEE, ONE SUGAR

He was huddled in the doorway with a dog sharing his sleeping-bag, his hair spiked with frost. Alice put her latte down beside his blue nose and hurried on, too embarrassed to linger.

The next day she put the coffee into the man’s hands, and when his icy fingers touched hers Alice blurted out, “How do you cope?”

He hugged his dog. “We keep each other warm.”

“What else can I bring you?”

“A hat would be welcome.” He raised the coffee and surprised her with a broad grin. “And less sugar – it’s bad for the dog.”

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I tried to write a different story today but this one forced its way through! Last week I turned a fleece blanket from an aeroplane 'comfort kit' into several warm hats for a homeless charity - they were so easy to make, and I have more than enough blankets. Perhaps you could do the same in your neck of the woods this winter?

Thanks to Bjorn Rudberg - who else could it be? - for the photo prompt, and to https://rochellewisoff.com/  for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

Great excitement this morning! I received an email from Amazon telling me my first royalty payment will be sent soon! I must admit I wasn't expecting one yet - sales of my book A Volcanic Race have been disappointingly slow - and I won't be retiring on the proceeds or even covering expenses, but it's a first for me :) 
On that positive note, I must thank every one of you for taking the time to read my stories and hope that you continue to do so in 2018. HAPPY CHRISTMAS!!!!

NIGHT BUS - a 100 word mystery

NIGHT BUS

Since Dave vanished weeks ago George was the only one left and he’d already been beaten up twice – sleeping alone was dangerous.

It was past midnight when a bus stopped and a voice called, “Free ride, mate?” Light obscured its destination but George didn’t hesitate. As he stepped aboard, the door shut so fast he lost his belongings, but then Dave emerged from the glistening mists that filled the interior and handed him a bottle. “Wondered if you’d be next.”

George drank deep, tasting strange flavours. “Have you been here all this time?”

“All what time?”

George stared. Too late - the bus was moving.

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Thanks to Rochelle at https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ for the photo prompt. The picture was taken by Shaktiki Sharma and I'm not sure what it is, but the configuration of lights made me think of a double decker bus! 

This is the worst time of year for rough sleepers - far too cold and too many drunken revellers - so perhaps one cannot blame Gerorge and Dave for taking a leap into the unknown. 

A WINNING STORY in 200 words

Eash month Talkback, a writers' forum to which I belong, runs a flash fiction competition - entries are prompted by a word and restricted to 200 words or less. May's word was LAMBENT - I admit I had to look it up! - and my story came first. So I decided to post it on my blog for those who like to read my stuff.

HOMELESS                                              

The harsh light of dawn heralds the clatter and clank of dustcarts and delivery vans, waking doorway sleepers from the gentle oblivion of night. I light a cigarette, cupping the match to burn its light onto my retinas – a small fire to appease the hunger.

At noon, glaring sunlight strips layers from bodies that should remain covered, while sweaty faces complain about the heat and sniff disdainfully at the street people soaking up the warmth.

Later, sunset blazes over the roof-tops – a brief, glorious vision of a town burning – but when darkness falls there are only cold neon street-lights and shop-fronts.

And of course there are candles in jars on pavement tables. I hate the pathetic, fake romance of lambent light striking sparks from polished glasses – glasses which probably hold the same wine that I drink from my carton.

It would be easy to set fire to a tablecloth. That one over there, where the bloke is struggling to eat while the girl rubs fire into his groin with her bare foot. They haven’t noticed me watching – no-one ever does.

Imagine the flames, the breaking glass, the panic, the screams.

All it would take is one flicked cigarette butt.