The boxes of her water-damaged possessions took up three-quarters of the hotel room.

Until the destruction caused by Hurricane Matthew was repaired this was her home. The restoration firm said they would gain access next week. Until then, all she could do was sit and wait.

The flowers of condolence sat on the table. They stared at her, a constant reminder.

Bill was missing presumed dead, a victim of the storm.

She prayed that the cement in the cellar had dried in time and held once the water receded.

Copyright Dale Rogerson

Written as part of the Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).

To read stories of 100 words based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.


The grey clouds hung low over the surrounding rooftops. Phillips stood next to the gate. His breath formed small puffs of mist. He pressed his hands deeper into his pockets.

‘They sent you.’

Phillips recognised the voice from the other side of the gate. He had last heard it in the bar in Whitehall all those years ago.

‘They needed someone who could confirm your identity.’ Phillips peered through the small gaps in the gate’s bars. ‘Show yourself.’

Travers stepped out from behind the wall. ‘Satisfied?’

‘It’s good to see you.’ Phillips said.

‘And you, old friend.’ Travers replied.

‘Why did you do it?’ Phillips asked.

Travers shrugged. ‘Someone had to. Wars were being fought over false information.’

‘What about your loyalty to our government?’

‘Governments come and go.’

‘To your country then?’

‘What are countries but artificial borders dividing people. Better to sacrifice oneself and prevent nuclear war.’

Phillips knew his friend was genuine in his belief. ‘You know what my orders are.’

‘Can you do it though?’ Travers smiled.

Phillips pulled the gun from his pocket and fired two shots. Travers slumped against the gate.

‘Goodbye, old friend.’


Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). Hosted by Al Forbes. For more details visit HERE.

To read more stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.


The sun shone on Oslo, the signs of Spring finally showing. There was warmth in the sun and families sat on picnic rugs and played games on the grass. Sand and Gabi walked along the path. Gabi’s arm was still in a sling. The bruises and swelling on Sand’s face had receded. He moved stiffly with two broken ribs and the stitches in his shoulder.

It had been a week since Sand had been picked up from the yacht. Dag Moen was missing presumed dead. In the stormy sea the chances of anyone being able to swim back to shore were zero. In the sub-zero temperatures he would have frozen to death in less than a minute.

‘He stole the yacht as part of his plan?’ Gabi asked. Sand hadn’t been back to work yet. Although they had spoken briefly on the ‘phone, it was her first chance to get the full story.

Sand nodded. ‘It was supposed to be his getaway, I think. He should have killed me on the whaler and then got away before anyone missed me. They found the owner of the yacht in his apartment. Moen had followed him home one night, broken into his place and left him tied up in the closet. Took the keys for his yacht.’

‘He was lucky to get away alive. If Moen was evil or insane, why didn’t he kill him too?’

‘Nothing is black and white,’ Sand said. ‘I’m not convinced he was pure evil. There was motive to what he was doing, and he had a plan that made sense in his reality. I was the target all along.’ Continue reading “Z IS FOR ZEBRA”


Sand sprinted as fast as his aching body would carry him along the dock. In the storm he kept losing sight of Moen until the dark was illuminated by a fresh lightning strike and he saw the toiling figure ahead. They ran clear of the hulking whaling ships, now it was private yachts and sailboats that were anchored in a marina, bobbing about on the surf caused by the strong wind.

Moen turned sharply and leapt onto one of the yachts. By the time Sand had drawn level with him he had untied it’s mooring and started the engine. He looked back at Sand as the gap of water between the dock and the yacht grew. Sand could only watch. The sea water would kill him in minutes if he jumped into it, and Sand wasn’t a great swimmer.

Bakke arrived, out of breath. ‘He’s gone,’ he puffed, bending over, hands on knees.

They watched the yacht motor through the harbour. Sand followed the direction it was travelling. ‘It’s never over,’ he said. He left Bakke standing gulping in air as he sprinted along the marina walkway. Continue reading “Y IS FOR YACHT”


The doctor held up the x-ray to the light box for Camilla and Sand to see. He pointed with his pencil as he spoke. ‘You see these areas of darkness here and here.’

Camilla nodded. Sand felt her hand reach over and tightly grab his knee.

‘I’m afraid that means the cancer has spread into your lungs,’ the doctor paused. Camilla let out a small sob, her head bowed. She knew what that meant.

Sand wanted clarification before he could believe it. ‘So the chemotherapy has failed?’

The doctor put the x-ray down and clasped his hands, leaning forward earnestly. ‘I’m afraid it’s worse than just the chemotherapy failing, Mr. Sand. The cancer has spread from the bowels. We will run tests but it appears to be in the pancreas and the lungs already.’

‘Then what do we try next?’ Sand asked. He already knew the answer, but he couldn’t accept it. Continue reading “X IS FOR X-RAY”