STORM DAMAGE

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.


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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.

FLOWERS OF UGANDA

‘Pull over here, Kisekka,’ Arnold instructed the driver of the jeep.

‘We are not there yet, Sir,’ Kisekka replied.

Kukomesha!’ Arnold utilised one of the few Swahili words he knew.

Kisekka brought the jeep to a stop.

‘What’s in there?’ Arnold asked, pointing at the white structures that covered the fields.

‘They grow flowers, Arnold Sir.’

Growing flowers on an industrial scale miles from Kampala made no sense, and according to his map, this was government-owned land.

He jumped down. ‘Wait for me here,’ he instructed Kisekka.

He saw no sign of any security cameras or guards.

Arnold jumped the fence. He heard chatter. Young voices among the sound of machinery.

There was a gap in the sheeting. Arnold peered through.

Hundreds of young boys were inside the tent. Each had a table of metal pieces in front of them. They expertly assembled the various pieces.

Arnold had found what he had been sent to discover: Idi Amin’s weapons factory.


africa

Written for ‘What Pegman Saw’, a weekly prompt based on a view from Google Maps. The idea is to write a piece of fiction of around 150 words based on the prompt. Full details can be found HERE. This week we’re off to Uganda, a country with a long history of civil war and child labour.

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

IN FULL BLOOM

Archie slowly creaked his way up the ladder with the garden shears and began pruning back the large, pink rhododendron bushes.

‘Morning, Mr. Williams.’ It was Rose, the teenage daughter from next door.

‘Morning, Rose,’ Archie called after her. He’d known her since she was a cheeky five year old tomboy. Now he looked at her as she walked away, seventeen or eighteen, a young woman, graceful and lithe. She wore a pink t-shirt emphasising attractive curves that had appeared since last summer. Her young, smooth skin glowed in the sunshine. Strong, toned legs stretched out from denim shorts. She disappeared round the corner. A Rose blossoming, he thought.

There was a sharp rap on the window.

‘Pruning those bushes telepathically are you?’ Agnes called. ‘Tea’s ready.’

Archie smiled. His hardy perennial was always in full bloom.


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© The Storyteller’s Abode

Written as part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The challenge is to write a flash fiction story, in around 150 words based on the weekly photo prompt. For more information visit HERE.

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

THE LAST FLOWERS

           Eight in the morning and she was still the only one there. She wasn’t surprised. It had been three weeks now. Still Evie felt she had to come. She hunched down against the concrete pillar, protecting her from the unceasing wind. At least it wasn’t raining today. The surface of the river was choppy as the water passed beneath the bridge. The flowers tied and taped to the railings fluttered and flapped. Dead leaves and petals blew off and landed in the river, floating away on the current. A rain-smudged poster clung on to the lamppost, refusing to give up hope even though the body had been found. Commuters bustled passed on their way to work. At the start they had paused and looked. They had read the dedications that accompanied the flowers. They had given a respectful moment, a nod, a look of sympathy, and then moved on. Now they hurried passed. There was no malice in this. They had their own lives to get on with. Continue reading “THE LAST FLOWERS”