IN THE HOLLOW TREE

Nothing sinister or suspect.

Samson looked out at the row of bungalows. A car drove past, a dog barked, the trees swayed in the breeze.

He stepped inside the house, walking through the hallway, glancing in each room.

No signs of disturbance.

She lived here alone. Late last night, a call from neighbours reporting screaming.

In the backyard a huge oak tree dominated. Samson walked up to it, feeling the cracked bark.

He walked round the wide trunk. His hand felt a sticky, dark excretion. His fingertips were red. He looked up.

A large hollow. He had found her.


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Copyright Sandra Crook

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.

Read more stories featuring Detective Samson: THE DETECTIVE SAMSON STORIES

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FARMER BARRY

When he was a small boy, Barry loved playing with the toy farm his father made for him. He tended to the small cows, sheep and pigs, drove the tractor, mucked out the stables and fed the horses.

Sometimes his father would join him, but after his parents divorce he sat playing on his own.

Being from a working class family, Barry knew he would never be able to have a real farm. He was also put off by the hard work.

It had taken him a few years, but now he had the farm he dreamed of.

He worked in the abandoned warehouse as Farmer Barry,  tending to his collection of stuffed animals. The college course in taxidermy and a knack for livestock rustling had given him the means to create his life-size playset.

Lifting the stuffed fox outside the fence to protect the sheep, Barry sighed. The end of another busy day. He tapped his father on the head. His dad’s glazed, still eyes didn’t respond, just like when he used to play with Barry and his toy farm.

‘Goodnight, Dad,’ said Barry. ‘See you in the morning.’

He flicked the light off.


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Copyright A Mixed Bag

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.

POIROT’S COFFEE AT DEAUVILLE

‘When did it become fashionable for the French not to serve coffee in a china teacup and saucer?’ Madame Beaumont said, loud enough to ensure the maitre d’ would hear.

‘Mother,’ Alice chided. ‘You shall have to get used to it once I have married Jacques.’

‘Alice, once you have married Jacques we shall no longer have to stay in common resorts like this.’ She gestured to the crowded beach below. ‘I am allowing this marriage precisely because of your fiance’s inheritance. I do not intend to see out my days as a penniless widow.’

‘Well, you shall have to wait. Jacques parents are in extremely good health.’ Alice stood and stormed off.

Madame Beaumont lifted her mug of coffee and took a small sip. ‘We shall see about that, my dear,’ she muttered.

At the table behind her an impeccably dressed short man with brilliantined hair and a waxed moustache perched his egg-shaped head to one side. His green eyes sparkled like a cat’s as he adjusted his cutlery so that it sat symmetrically.


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Copyright @Shivamt25

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. Thanks as always to the challenge host Priceless Joy. For more information visit HERE.

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

ALL PART OF THE GAME

It wasn’t fair, Phillips knew, but he had given up any pretence of gentlemanly conduct long ago. Those that played fair ended up dead.

He had watched her enter the apartment and check for anything suspicious. She didn’t spot the concealed microphones planted behind the light fittings.

When he heard the shower turn on, he crossed the street.

Now he crept across the hallway, gun drawn.

A breath to steady himself. In one motion: door flung open; three shots fired through the shower curtain.

Something felt wrong. He pulled the curtain aside. Empty.

A breeze. He turned and saw the open window.


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Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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.

Other stories featuring the character of the spy Phillips can be found HERE.

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.