It was supposed to be a simple matter. Kidnap a little rich girl, collect the large ransom, and let her go. No harm done. A happy ending for all. He’d have money, a mere a drop in the bucket for her wealthy parents, and the girl would be back safe at home.
But the scared little girl ran from him, fell off a bridge, and broke her neck. He buried her under the bridge, put rocks on the top of the small grave, and then, unable to cope with his guilt, drowned himself in the shallow stream beneath the bridge.
Written for the Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Danny sat at the end of the table, his eyes almost level with the chessboard. Looking at the chessmen lined up on the squares, he watched his father and uncle alternately move their chessmen around the board, trying to grasp the strange manner in which each piece moved.
His father moved one of the pieces across the board and said “Checkmate!” He smiled and looked at Danny. “What did you think of that?” he asked.
Danny continued starting at the chessboard, saying nothing.
“Danny?” his father said. “I won!”
“Shh,” said Danny, intently watching a small spider crawling across the chessboard.
Written for the Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Jeff Arnold.
There were rumors going around that the old building, the one with virtually no widows and thick, stone walls, was being used to house political dissidents. Some claimed to possess definite evidence that detainees were being subjected to “enhanced interrogation techniques” (e.g., waterboarding).
The military vehemently denied that there was anything untoward going on within the walls of that building, claiming that it merely served as a munitions depot. Suggestions to the contrary were labeled “fake news.” But the government declined to permit any civilians, including members of the press, access to the building.
Until the day the revolution began.
Written for Friday Fictioneers from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Erin had dreamed of being a marine biologist when she grew up. Each year, when her family went on vacation to the ocean, Erin would collect coral, sea shells, and driftwood. She’d bring them home with her and lay them out on her special table. She would hand print labels describing each piece, including the date and location where she collected them.
Erin knew that she wouldn’t achieve her dream. The cancer eventually consumed her when she was seventeen, but her special table was a reminder to family and friends of her light and the life that might have been.
Written for Friday Fictioneers from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Sandra Crook.
Dressed and ready for some coffee, Mark took the elevator to the hotel’s meeting room level on the third floor. He found the coffee station and poured himself a cup.
No one was around, which Mark found strange, given that the first meeting was scheduled to start in ten minutes. He took the elevator to the first floor and saw that not a soul was there. No guests, no one at the checkout counter, no doormen.
He stepped outside and saw that the streets were empty of cars and people. Totally alone, Mark wondered where everyone had gone.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Photo credit: Yvette Prior.