Sunday Photo Fiction — Time To Get Rolling

517CF0E8-3F7A-4D25-B465-2D6A8F7767D4Bruce wasn’t feeling sorry for himself as he took one last look up the steps that led to his home. And yet, he was feeling a bit melancholy as he sat in his wheelchair. Bruce took out the camera he always kept with him and snapped a few pictures. He wanted something to remember the place by.

He took a deep breath and fought to hold back the tears. It wasn’t easy for Bruce to leave his childhood home. After all, he was born there and it had been the only home he’d ever lived in. His parents left him the place in their will and, until the accident, he saw no need to leave.

Six months earlier, a drunk driver hit him while he was crossing the street and that was when everything changed. Navigating those narrow steps multiple times each day was out of the question. He had no choice but to sell and find a single storey home that was wheelchair accessible. Still, it could have been worse.

Time to move on, or as Bruce liked to say, to get rolling. He was alive and had a life to live, even if on wheels instead of legs.

(200 words)

Written for Susan Spaulding’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. (And yes, I know it’s Monday already.) Photo credit: John Brand.

Sunday Photo Fiction — The Playhouse

78CBBBF6-0481-4433-8B4B-EFAFBBD25579Amanda came running into the house that her father and mother were looking at and excitedly asked, “Daddy, can we buy this house?”

“Do you like this house?” he asked her.

“Oh yes,” Amanda said. “There’s a playhouse in the backyard, Daddy. It looks like a Hansel and Gretel house.”

“Is it made out of candy and treats?” Amanda’s father asked her.

“Daddy, don’t be silly,” Amanda laughed. “But it looks like a storybook cottage. Come see.”

As it turned out, Amanda’s parents bought the house with the playhouse in the backyard. It came with a small table and chairs and shelves on the walls, and Amanda moved her dolls and stuffed animals onto the shelves and set up her tea set on the table. She would go to the playhouse every day to play tea party with her dolls, stuffed animals, and her imaginary friend.

Until one day when she came running into the house it tears. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” her mother asked.

“She tore apart my dolls and stuffed toys,” Amanda cried.

“Who did?” her mother asked.

“My friend who lives in the playhouse.”

Amanda’s mother followed Amanda to the playhouse and looked inside, and screamed.015B13FD-4F98-4AA1-8DF9-9D40B02AA12B

(199 words)

Written for Susan Spaulding’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Top photo credit: Susan Spaulding. Old hag image credit: Google Images.

A Life In Ruins

0B2F934E-FA4D-49E2-BFB8-305EEE2EB749My life is in ruins, he thought.

His life, a life he’d worked so hard to make successful, was, indeed, in ruins. As he drove along the road that skirted the ocean, he couldn’t quite fathom what had led him to this place, this sense of desperation. He was tired. And angry. And, most of all, he was sorry. Sorry for all of those he loved. Sorry for the disappointment he knew they were feeling.

No, it wouldn’t be disappointment. It would be shock. No one could have predicted this. It would be like when they interviewed people on the news who have just found out that their neighbor is a serial killer. “I can’t believe that he could have done such a thing,” they’d say. “He seemed like such a pleasant person. I would never have imagined….”

We all have secrets, he told himself. Some bigger — and badder — than others. But what he did was truly unforgivable. He couldn’t stick around to face the shame and the humiliation. Those he left behind would be better off with him being out of the picture.

And so he got in his car and left, heading where even he did not know.

(200 words)

Written for Sue Spaulding’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: Anurag Bakhshi. Also written for the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver prompt, which is “ruins.”

Sunday Photo Fiction — Flotsam and Jetsam

75A69944-883C-4B2B-BDCD-AFA5FF9525E4“What has become of us?” Nathan asked Ethel. “We come all the way down here to the Caribbean and buy a condo on a beautiful tropical island so that we can spend our retirement in a virtual paradise and what are we doing?”

“Oy vey, Nathan,” Ethel said, “spit it out already, do me a favor, will you please? You talk and talk and never get to the point.”

“You want me to get to the point, Ethel,” Nathan said. “Fine, I’ll paint you a goddam picture. Look at the two of us, Ethel. We spend day after day floating on this raft like flotsam and jetsam, getting nowhere and doing nothing.”

“What are you talking, Nathan, flotsam and what did you say, jetsam?” Ethel said. “You’re making no sense. Go back to your nap.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Ethel,” Nathan said. “I’m talking about nothing. We’re wasting what little time we have left on earth doing nothing.”

“So tell me, Nathan, what is it that you want to do?”

“I don’t know, Ethel. Something.”

“You want something, Nathan, fine,” Ethel said. “Let’s go back to the condo and have sex.”

“Oy gevalt, Ethel,” Nathan said. “Never mind.”

(199 words)

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit: Susan Spaulding.


Sunday Photo Fiction — Just Bagpipes

47315682-8671-48B9-90F7-731F29684E00“Do you sell kilts?” the man asked.

“No, sir, just bagpipes,” the man behind the table responded.

“How about tartan scarves?” another prospective customer asked.

“Just bagpipes, ma’am.”

A man walked up to the proprietor and said, “I’m looking for a Scottish sporran, but I don’t see any on display.”

“That’s because we make and sell bagpipes,” he said, pointing to the banner behind him.

A lady with a perplexed look on her face asked, “Scottish clan tumblers?”

“Sorry, lady, our specialty is bagpipes,” the man answered. “Only bagpipes.”

The next customer explained that he used to have a pewter hip flask with an engraved Scottish piper on it. “I don’t suppose you have one of those, do you?” he asked.

The guy manning the booth finally lost it. He threw down his water bottle and started to shout. “What the fook is wrong with you fooking people? I am a bagpipe maker. I make and sell bagpipes. Not kilts, not scarves, not tumblers, not sporrans, not flasks. Just bagpipes. Only bagpipes. Can’t you fookers read?”

And with that, the guy told everyone to get out of his booth. “I’m done,” he shouted, and started packing up his bagpipes.

(199 words)

Written for Susan Spaulding’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: C.E. Ayr.