Sunday Photo Fiction — The Sketch Artist

66E1AEE7-452F-42C3-B236-6816900B7C42“You are beautiful,” he said. “Would you allow me to sketch your portrait?”

Doris was sitting on a park bench and looked up at a young man standing in front of her. She put down her iPhone and said, “That’s your best pickup line?”

Encouraged by the smile on the girl’s face, Brian said, “I do portrait sketches as a hobby.” He held up a sketch pad to show her some of his charcoal drawings. “I’d be honored if you would let me do one of you. I promise it won’t take long.” He pointed to an outdoor café. “We can sit over there while I do the sketch.”

He seemed to have kind eyes, so Doris agreed to accompany him to the café. She put her camera on the table, opened up a notebook and started to doodle, while Brian began to sketch her face.

Thirty minutes later, Brian picked up his tablet and showed her his sketch. “That’s really good,” she said.

“Thanks,” Brian said, blushing.

It took several weeks, but the charcoal sketches taped on a wall in Brian’s apartment, including Doris’, were all the police needed to convict him for the brutal murders of half a dozen young women in the city that summer.


Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction prompt from Donna McNichol. Photo credit: Morguefile.

Sorry, Donna, I went over the 200 word limit. My word count is 208.

Sunday Photo Fiction — Photobomber

32C83F50-7ABB-4BE2-8000-68BB9220FEC3“What the hell?” Alex said as he reviewed the pictures he took that day through the viewfinder on his digital camera.

“What’s the matter, hon?” Alicia asked.

“Look at this picture I took today at the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela,” Alex said.

“Who is that guy in the picture?” Alicia asked.

“Exactly!” Alex said. “Some shadowy jokester jumped in front of the cathedral just as I was taking the picture and photobombed it.”

“You didn’t see him step in front of the camera?” Anita asked? “He ruined an otherwise great shot of the cathedral.”

“Tell me about it,” Alex said. He then went to the next picture and the next picture and the one after that. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “This same guy photobombed every one of my pictures.”

“You’re kidding,” Alicia said. “Every picture?”

“Every goddam picture,” Alex admitted. “And we’re leaving Galicia tomorrow morning. This really pisses me off.”

Alicia opened her laptop and did a google search. “Hon, come look at this,” she said. “This guy is a local legend. He is a supposedly a spirit who tries to protect the historic and religious sites of Galicia. He’s referred to as the Ghost Photobomber of Galicia.”

(200 words)


Written for Donna McNichol’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: Alexis Ortiz.9D556121-5A3F-4C86-9803-C16CFD8FDEDF

The Waiting

1255E320-EC1C-4860-8072-D4ACC23737ACMark looked at his watch. It had been more than four hours and he was the last remaining person of the eight in the room. None of them knew any of the others or why they had been summoned. Four males, four females, ranging in age from late teens to middle aged. Mark couldn’t figure out the common denominator.

They each had been given orders to show up at eight that morning and to bring their papers. Upon arrival, they handed over their papers and communicators and were escorted into the spartan waiting room.

Eight chairs, three on one side of the narrow room and five on the other. A small round table at one end of the room beneath, but not centered, under a light that was shaped like a large airplane window. Mark found the asymmetry of the room off-putting.

They were told to sit in silence until their names were called. If anyone tried to talk, a voice came from an overhead speaker reminding them to be silent. There was nothing to eat or drink; nothing to read.

When Mark finally heard his name called over the speaker, he stood up and slowly walked to the door.

(200 words)


Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt from Donna McNichol. Photo credit: Arun Sharma on Unsplash.

Sunday Photo Fiction — The Fuselage

FD904471-A4B7-4C23-992E-80A9E0FF0745Jed and Jud, owners of MotherBrothers Salvage Company, pulled up in their truck. “Well, there it is,” Jed said. “What a hunk of junk.”

“Are you kidding me,” Jud said. “It’s a piece of aviation history. It’s a work of art. We need to figure out how to save that.”

“Are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing?” Jed said. “Our contract is to get that monstrosity outta here and the only way we can do that is to take the fuselage of that away ugly beast apart.”

“Or we can get a large flatbed trailer and haul it to our storage yard in one piece,” Jud said.

“Do you see the size of that thing?” Jed said. “There ain’t no flatbed big enough to haul what’s left of that plane off in one piece.”

“There’s them flatbeds they use to move whole houses, Jed,” Jud said.

“Jud, have you got shit for brains?” Jed said. “It’d cost more to rent some giant flatbed plus a rig large enough to haul that hulk behind it than we’re getting paid. Now go grab your blowtorch and let’s start cutting this thing down to size and sell it for scrap metal.”

(200 words)


Written for Donna McNichol’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: Blair Fraser on Unsplash.

Sunday Photo Fiction — It’s In the Can

45025656-DDF6-46F6-AF2B-21C13519C9F0“I can’t believe what a mess it is in here,” Megan said to her husband. “Did your dad ever throw anything away?”

Eric laughed. “Well, he didn’t have a car, so he used his garage to store his collectibles.”

“If you define collectibles as junk,” Megan said.

“Well, make sure you go through all the containers,” Eric said. “There might be some hidden treasures in this garage.”

After a few hours of rummaging through all of the collected crap in Eric’s father’s garage, Megan said, “I’m exhausted. Can we call it a day?”

“Yeah,” Eric said. “I just want to grab that rusty kerosene can from that shelf up there.” He got the step ladder, reached up, and pulled down the old kerosene can. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed.

“Eric, are you okay?” Megan called out as she was just about to exit the garage.

“Megan, this can is full of hundred dollar bills,” he said.

“What was your father into, Eric? There’s gotta be ten grand in this can,” Megan said. She pulled a few hundred dollar bills out of the can. “Ugh, they smell like they’ve been soaked in kerosine.”

“What do you know about money laundering?” Eric asked.

(200 words)


Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt from Donna McNichol. Photo credit: https://morguefile.com/p/68555.