The Night Creep

Friday-Fictioneers 19 April 2024.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Night Creep

Shop staff called John the night creep.
He had been a salesman during the day and a security officer at night.

The CCTV recorded his patrols; hood up and his shoes squeaking on the parquet.
Sometimes, he was at three places all at once, squeak, and squeak.
He insisted the system must be faulty.

Then jitters ran up and down his spine when he heard howlers.
Hoods up reflecting in the windows; cotton pickers moaning around the mall; squeak, squeak.
When challenged, they became invisible.

There were no thefts.

One night, John vanished.
The CCTV still records him.
Squeak, squeak.

Back Room Secrets

A brief 100 words for Friday-Fictioneers. Read more stories click here.

Thanks to our host, Rochelle, for selecting the picture prompt provided by Susan Rouchard.

PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Rouchard

Back Room Secrets

Mary screamed; a wave of anger raced down her spine.
She had barged into the back room, which he had kept locked.

When she asked him why, he distracted the issue by pointing out her unhealthy habits.
So, what! She played badminton, with chocolate cake and red wine afterwards.
She had friends.

But what did he do in the back room?

Those lost library books. They charged her.
Her cat, Toby, stuffed!
Here, her missing shoes.
Posters of naked men.

What will people think?
They will gossip.

First clear up, remove her lingerie from his body.
Then call for help.

Dance Hall Blues

This is a lovely photograph from Dale, showing a tropical lightness for the dark nights. I wonder how vibrant the dance hall was before it closed.

A shout out to our Friday-Fictioneer host, Rochelle, for selecting the prompt.

More contributions from the group are available by clicking HERE.

Dance Hall Blues

When the alien pandemic flushed human life.
Beautiful Anne died.

I remember this dance hall where we met.
Forever closed.

The band played and the singer sang.
Let’s twist again, let’s twist again.
Are ye dancing. My ballroom-twang.

Are ye asking?
She fizzed like bubbling champagne.

Dancing, prancing across the hall,
Twisting legs, shaking hips and arms.
Are ye winching. My ballroom-bawl.

Are ye asking?
Full of sweet smiling charms.

Lights turned low and the music slow.
Bodies in close with swaying moves.
I’ll walk you home, when it’s time to go.

Not a chance!
She’s wearing fancy new shoes.

Double Paranoia

This week’s picture is a statement of hiding behind a net curtain, with an element of distrust. Thank you Roger. Also, I wonder what our host Rochelle was thinking when she selected this for our weekly photo prompt.

More contributions to the 100 word Friday-Fictioneers can be found by clicking HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Double Paranoia

Welcome to my world. Surveillance is my trade, as state security is paramount.

For six months, I have had my laser microphones aimed at the windows of Macaulay and Donaldson’s meeting rooms. Top criminal lawyers whose clients have got away with murder and worse, passing technical secrets to dubious agents.

This is boring, listening and recording mundane conversations of carefully orchestrated discussions. I am listening for an occasional slip up with information that might convict them of conspiracy against the government.

They know they are being monitored.
For a substantial retirement fee, I warned them.

Now!
Who is watching me?

Drowning for Love

Friday Fictioneers on the beach, sounds like a wonderful day out. Thank you Rochelle for the writing challenge.

Other contributions of 100 word stories can be read HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Drowning for Love

The sea breeze ruffled Monica’s hair, and the sand warmed her bare feet. She smiled at the lifeguard cycling towards the watchtower for his shift.

He ignored her.

They once held hands, dawdling along to the sound of lapping waves, and canoodled behind the dunes. When she screamed, no! He pushed her over.
So sorry, and she ran away.

The surging surf caught her unaware and rolled over her legs, inviting her to swim. 
Confusion somersaulted through her mind, and anguish tore apart her days and nights.
Why was love such a psychological tormentor?

Would he save her from drowning?

Enmity, A Floral Warning

Thank you Rowena for your photo-prompt, selected by our host Rochelle. A reminder that I need to spend time in the garden getting it ready for planting some bright flowers.

More stories from Friday-Fictioneers can be read HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rowena Curtin

Enmity, A Floral Warning.

Grandad was sympathetic.
Marie was grateful for his help to escape from an abusive, obsessive husband and a claustrophobic flat. 
The move into the two-bedroom house with a beautiful garden helped to heal her anxiety and mental scars. Safe.
Grandad’s kindness restored her self-esteem, and she started teaching in the primary school.

Every season, she found potted flowers left by the back door, which she planted out.
‘Oh Grandad. Such kindness.’ She thought.

She rushed to the hospital.
“Thank you,” she said, “for all your flowers.”
Her tears streamed as the Grim Reaper waited.
“What flowers?” Grandad’s eyes slowly closed.

The Pyromaniac

Once again we are in the world of the Friday-Fictioneers. The Wednesday prompt gives us 48hrs to think of a story, I usually wait until Thursday, so I am early this week. Thank you Fleur for the photograph. What were you watching?

Our host’s site is found by clicking her name Rochelle.
Other story contributions can be found with this link, HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind

The Pyromaniac

Charlette ended her call.
‘That was Mum. Great news, the police found our car.’ 

Her friends whooped and cheered.
‘The camping trip’s still on.’ Charlette gave everyone the thumbs up. ‘Get packing. We’ll leave this afternoon.’

‘What about Anne,’ Jenny said. ‘Will she be coming?’
‘Are you kidding!’ Charlette shook her head.
‘She’ll go crazy.’

The Avondale camp site had built a new utility building after last year’s deliberate fire.

‘It’s a break guys, stress free.’
‘Yes, but Anne–‘
‘You don’t have to come.’
‘Oh no! I’m not staying alone with Anne.’ Jenny grabbed her bag.

Mum called again.

On The Wagon

Thank you, Alicia, for the picture which was a reminder of the western films I watched as a boy. I spent hours researching the emigration of the Scottish Highlanders to America. Mostly, they were driven out of their crofts or else were disillusioned with their miserable lives. In Georgia they secured a new future.

Thank you Rochelle for posting the prompt. Many other story contributions can be read by clicking HERE.

If you are interested my flash fiction collection. The Listener is available free on Amazon Kindle this weekend.

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

On The Wagon

Mary promised she would never touch another drop. Although Jim muttered obscenities.
He found brandy in a Lucozade bottle, and vodka in the vinegar bottles behind the gravy powder.

‘Look!’ said Mary. ‘They are full. I haven’t touched them.’
He poured them down the sink. ‘Are there anymore?’
‘More!’ 
‘The promise, no more alcohol. Ever.’
Mary held John’s hand. ‘I am fine, very sober and cheerful.’

‘I am worried.’
‘It’s okay, I’m going for a walk and some fresh air.’

Checking, John was not watching.
She drank some harsh Scots hooch from the old wagon barrel.

’I love you, Grandpa.’

Short Story Collection–The Listener

My original flash fiction stories in the The Listener are FREE from Amazon from
Friday 23rd to 27th February.

The title of the collection comes from the first story.
A blind person discovers who committed the murder. How do they react?

A Fortunate Accident

Thank you Dale for the picture, it reminds me why it is better to clear the snow when it has just fallen. Otherwise, people walking compact it to ice and when it melts the layer of water on top makes it treacherous. My story takes advantage of this situation.

Thank you, as always to Rochelle for hosting us on Friday-Fictioneers.
More stories on this prompt can be read HERE.

A Fortunate Accident

That problems are clearer in the morning after a good night’s sleep didn’t ring true to Carol. She couldn’t sleep.

Scar-faced Harry had conned her. He wanted his money repaid at a thousand percent rate.
Today.
Impossible!

Carol agreed to discuss alternatives. Although, selling herself in his seedy club was off the table.
Easy money he sneered and laughed as he slipped on the ice.

Carol heard the snap of bones.
She called an ambulance, then stamped hard on his broken arm. 
Harry was unconscious.
She saw the blood pooling behind his head.
She checked his pulse.
Dead.

Problem solved.