Copyright: Barbara Beacham

This is my weekly contribution to Monday’s Finish the Story, hosted by Barbara Beacham. Every Monday, Barb supplies a new picture prompt along with the first sentence for the story. The original story to be written should have only 100 to 150 additional words. I’ve bolded the first sentence given with the picture prompt. Be sure to click on the little blue frog in the blue box to read the other stories.

The link for all the other stories is as follows:

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 4+13+150=167 Words


A body suddenly crashed through a plate glass window at the Brigader’s house.

The general shot up like a broken bow string, immediately awake. His responses were sharpened by battlefield experiences. His wife just groaned and rolled over, still sleeping off the alcohol she’d consumed.

The party last night had been a triumph; the front room had been cleaned by the caterers before they left. The general could afford the best as his books about his battle experiences had been huge successes.

He rolled out of bed, slid his feet into his comfortable old slippers, and went to check the living room.

In front of the broken window was a body, bullet hole in the head, handgun nearby. The brigadier’s bodyguard was squatting alongside.

“He’s the one who sent threatening letters, sir. One of your troops who suffered from battle fatigue, and he was aiming at me.”

The general sighed. “Poor man. Wounded since then, and now he’s another war fatality.

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This is my contribution to Sunday Photo Fiction for January 11, 2015. Every Sunday a new picture prompt is given. The weekly challenge is to write an original story with no more than 200 words. It’s supposed to have a beginning, middle, end, and follow the picture prompt for the week. Be sure to click on the little blue frog in the blue box to read all the other stories.

The link for all other stories is as follows:

Genre:  Speculative Fiction

Word Count:  200 Words


The 3-masted schooner was moored at the Whitby port. It was delivering cargo from the Balkans, one item of which some Londoners would never forget. Others, if they heard rumors, wouldn’t believe them. It was too horrible to believe, to far beyond comprehension.

Below decks, with other goods of a more common variety, was an ancient coffin with a single bodyguard. a strange, nervous little man. The Count had been busy. All but he and Renfield had been bled dry. It was now dark and time to leave.

Count Dracula would be exploring a new homeland, following a pull he felt after seeing the photo of a woman. It was not just any woman, but the one who had been the fiance of Renfield, the possessed man who was now his guard.

A former real estate agent, Renfield had bought an old estate where Count Dracula would make his new home. Now, at his master’s bidding, he hired delivery men.

Within hours of the ship’s arrival, the coffin had been brought to the manor house basement. For a second time, the Count had a hearty meal. The men delivering the coffin were never seen alive again; dead, but not alive

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