UNDER THE BRIDGE

 

This story was written for Sunday Photo Fiction–April 17th, 2016. Each week the host, Al Forbes, provides a picture prompt. The challenge for each member of the group is to write an original story or poem with no more than 200 words and inspired by the prompt.

To read the other stories written by group members just click on the link below, then click on the little blue frog in the blue box.

The link to the other stories this week is as follows:

https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2016/04/17/sunday-photo-fiction-april-17th-2016/

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 3+196 = 199 Words

UNDER THE BRIDGE by P.S. Joshi

Overhead cars and trucks sped by, each to its appointed destination. Under the bridge a different scene took place.

“Jeff”–Frank leaned in closer to the fire–“how’d you end up here? You got a good education. I can tell by the words you sling around.”

“Well, my old friend,”–Jeff sighed–“First I drank too much. Then it was all those cocktail parties the boss insisted I attend when I already had a drinking problem. Finally, he fired me because he smelled alcohol on my breath at work. That’s what you call a double standard.

“Next, my wife left me and took the kids, and dog. I couldn’t blame her. I lost the house but kept on drinking. I just plain gave up. So, you see me as I am now.”

“Buddy”–Frank raised a wine bottle to his mouth and took a gulp–“ain’t there nobody for you to go to in trouble? No other family around?”

“Well,”–Jeff took a swig from a whiskey bottle–“my sister’d want me in rehab.”

“My man, do it.”–Frank coughed and lay back on his blanket–“You won’t last long out here. I’m about done for myself.”

SURVIVAL

 

This is my contribution this week to the challenge, Monday’s Finish the Story  hosted by Barbara Beacham. Every Monday, Barbara supplies a new picture prompt along with the first sentence to be used 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 other stories is as follows:

http://mondaysfinishthestory.wordpress.com/2015/01/26/mondays-finish-the-story-january-26th-2015/

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 8+1+150=159

SURVIVAL By P.S. Joshi

She was unaware that she was being watched.

She was a stunning gray and her mate was the dominant male. She carried his pups, among them, the future leader of their pack. Today, though, she was one of the hunters like all the rest.

They had gathered outside the cave at the start of the hunt, lifted their muzzles to the winter sky, and howled into the cold wind. Their breath came forth in clouds, chilled wind carrying it away.

“Look, Bill, said Walt Emery, isn’t she majestic. I’ve been studying this pack since last November and keeping a journal.

“That male in the lead is her mate. The others will follow and all go after the moose up ahead. They chose that moose because he’s old and slower than the rest.”

The pack now closed in. They had caught the strong, gamey scent of moose and tracked him. He knew they followed, but was tiring, slowing.

Sunday Photo Fiction–Fog Bank

Fog Bank by P.S. Joshi

It was a pleasant evening at the boat club. A wind had sprung up and waves were slapping against the moored yachts. A fog bank was slowly rolling toward shore.

Tom, the grizzled night watchman, limped toward me, his cap pulled down on his head.

“She’ll show up tonight. It’s about time.”

He leaned forward and peered out at the fog. “There she is now. Ain’t she a beauty?”

I focused and I saw her, a stately luxury yacht, confidently gliding through the choppy waves on the edge of the fog bank.

“What a beauty.” I whispered back. “Who does she belong to?”

“That’s the Helena. Belonged to Mr. Jack Bingham. He’d inherited a gold mine or two.”

“What do you meaned ‘belonged’?”

He chuckled. “Just what I said.”

“Then he couldn’t afford to keep the boat?”

“Wasn’t a matter of affording.” He then said with a maddening smile on his wrinkled face.

“Does someone else own the boat now?”

“Nope, Mr. Bryce. He took a deep breath. “You’re lookin’ at a ghost boat. Only time you see her is on nights like this. Went down twenty years ago. A storm. Never found her, Mr. Bingham, or the crew.”

This story was written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

Link: http://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2014/03/23/sunday-photo-fiction-march-23rd-2014/