Photo Copyright: Mike Vore

NOTE: This is late as I’ve had serious server problems. Things seem much better now.

This story was written for Sunday Photo Fiction–July 16th, 2017. Each week the host, Al Forbes, provides a picture prompt taken by him or sent in by one of the participants in the group of writers. The challenge for each member of the group is to write an original story or poem with no more than 200 words, not including the title and inspired by the prompt. This weeks prompt was sent in by Mike Vore. Thanks, Mike.

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

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

Genre: Speculative Fiction

Word Count: 200 Words

DON’T GO THERE by P.S. Joshi

Brian was exploring Millersburg. His dad now had a job there and had moved the family. He especially wanted to investigate the weather-beaten, deserted house on State Street he’d seen as they drove past.

An elderly man was staggering along the street so Brian decided to question him.

“Hey, Mister is that old house on State haunted?”

The man stared at him and shook his head.

“Sonny, don’t go there. It was a terrible place back in the day. The owner held prayer meetings but I heard they wasn’t praying to the Lord in the Bible. No sir.

“A buddy of mine said he peeked in one time and they was making funny chalk marks on the floor. He never went back. Scared the daylights out of him.

“One night there was screaming like people was gettin’ killed. The sheriff and his men went there and they said it was a terrible mess, blood, and bodies everywhere. Don’t go there, son.”

The old man shuffled off mumbling to himself.

Old drunk, Brian thought. He was now more excited than ever.

The house was up ahead. Running to it he slowly ascended the rickety, sagging steps.

No one saw him again.

































Chariot and rider.

Copyright — Alastair Forbes

This is my contribution to Sunday Photo Fiction for February 8, 2015. Every Sunday a new picture prompt is supplied by Alastair Forbes, the host. 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: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 194 Words


She stood straight and determined in the chariot, holding the reins in a firm grip, giving forth an air of confidence. It was about A.D. 61. This was the great and powerful Boudicca, woman warrior and leader, Celtic queen of the Iceni tribe, widow of the Celtic king Prasutagus of East Anglia. She was filled with righteous anger, a determination to fight back.

Upon the death of her husband, their kingdom had been unjustly annexed by the Roman Empire under Nero, as if conquered. She had been stripped and beaten, and her daughters raped. Now she was leading her people and the Trinovantes, who joined them, on a revolt, an attack on the Roman-held city of Camulodunum (now Colchester), and capital of Roman Britain. After that, they would drive on to Londinium (now London) and Verulamium (now St. Albans), destroying both cities with a death toll in the thousands.

She was finally defeated by the Roman army led by Paulinus.

It isn’t known for sure whether she was killed, poisoned herself to avoid capture, or died from illness. A statue exists in her memory, while Emperor Nero’s name lives on in infamy

Sunday Photo Fiction Image





Jeep splashing in water.


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 senten 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:

Genre:  Realistic Humor Fiction

Word Count:  5+1+149=155


“They finally made their escape.”

As I wrote that, I dreamed of fame. Maybe I’d be a famous writer someday. I loved to write thriller stories.

The more people I literarily killed, the better. My favorite threat to someone who made me mad was to tell them one day I’d make them a villain in one of my books and shoot them full of holes.

Mom got hold of one of my stories one day and looked at me as though she’d never really seen me before.

“Laura,” she asked, slightly shocked, “how do you come up with this stuff? When I was fifteen I wanted to be a cheerleader and buy new clothes.”

She shook her head. “I just don’t know how a daughter of mine could be interested in killing.”

Just then the phone rang. She listened,  then shouted, “She said ‘that’ about me! I’ll kill her!”

Symbol for Monday's Finish the Story




Dried flowers

Copyright — Janet Webb

Here we are, gathered this week in a small virtual cafe across the street from an old, empty house with a neglected flower garden. We’re here to discuss our original stories for Friday Fictioneers. Our talented and gracious hostess for this gathering is author and artist Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The weekly challenge for this group is to write a story with no more than 100 words. It’s supposed to have a beginning, middle, end, and follow the picture prompt for the week. This week’s prompt was supplied by Janet Webb. Thanks Janet.

I didn’t get to read all last week’s stories I intended to and am later than usual with my story this week. I had a problem with both my cable and pen drive providers. I found myself without internet access for about two days.

The link for all other stories is as follows:

Genre:  Realistic Fiction

Word Count:  100 Words


Betty Miller worked for Mom and Mom’s parents for years. Now she works for my husband and me. After Mom died, I asked her to help me clean the attic.

There, in a dusty corner, we found dried flowers and a box of letters with a newspaper clipping, a yellowed obit of a soldier killed in the Vietnam War.

“The flowers and letters were from Will Blakely, your Mom’s first boyfriend,” Betty told me. They were to be married when he got back from Vietnam. He was to return in two weeks. When he did, it was in a coffin.