DON’T GO THERE

 

 

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:

https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/07/16/sunday-photo-fiction-july-16th-2017/

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE EAGLE OF LOS CASA

 

Photo Copyright: Al Forbes

This story was written for Sunday Photo Fiction–June 18th, 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 week’s prompt was taken by Al himself. Thanks, Al.

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:

https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/06/18/sunday-photo-fiction-june-18th-2017/

Genre: Fantasy Fiction

Word Count: 200 Words

THE EAGLE OF LOS CASA by P.S. Joshi

Many years ago, there was a bad king in the small kingdom of Los Casa. He was an ignorant tyrant put on the throne by poor people who thought he’d better their unfortunate lives.

The real power behind the throne was a wise though evil adviser. He made sure the king kept enough of his promises to his subjects to keep them happy. These promises were damaging for the kingdom but most good subjects felt helpless.

One day a message was written on the castle wall, THE EAGLE COMES.

“Who could have written it?” asked the ineffective local sheriff.

This was the first of many such messages. The king and adviser became frightened. Both were bullies and cowards.

One night all outer clothing was stolen from the castle leaving the king and adviser in their undies. They left the castle in shame and never returned.

Rico Estaban, twelve years old said to the other children, “We’ve done a good night’s work with the assistance of my father the palace cook and uncle the palace groom. Together we’ve formed the Society of the Eagle. What some foolish, gullible adults couldn’t manage we have.

A wiser and kinder ruler was chosen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ROBBERY

 

Black Hawk helicopter lifting off

This is my contribution to Mondays Finish the Story for this week. Every Monday a new picture prompt is given along with the first sentence to be used for the story. The story is to be written with only 100-150 additional words. I’ve bolded the first sentence given with the picture prompt.

The link for all other stories is as follows. Be sure to click on the little blue frog in the blue box:

http://mondaysfinishthestory.wordpress.com/2015/01/05/mondays-finish-the-story-jan-5th-2015/

Genre:  Realistic Fiction

Word Count:  147+15+2=164

THE ROBBERY By P.S. Joshi

Silently as the people watched, the Black Hawk helicopter lifted into the air.

Half an hour before, two men had robbed the First Savings Bank in Morristown. The sheriff had called Vern Richmond for help. Vern owned an old Black Hawk helicopter.

He’d bought it back in 1999 in a government auction and had a special building built on his property to house it.

The robbers were seen heading down Evanstown Road. Both were reported to have been shot by the bank guard.

Two deputies were directed to follow in the cruiser while the sheriff flew with Vern to locate the car.

They soon spotted it on the Evanstown Road near where it branched off to Pinkerton. It was pulled off to the side, and both men were lying on the ground. When they heard the helicopter, one got up and raised his hands. Vern landed, and the sheriff raised his gun and climbed out. “End of the line boys,”  he said.

Symbol for Monday's Finish the Story

THE RUINS IN THE WOODS

 

Fireplace & Chimney

Copyright — Adam Ickes

This is my July story for Storybook Corner hosted by Adam Ickes. Each story is supposed to be from 300 to 500 words in length, or longer if thought necessary, and be inspired by the photo prompt supplied that month by Adam. My story this month refused to be contained to 500 words.

http://adamickes.wordpress.com/2014/07/21/storybook-corner-prompt-july/

Genre:  Horror Fiction

Word Count:  794 Words

THE RUINS IN THE WOODS By P.S. Joshi

Brad Wilcox saw his pal Jeff in the camping department of the large chain store in the Briggstown Mall. “Hey Jeff, how’re you doin’?” he called.

Jeff moved closer, checking all other shoppers to see if any were near enough to overhear. “Brad have you ever gone huntin’ near the old Crawford place; the one that burned down about twenty years ago leaving just the fireplace and chimney?”

Brad now noticed Jeff had a look that brought back memories of guys on patrol in Iraq.

“Jeff, what’s the matter? What happened?”

Jeff shifted from one foot to the other, “You’re not goin’ to believe me. You won’t…you’ll never believe me.” He started to breathe heavier. “I was out there huntin’ rabbits and thought I saw somethin’ move near that ruin. You know how careful I am with a gun. I make damn sure it’s game.’

Brad shook his head in agreement. He took hold of Jeff’s shoulder. “Dude, let’s go to the mall cafe and talk over hot coffee. Come on, you’ll be okay.”

Ten minutes later they sat drinking coffee and Jeff had stopped trembling. Brad leaned closer. “Okay Jeff what happened next?”

Jeff took a deep breath. “Brad I swear this is true. I went closer and saw what seemed to be a man.”

Brad looked puzzled.  “Seemed to be; what do you mean?”

Jeff lowered his voice and checked for listeners. “He had the normal body parts, but his skin looked shrivelled and raw. The little clothin’ on him looked like it had mostly been burned away. He had no hair, and the face, the face…. Half of his face on one side looked burned away. His remainin’ eye was lookin’ right at me.

He started toward me and, I swear Brad it was real strange. His feet were on the ground, but the leaves he was steppin’ on never moved or sank under his weight. I’ve seen guys burned in Iraq that looked like that, but they were dead. I know it sounds crazy, but Brad I think he was dead. I froze at first then started runnin’. I didn’t stop until I reached the edge of town and saw other people. Damn Brad. I haven’t been that scared since Iraq.”

Brad knew Jeff wasn’t a liar and had no mental problems. He decided  to go and see the town sheriff to discuss it with him.

The next day it was storming, blowing so hard the rain beat down sideways, but Bud was determined. He entered Cal Doud’s office about 10 AM. Cal was sitting at his desk with a stack of paperwork in front of him. He looked up and smiled as Brad walked in.

“Hi Brad, what’s goin on with you? You look worried.”

“Cal I’ve got somethin’ to tell you and I’m sure it’s true. You know Jeff Bradshaw well enough to know he doesn’t lie or exagerate. I had a long talk with him yesterday.” He started to repeat what Jeff had told him.

Cal listened a bit then sent his deputy out for coffee. He told Brad to continue. When Brad was finished, Cal said, ” I’m goin’ to tell you somethin’ that happened when the old Crawford place burned down all those years ago. Several of us checked for bodies, but the only remains we found were those of the owner, Ralph Crawford. You know he was a mean cuss and had been there alone for years after his parents died and his wife left him, takin’ the two kids. You remember he’d been drinkin’ hard for a long time. We figured he’d passed out that day and his lit cigarette had set the bed on fire. I doubt he ever knew what happened. The body looked exactly like what Jeff described to you, but Jeff wasn’t there. He couldn’t have seen the body at any time.

We waited for the autopsy, and then gave the funeral director the job of arrangin’ a buriel. The Baptist church  took up a collection to pay the funeral expenses and to buy a headstone. They let him be buried in the church cemetary too since the Crawford family had once belonged to the congregation and donated land for the buildin’. You can go and see the grave for yourself. Ralph’s widow inherited the land, but a lot of taxes were unpaid, so it came back to the town.

Don’t repeat what you heard and we’ll put up a high chain link fence and No Trespassing signs all around the land.

Brad told Jeff what the sheriff had said and the secret was kept. There were no more sightings of the ghost. At least none that anyone would admit to

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