Terminal

PHOTO PROMPT© Jan Wayne Fields

What had started as a tiny whisper, barely heard among the unrelenting hustle and bustle of his thoughts and aspirations had slowly grown—so slowly that he hadn’t even noticed, save for the occasional headache. As it’d grown, so had the whisper, eventually turning into a thunderous, agonizing roar. Michael could feel the awful thing camped out inside his head, at the base of his skull. Terminal, his doctor had called it.

He fled to the forest when the thing inside started stealing control of his motor functions. There in his tent, he left the world on his own terms.

—

Monsters come in all shapes and sizes. Some even sneak up on you and make your body their cozy, little den. I wrote a story last week too, but never got around to posting it. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last either.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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Stopping for Fuel

PHOTO PROMPT © Kent Bonham

Paul finished pumping his gas and disappeared inside the shop to pay. Cash. Always cash.

When he stepped outside again, the trunk of his car stood open. His eyes calmly swept the area. There. Huddled in the arms of a trucker. He smirked and made a beeline for the girl. The trucker stepped between them.

“Hold it right there, buddy,” the hulking man said.

Paul pulled the gun tucked in his belt and put a bullet between the trucker’s eyes at point blank range.

“His death is on you,” he told her as he shoved her back into the trunk.

—

Paul is not a good man. Or maybe there is more to his story with this particular girl. Perhaps he is only doing what is necessary. Only time will tell I suppose.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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Patient Log: Daniel Moran

PHOTO PROMPT © Claire Sheldon

Day 6.

Daniel continues to exhibit unusual behavior. He’s convinced that he sees penguins everywhere he looks. One is always lying face down, killed by the other, who is usually hiding behind something.

Day 7.

Daniel’s condition has not improved, and may be contagious. Several others have reported seeing Daniel’s penguins.

Day 8.

They’re all dead. Everyone who has seen the penguins. Even one of the nurses. All with their eyes seemingly pecked out by some kind of bird. I’ve no idea what to make of it. I don’t want to believe in the penguins, but it’s hard not to.

—

Those penguins kept calling out to me, but it took me several days and many, many failed attempts to see any kind of half decent story there. For better or worse, this is what came from all the hassle.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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A Sign of the Times

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Dusty walked down the deserted alley, the stones warm under his bare feet. Years ago, people would have packed the narrow passage like sardines. Not anymore.

He banged a rock against one of the metal pipes embedded in the wall. The sound reverberated through the alley.

Hideous creatures—disfigured, heartless things that had once been human before some psychopath started playing with chemical weapons—poured through broken windows and crooked doors into the cramped space.

Dusty retreated to the relative safety of the sewer, praying for the two bound children he’d left out there: an offering to appease the beasts.

—

This one didn’t come easily, and, as always, I have no idea if it’s good, mediocre, or shit. But I’m moderately happy with it, so I guess that’s good enough, right?

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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Purgatory

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Marler Morrill

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, walking this endless labyrinth of concrete blandness. I remember a time before this place, but I don’t know how long ago that was. It could be hours, days, weeks, months, even years. There’s no way of really knowing. Time is funny here. It slips through your fingers like water. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow.

Not even the sweet release of death can free me from this God forsaken place. The last memory I have from the time before I came here is of the day I died. I fear I’m stuck here forever.

—

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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