The Boat Graveyard

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Georgia Koch

It’s hard to believe she’s still there, exactly where I left her, completely untouched after all these years. She’s just sitting there at the edge of the river rotting away to nothing, a mere shell of what she once was. I told myself I would never come back to this awful place, that it was best left in the past, but the gnawing need to apologize for leaving her this way grew too intense. I’ll always regret abandoning her on the edge of that dirty river in that little run down boat. I just wasn’t ready to be a father.

—

This is pretty dark for a story written on my birthday, but I tend to go that way with my writing, so I can’t say it’s much of a surprise. I’m not sure if the “she” in the boat is the baby or the pregnant woman. Either way, it’s bad.

On a lighter note, my wife (to my knowledge) still hasn’t hired that hitman yet. Another year older and I get to carry on awhile longer. Hopefully I can avoid making her too mad until my next birthday.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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Divorce Is Messy

PHOTO PROMPT – © Me

His boots thumped against the wood as he walked toward the end of the boardwalk. Her silhouette beckoned him in the distance. He didn’t think she’d actually show. They usually don’t. They usually have a change of heart. Not this one though. This one meant business.

He grinned as he approached. She looked nervous. Most of the ones who made it this far did. He didn’t trust the ones who didn’t, refused to work with them.

“You got the money?” he asked.

She extended a shaking arm to him, a bag clutched in her hand.

“He won’t bother you anymore.”

—

I figured it only appropriate to write about marriage for this photo as I snapped the shot while on my honeymoon almost 9 years ago. Sure, this story is about a broken marriage and a hitman hired to kill the husband, but it’s still about marriage. If you’re wondering, this story is not a reflection of reality. To my knowledge my wife hasn’t hired anyone to kill me and as far as I know she isn’t planning to. I’ve been wrong before though.

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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The Cycle Continues

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

He stood on the rocks, gazing out over the water as waves broke at his feet.

“She belongs to them now,” a withered voice spoke from behind.

He shook his head. “What right do they have?”

“That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked. We sacrifice one for the good of the many. It was your turn to offer the sacrifice. Simple as that,” the old woman replied.

“Will they kill her?” he asked, hopeful.

“You know better, James. They’ll turn her into one of them. She’ll be the monster that comes to take Peter’s little girl next cycle.”

—

I skipped last week because I was out of town having fun over the weekend and knew I wouldn’t be around to do any reading of the other stories. You can check out a bit of the fun I was having by visiting yesterday’s post.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.
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Another Day. Another Bird.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Carter stared out the window, his chin resting on the sill. He counted the birds sitting atop the wire. Sixty-eight. Another had joined the sixty-seven that had been there yesterday, which had been sixty-six the day before. Each day another joined the others, and although Carter watched them almost endlessly, he never saw one leave.

One bird sat there for each day since what his parents had dubbed “the accident.” They were beginning to weigh the line down–a mirror of the guilt weighing on him. It hadn’t been an accident. He’d meant to smother his sister with that pillow.

—

Like Carter, I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts lately, but not because I’ve smothered anyone with a pillow. I don’t know why, but I do know that it’ll pass. It always does.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Click here to read stories from the other Fictioneers.