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.

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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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The City of Hope

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Hope, they call it, the fortress city behind the wall. Impenetrable unless they let you through the checkpoint. Lines of cars have been sitting there for as long as I can remember, but they haven’t moved in months. Occasionally, the guards still let a few people in, but not as often as before. I was one of the few to make it through the gates shortly after the Scourge. Once I learned what they do with outsiders, I hid. I’ve been trying to find a way back out ever since. Hope is the last thing they should call this place.

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The grass is always greener on the other side. And then you make the mistake of going to the other side.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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Just Passing Through

PHOTO PROMPT – © Al Forbes

The car rolled into town, adorned with human skulls and other various bones. People gave it a wide berth, just the way Jackson liked it. His voodoo priest getup–complete with top hat and white face paint–only helped his cause.

Ever since the government collapsed the world had become a dangerous place. Keeping people at a distance was safer. Inspiring fear, even better. A stolen car and a few mutilated corpses were a small price to pay.

Now came the part he hated most: filling the gas tank. It meant he’d have to barter with yet another crazy hillbilly.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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