A 100-word story for this week’s photo prompt at Friday Fictioneers. I remember it as though it happened yesterday. It was my seventh birthday and
Gave it all up when I was fourteen. Nobody could understand why. I simply reacted like any teenager. Scowled a lot. Said it was boring
“Is this where you left him?” “Yes, boss. In a hole just to the right of those deserted buildings. He thought he was being buried
The large crate arrived early this afternoon, sooner than I’d expected. The fellow who delivered it, a miserable looking individual, moaned like hell because of
“Name and date of birth please, sir.” “Michael Peter Jones, 21st March 1962” “And when did you die Mr Jones?” “Sometime this morning, I think.
My fingers wrap around the stone in my pocket, your sticky blood still warm to the touch. I was going to throw it in the