Where Are You?

A 100-word story.

WHERE ARE YOU?

 

I remember it as though it happened yesterday.

It was my seventh birthday and dad had stuck a donkey on the wall.

We’d laughed when Jimmy pinned the tail on the left leg.

Then it was my go. When I finally stuck that tail onto the donkey nobody laughed, so I thought I’d done OK. Funny thing was, nobody clapped or cheered either.

When I took that blindfold off and turned around there was not a person in sight.

I’ve been travelling these roads for nigh on two years now – so far I’ve yet to come across another living soul.

Mike Jackson

A 100-word story for this week’s photo prompt at Friday Fictioneers.

Photo courtesy of – J Hardy Carroll

Olympic Standard

A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

OLYMPIC STANDARD

 

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 and I’d better things to do with my life.

I never mentioned Neil.

The ever-popular, charismatic Mr Neil Samuels. The charming ex-professional who used to keep me behind at the end of sessions for extra tuition. The same dependable man who made me promise not to tell anyone about our little secret.

They said I was good. Olympic standard at least.

Nowadays I can’t go near a swimming pool without being violently sick.

 

Mike Jackson

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

A 100-word story for the prompt at Friday Fictioneers.

Parts Missing

Parts Missing is one of a series of 100 word stories.

PARTS MISSING

 

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 its weight. It didn’t make matters any better when I told him I couldn’t help due to this dodgy back of mine.

He grumbled incessantly as he slowly dragged the thing into the garage.

Once he’d gone, I prized off the wooden lid and looked inside.

My heart missed a beat.

Her limbs and torso were exactly as I’d packed them but, to my horror, her head was missing.

Where on earth could it be?

Mike Jackson

Gran’s Last Wish

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GRAN’S LAST WISH

Gran had moved in with us.

A short term arrangement until we could agree where we should scatter her ashes.

She presently took centre stage on the mantelpiece, her small green urn wedged between a picture of mum and dad on their wedding day and an old carriage clock.

We’d found the jar whilst clearing out Gran’s flat. It was where she kept her wishes, written on brightly coloured scraps of paper and dated.

I found what must have been her last wish, dated the day before she died.

It simply read – ‘Please, whatever happens, don’t let them cremate me.’

 

Mike Jackson

A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Photo courtesy of  Priya Bajpal

The Crack In The Wall

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THE CRACK IN THE WALL

Peter measured the crack in the wall scribbling the measurements into a small notebook, which he tucked into his dressing gown pocket.

He put his ear to the crack. The voices seemed quieter today, more distant. His heart quickened as her gentle voice rose above the chatter.

“Peter, my dear, how are you?”

Peter didn’t reply. He never did. Unsure if the voice was real or just one of many that inhabited his head.

“Have you taken your measurements today? The opening is getting bigger, my dear, just like I said it would.”

Peter nodded but remained silent.

“Soon the gap will be large enough for my friends and I  to pass through. Then you and I can finally be together.”

How Peter longed for that moment.

“Time to go darling. You’ve a visitor.”

The voices went quiet. Peter straightened up and took a step back as his bedroom door opened.

“Good morning Mr Jones. How are we this morning? Still worried about that crack in the wall I see. I’ve had a word with maintenance. They’re sending someone down to have a look at it. Now, be a love, roll up your sleeve and I’ll give you your medication.”

Mike Jackson

Have You Seen The Table?

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HAVE YOU SEEN THE TABLE?

Arthur looked at the table. What was it with these people?

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t told them before. Last time they’d left it covered in half-empty beer glasses and overturned wine bottles.

The time before that he’d found the table cluttered with bottles of bleach and sundry other cleaning materials that hadn’t been put away.

Today it was set out as a coffee station.

He blamed Guinevere. She was the one responsible for the domestic staff.

He looked up at the clock.

He just had time to clear it away before the first of his knights arrived.

Mike Jackson

A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Photo courtesy of  Priorhouse

What Have We Got Sergeant?

“What have we got sergeant?”

“The body’s that of a young woman, boss. Mid-twenties, been dead about 12 hours. She was also about three months pregnant”

“Any idea who she is?”

“Name’s Cinderella, boss. Seems she was engaged to be married to the Prince but he broke it off a month ago.”

“Do we know why?”

“No boss. But neighbours say she took it badly and let herself go. Then recently told them she was moving. Said someone was buying her a swanky flat.”

“Right sergeant, let’s get over to the Palace, see what the Prince knows about this.”

Mike Jackson

A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Photo courtesy of  Yvette Prior.