Tag Archives: flash fiction

Who Murdered the Lady in the Lake?

coniston water

Coniston Water, Lake District, England – © Google – July 2017

Simon sighed as he read of Gordon Park’s suicide in Garth Prison. He’d been convicted of murdering his wife Carol Ann six years ago, but continued to declare his innocence, claiming that she left him for another man.

The last threat to exposing Simon died with Park.

“Poor Carol Ann. You shouldn’t have kept trying to find your birth family.”

He could still see the look on her face as he smashed it with the ice axe. If he’d piloted the boat further out onto the lake, her body would have vanished in the deeps, instead of being discovered by amateur divers on a ledge.

“I became your lover to prevent you from finding out that your mother was a prostitute and your father was a drug smuggler. Daddy’s dead, and as his only son, I’m running the family business. Sorry, dear sister. You simply got in the way.”

I wrote this for the What Pegman Saw writing challenge. The idea is to use a Google maps street image and/or location as the prompt for crafting a piece of flash fiction no more than 150 words long. My word count is 149.

Today, the Pegman takes us to Coniston Water, Lake District, England. Naturally, I looked it up on Wikipedia and discovered, among other things, that it was the site of the famous Lady in the Lake murder.

Carol Ann Park went missing in 1976. However, it wasn’t until her body was discovered in 1997 in the lake on a shelf seventy-five feet under the surface by amateur divers that murder was suspected. You can click the link I provided to read all of the details, but among the other facts of the case, Mrs. Park was adopted and had been attempting to locate her birth parents. When she disappeared, her husband Gordon did claim she ran off with another man. She was murdered with an ice axe, and Gordon did hang himself in prison in 2010.

Of course, I made up everything about Simon and am not suggesting that the wrong man was convicted of the crime. In writing this, I am not intending any disrespect to the Park family, and particularly not of the deceased.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

The Target

Taxi

Photo credit: Kai Pilger pexels-photo-462867 Taxi

Peter took a taxi from JFK into Manhattan, seeing the driver frown in the rear view mirror when he gave the address.

Anna had met him outside Terminal 4 where she’d given him the item secured in a laptop case. He was the only one in the organization who could deliver it to the target, but it would mean his death as well. It hardly mattered, He had stage four liver cancer and would be dead soon anyway.

Arriving at the Trump Tower, he paid the fare adding a generous trip. He had more in common with the driver than the man might expect.

Showing his ID, he was waved through every level of security except the Secret Service. Fortunately, the laptop was a working model.

“Donald, how good to see you again.” He shook hands with one of his oldest friends. They exchanged pleasantries in the President’s private suite, and then, “Let me show you that information we have on the FBI.”

The explosion killed them both instantly, raining debris onto 5th Avenue.

Listening to the news, Anna felt both grief and joy. Now maybe the government would reunite all of those poor babies with their parents at the border.

I wrote this for the Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner – 2018 Week #25 challenge. The idea is to use the photo above as the inspiration for crafting a piece of flash fiction no more than 200 words long. My word count is 200.

No, I’m not advocating assassinating President Trump or hurting or killing anyone. However, Trump’s “zero tolerance” immigration policy, which has been blamed for the separation of parents and children who have illegally attempted to enter the U.S., is all over the news and social media. Also, all you have to do is search twitter for the hashtag #resistance, and you can see the tremendous response to this policy in specific, and President Trump in general.

So I thought I’d create an extremist form of that resistance, one in which even some of Trump’s closest friends have joined, and one that is willing to use lethal force to enact political and social change.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Oh, “Peter” and “Anna” are totally fictitious and is not based on any actual people.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com. Remember, this linkup still needs a lot of love, so please consider contributing a story. Thanks.

Social Experiment

venice

© Fatima Fakier Deria

“They’re beginning to panic, Vym.”

Vym and Qloutyd were watching the news broadcasts from their alien stealth ship in low Earth orbit.

“Naturally. They expect Venice to be flooded in a century according to their belief in this climate change phenomena. They could hardly expect the famous canals to actually dry up.”

“They’re blaming…wait a minute, low tides caused by a super blue blood moon. They have the most colorful names for things, don’t you think?”

“It’s just more data for us to gather in our social experiments.”

“Our planetary climate generator is working perfectly. Humans are so easily frightened.”

I wrote this for the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields flash fiction writing challenge. The idea is to use the image above to inspire creating a piece of flash fiction no more than 100 words long. My word count is 100.

Venice is a very famous place with a long and remarkable history, so I tried to think of something unique. Looking up news for the city, I came across an article called Venice canals dry up after super blue blood moon and low rainfall cause water levels to drop dated 2 Feb 2018. It’s such an unexpected occurrence that I thought I’d have aliens cause it, as well as the whole climate change phenomena, as a social experiment to see how we poor humans would react. Apparently, we’re very predictable.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

Frozen Love

ice

© Enisa

It had to be as beautiful as possible, but because of the ice sculpture’s size, Victor had to use automated industrial saws and chisels. It didn’t help that he was working alone in a freezing warehouse, but he required absolute secrecy.

He sat behind the console of the remote control unit and directed robots with heated metal arms to smooth out the edges.

“It will be alright, my dear. This will be the most elegant piece of artwork I have ever produced.”

The rented semi was out back, the temperature inside adjusted to below freezing. He’d arrange an “accidental” explosion here to cover his work, and then hide her away someplace that would always be winter cold.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Victor stood and pulled his gloves on, then walked up to the twelve-foot tall frigid form. Through the pristine pure ice, he could see her dressed in elegant silk, now as cold as his own heart. “You will never leave me for another, Nora. I shall keep our love frozen in time forever.”

I wrote this for the 170th FFfAW Challenge. The idea is to use the image above as a prompt for crafting a piece of flash fiction between 100 and 175 words long. My word count is 174.

The photo looked like some sort of ice sculpture, so I looked up the basics of making one. I also knew I wanted to make it big.

I borrowed the character names from an old Batman villain called Mr. Freeze. In the 1990s “Batman the Animated Series,” he was Victor Fries (pronounced “Freeze”), who, while trying to cryogenically freeze his wife to keep her from dying of an illness, is interrupted by his corrupt boss. He messes up the process, killing Nora, and changing Fries to someone who needs a sub-zero environment to survive. Thus a super villain is born.

In the case of my wee tale, I didn’t give Victor superpowers, but I did turn him into a homicidally jealous artist.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

This Year’s Father’s Day

father's day

Photo credit: Susan Spaulding

Every morning for the past three years, Gary took his convenience store donut and coffee to the park and had breakfast at one of the picnic tables. It had been a difficult time between the forced retirement and then Helen suddenly and angrily divorcing him. Most of all, he missed his kids and grandkids. They’d taken Helen’s side in the split up. He was lonely but stoic, or at least he pretended to be.

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” It was his grandson Tony running up to him from the parking lot. The eleven-year-old hit him like a loving freight train.

“You’ve really grown. I’ve missed you.” They drowned in each other’s arms.

Gary looked up to find himself surrounded by all of his kids, their spouses, and all of his grandkids.

Emily, his youngest, kissed him on the cheek. “Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Come home with us and have a real breakfast. We love you.”

It took a few minutes for the old man to compose himself enough to leave the park with his forgiving family.

I wrote this for the Sunday Photo Fiction of June 17, 2018 hosted by Susan. The idea it to take the image above and use it as a prompt for creating a piece of flash fiction no more than 200 words long. My word count is 174.

I cheated somewhat and read Iain’s story before writing my own. Since his theme was Father’s Day ( realize there are parts of the world that don’t have this celebration) and I’m a Dad and Grandpa, I decided to go that route as well, taking a sad beginning and brightening it.

To read other tales based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

Urartu

Taşlıçay

Taşlıçay, Ağrı, Turkey © Google Maps

He came to Taşlıçay after a snowstorm and entered Mehmet’s restaurant. The last customer had left and the proprietor had let his staff go early.

“We’re closing, Sir. I have nothing left to serve you.”

“I am not here to eat, Mehmet.” He spoke heavily-accented Turkish and appeared middle-eastern.

“What do you want?”

“To save your life. Great forces desire to take it.”

“You’re insane. Taşlıçay is a boring place. Nothing happens here.”

“After the great flood, elemental spirits, both good and evil claimed the area around Urartu and lay dormant. Tonight they rise from the temple on the hill and the höyük to the south. You are the last direct descendant of the ark, the last one who could prevent them from entering your world.”

“Who are you?”

The messenger of Hashem grew large and powerful, was armored in ethereal light, and drew a sword of silver. “They come.”

I wrote this for the What Pegman Saw writing challenge. The idea is to use a Google Maps location and/or image as the prompt for crafting a piece of flash fiction no more than 150 words long. My word count is 150.

Today, the Pegman takes us to Taşlıçay, Ağrı, Turkey. I looked it up and there’s not much going on in Taşlıçay either currently or historically, except for a few tiny details.

I leveraged the Facebook page for Things to do in Taslicay, which provided the restaurant setting. Going through the Google maps street images, I found the one posted above, which appealed to me since summer is approaching fast.

There’s a burial mound to the south of this rural town and both an Urartu temple and Armenian monastery on the hill above the village of Taşteker. Then I read:

Urartu, which corresponds to the biblical mountains of Ararat, is the name of a geographical region commonly used as the exonym for the Iron Age kingdom also known by the modern rendition of its endonym, the Kingdom of Van, centered around Lake Van in the Armenian Highlands.

Ararat is the legendary resting place for Noah’s Ark after the Great Flood of the Bible, so I thought I’d attempt to wrap all of that together into some sort of mystic tale of disaster and horror, all in 150 words. How did I do?

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

Oh, and how are these locations chosen, anyway?

Head Tax

escalator

Photo credit: Kaique Rocha pexels-photo-125532 escalator

Manny almost jumped back from top of the escalator when he saw Leah walking across the baggage claim area right below him. She hadn’t looked in his direction and was out of sight by the time he reached the bottom.

He hadn’t expected her to still be at Seatac. Her flight should have arrived hours ago. “Plane must have been delayed,” he muttered, approaching the line of waiting taxis. Entering the closest one, he uttered the address he was given. Manny was grateful the driver wasn’t chatty.

He arrived at the designated part of South Park, paid the driver including a generous tip, and got out. He’d be staying here for a few days, and the first thing he had to do was buy a gun, which wasn’t hard if you had the right connections.

Tomorrow, he’d greet and then kill Leah Thompson just as she left her upscale condo in Belltown. Then he’d exterminate everyone else on the city council who voted to repeal the “head tax.” His uncle Darrel had been murdered by another homeless person six months ago. If the city had been able to provide affordable housing to the needy, he’d still be alive.

I wrote this for the Week #24 writing challenge at Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. The idea is to use the image above as the inspiration for creating a piece of flash fiction no more than 200 words long. My word count is 196.

The photo looks like it could be an airport and I picked the city of Seattle at random. Looking up news for that city, I found Seattle quickly repeals ‘head tax’ that Amazon opposed. Apparently, Seattle had passed a law taxing big businesses like Amazon and Starbucks $500 per full-time employee so the city could fund affordable housing and services for the homeless. However Amazon pushed back in a big way, so the city council voted 7 to 2 to repeal it. Well, they actually dropped the tax to $250 per employee, but a lot of people were unhappy that the council caved in to big business.

I had planned to write an ominous tale when I first saw the photo, and my research just served to fill in the details.

My having written this missive doesn’t imply that I support or oppose Seattle’s “head tax.” I just needed to give Manny a motive for murder. Oh, the names used in my story are totally fictitious, and as far as I know, no one named “Leah Thompson” is on Seattle’s city council. I’m also not condoning killing anyone associated with this issue or for any other reason.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

As I’ve mentioned before, this link up needs a lot of love, so please consider contributing your own flash fiction piece.

Connie’s Flight

bird

© Jean L. Hays

The courier taking Connie and the other birds from the lab to the observation center dropped her cage in the parking lot and she was the only one he didn’t catch. Now she was free.

“Hello little birdie,” said the young girl. “Are you hungry?”

The coturnix quail hadn’t eaten in a long time.

“I’ll get you some bird seed.” The seven year old ran off, and Connie stayed because of food and decided to live with Eloise.

The longevity researchers gave up on the serum experiments because Connie went missing. Both she and Eloise lived another seventy years.

I wrote this for the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields photo writing challenge. The idea is to use the image above as the prompt for crafting a piece of flash fiction no more than 100 words long. My word count is 99.

I know the photo Rochelle posted isn’t a coturnix quail (commonly known as a Japanese Quail), but ten seconds of Googling didn’t reveal the species in question so I faked it.

I did discover that Japanese Quail have been a popular laboratory research animal since about 1957 and is used in the studies of aging and disease. The lifespan of this bird is about two to two-and-a-half years. Of course my experimental bird Connie lived a good deal longer and was a kind and loyal companion to Eloise all the days of her life.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.

A Suburban Horror Story

two children

Photo credit: wildverbs

“How did it happen? I mean, who was looking after her?”

Gerald and Marni were standing with the crowd of neighbors on the other side of the street watching. Police cars, fire, and paramedic units were seemingly cast in random arrangements in front of the stylish home in the upscale neighborhood.

“I think her brother was supposed to be watching her.”

“Are you nuts, Marni? He’s only five.”

“Hey, it’s what I heard.”

The onlookers made a collective gasp as the tiny body was carried out, drawfed by the adult-sized gurney.

“Oh my God.” Marni buried her face into her husband’s chest and sobbed. “She was only a baby.”

Marni’s husband stared across the street, trembling as he saw the haunted expressions on the faces of the little girl’s parents. Their young son was clinging to his mother’s leg and wailing.

He thought of their own backyard pool. The faces of their three children who were visiting their grandparents in Utah came into view unbidden. How horrible to be a parent and lose a child.

I wrote this for the 169th FFfAW Challenge hosted by Priceless Joy. The idea is to use the image above to inspire the creation of a piece of flash fiction between 100 and 175 words long. My word count is 175.

I just read a news story stating that the nineteen month old daughter of Olympic skier Bode Miller drowned. It’s a tragedy every parent dreads.

There’s no news about the cause or manner of death, but since the family lives in Orange County, California (my family used to live there over twenty years ago), the first thing that came to mind was a swimming pool. They are extremely common down there.

I remember our home had a pool, and when our children were very young, we had a motorized cover installed. It was impossible to slip under, and to open it, you had to insert, turn, and hold a key in a spring-loaded lock.

Of course, a child that age could easily drown in a bathtub as well.

Here in Southwestern Idaho, we have an extensive canal system that provides water for farmers and some neighborhood sprinkler systems, and every year, a few children (and the occasional adult) drowns in one.

My wee story is both a study in tragedy and a cautionary tale. When kids are that little, leaving them alone in or around any body of water for any amount of time is dangerous.

My condolences to the Miller family on their loss. As a parent and grandparent, I can feel the icy touch of death every time I hear about a child needlessly perishing.

To read other stories based on the prompt, go to InLinkz.com.

57 Pink Flamingos

pink flamingos

© Susan Spaulding

“$2500! You spent $2500 on that?” Jeanette watched in horror as she watched her husband Terry insert the last of the 57 pink flamingos he’s purchased on Amazon into their front lawn. The driveway was littered with the debris of cardboard shipping boxes.

“Come on. We can afford it. You know how much dough we stashed away from the Corleone caper.”

“That’s not the point. But we’re supposed to keep a low profile, you moron. Why don’t you just get a couple of spotlights and set off some fireworks while you’re at it? Maybe you could send an email to Vito and Sonny telling them our address so they could come over and blow our brains out.”

Terry walked to where his wife was standing on the front porch and put his arm around her. “They look swell, don’t they?” The Cheshire Cat never had a grin as wide as his.

“You’re nuts. They’re tacky as hell.”

“Exactly. We embezzled millions from the mob working as their accountants and we’re on the lam from them and the Feds. What better cover to hide behind than the queen of all tacky lawn ornaments?

I wrote this for the Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge for June 10, 2018. The idea is to use the image above as the inspiration for crafting a piece of flash fiction of no more than 200 words. My word count is 189.

Lacking an immediate story idea when I first saw the photo, I Googled “Pink Flamingo” only to come up with the tacky but classic 1972 film Pink Flamingos created by John Waters. Except for the idea of criminals hiding out, I found nothing I could use in that movie (and I’ve never seen it), so I moved on.

Then I found The Tacky History of the Pink Flamingo at Smithsonian.com and I had the rest of my “hook.”

These plastic monstrosities were created in 1957 in an effort to allow people to accessorize the “sameness” of their tract homes that reproduced like lemmings in the post-war era. You can read the full history for yourself, but apparently:

In their yard near Leominster, Nancy and Don Featherstone (the sculptor who was commissioned to create pink flamingos) typically tend a flock of 57 (a nod to the creation year) that neighborhood college students feel compelled to thin.

To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.