Tag Archives: Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction – Trouble in Paradise

168-08-august-14th-2016A thin trail of blood trickled down his ring finger. At first the tiny wound had barely even stung – he couldn’t even remember how, or when, it had happened. Now there was a stiffness in lower arm. Slowly that sickening stiffness cascaded up towards his shoulders and then out and around the rest of his failing body. His legs suddenly gave way as he collapsed to the ground struggling for breath. These distant, hidden rainforests had been the photographer’s life; today they might prove his death.

His whole body and mind were now shutting down. Yet, it would surely pass. This was just a temporary shock: the primitive defence of some ancient flora defending its hard won territory. But as daylight began to ebb he remained on the sodden spot where he’d fallen. Drips of warm, sticky sweat covering his now fevered brow. In the distance desperate hopes were raised by shouts. Yet unable to respond, unable to cry for help the shouts soon faded – the piercing white searchlight of torches extinguished as his lonely vigil once more returned to clawing, suffocating darkness. In the near undergrowth something slithered in his direction.


Other entries for SPF can be found here.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Next in Line

160-06-june-12th-2016Three red lights shimmered in the summer haze. The cars on the start line continued to rev, golden licks of flame shooting from the silver and black exhausts. One by one the lights went dark. Both cars screeched  from the start, flame and smoke trails in their wake. Before you could wipe the heat and dust from your eyes it was over. Dad had won again.

‘Well, he’s only gone and done it, Brad.’ I turned towards my little brother, but he himself was already turned away – lost in his own world. Brad had never really shown much interest in racing; he’d never really shown much interest in most of the things our family was known for in the county. I though loved all of it: the cars, the competition, the noise, the excitement. But I was a girl and girl’s don’t race.

The fans in the stands cheered as this year’s champion made his way back towards the pits. In a few years  Brad would be expected to take over the family concern – expected to become the next champion to raise the family name high.  I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Dad would be heartbroken, but in time I hoped he’d understand.


Other entries for SPF can be found here.

Sunday Photo Fiction – The Grassy Knoll Files

spf050616Joel was a conspiracy theorist. He wasn’t the only one in his freshman year at St. McKenzies. In fact they had their own club. ‘Theories Unlimited‘ it was called, and they met once a week in each other’s rooms at the dorm house. So far this semester they had covered all the old favourites: JFK, Area 51, the Moon Landings. Tonight Joel was hosting the group. There would be plenty of room, there was only six of them.

‘That’s clearly not true,’ cried Emily. ‘Elvis isn’t dead, he has a ranch in North Dakota – I’ve seen the pictures.’

Joel nodded in agreement. As the discussion around the continued existence of ‘The King’ raged on, Joel got up and wandered across to the fridge. Having pulled together a pastrami sandwich he tipped the milk carton up to pour himself a glass, only to find the carton almost empty.

‘Hey, has anyone been at my milk?’ he asked the group.

The room fell silent, almost. At the far end of the settee Jimmy slurped from a plastic beaker. Looking up, the white foam ring around his lips was clear for all the theorists to see. Sheepishly he shrugged his shoulders and said ‘Err, the CIA drunk it? Aliens?’


Other entries for SPF can be found here.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Natural Born Artist

spf290516I started messing around with paint when I was a kid. I painted everywhere; on walls, on floors on windows. I drove my old mum mad. If I weren’t leaving paint on something I had it all over myself. No matter how many baths I had, no matter how much I scrubbed, there were always paint under my nails. More than that it was under my skin, and everyone knew it. In the end they just let me get on with it. And I did.

There wasn’t a part of town where you wouldn’t see my tag. Fizz I called myself and the cops and the council hated me. They’d clean a wall and I’d be back. From time to time they’d catch me. It didn’t bother me: if I had to pay for my art then so be it.

Funny thing is last week I went back to one of those walls I sprayed as a kid. This time the council were there again, but to say well done and give me a cheque. Yeh, so get this, they’re now paying me for my art. ‘Urban regeneration’ they call it; ‘Fucked up’, some old fella called it. Call it what you want – I just love to paint.


Other entries for SPF can be found here.

Sunday Photo Fiction – View From The Hill

125-10-october-11th-2015As kids we often climbed to the top of Kinney Hill. From there we could see the whole world. Africa, Australia, America, even China, on a really clear day, shimmered mystically on the summer horizon. We had plans to visit them all – to see the world. Sadly, those times of innocence and wonder have long faded to memory. Most of my friends from those days settled down to an ordinary life. An expected, safe  existence  in the town within which they were born and raised. Me? I decided to see if I could actually seek out  these places: those distant lands only those brave and hardy enough to climb the scree scarred slopes of Kinney Hill could usually hope to see.

Twenty years I served in all. Twenty years in lands far from home. In lands far from my wife and children. When I returned for good they were gone and I was once again alone. I still meet up with my friends from childhood. We swap tales, remember the days on Kinney Hill. I tell them of my travels. They all listen with respect and admiration. They then go home to their families; I return to silence, my empty flat  and my own thoughts. Thoughts for a better end to my life than this. Thoughts of a better reward for my sacrifice. Thoughts.


Wasn’t feeling inspired today but then this story just came in a flash. Only took five minutes to write i.e. it’s very raw and not overly edited, but it’s what came to mind. Hope you find something to like about it.

Other entries for SPF can be found here.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Solitary Confinement

121-09-september-13th-2015The piercing horn of a delivery truck echoed nosily around the early morning street. Up ahead, the single set of lights on 4th and Main had just switched from red to green – but the 30 year-old VW Beetle remained stationary. Despite its age, the car looked showroom new: every inch of chrome polished with obvious love, not a spot of rust could be seen anywhere on the pristine, blue body. Inside Eli Jenkins stared blankly towards the bright, green light – his eyes bloodshot, his face white and gaunt.

‘Hey, you in there, are you gonna move it or will I need to move it for ya?’ said the gruff, bearded man, who’d jumped down from the truck.

Eli ignored him.

The lights changed back to red; the bearded trucker knocked harder on the steamed-up window.

‘Sir, I’ll handle this’ said an approaching police officer.

The young officer opened the car door and slowly removed the keys, before gently leading a confused Eli to the safety of the sidewalk.

‘It’s his wife, Sir – she passed last week and he’s taken it real hard,’ said the officer, as he returned to the scene.

The officer carefully drove Eli’s cherished car to a vacant parking bay across the street; the delivery truck revved and trundled on its way. Meanwhile Eli Jenkins waited patiently on the sidewalk, still expecting his Nellie to appear.


These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.

Sunday Photo Fiction – The Old Place

81-10-october-12th-2014It was only my second week in accounts. I was the new boy – soon there would be another, and they would be the one taking the orders:

‘Two sugars, No milk.’

‘Three sugars, extra milky.’


‘Nothing for me, son.’

The stained, wooden tray wobbled as I carefully weaved through the sea of filing cabinets. I spluttered as I placed a cracked Silver Jubilee mug on the edge of Mr Heaton’s desk. A muffled thanks barely penetrated the fog as an ivory pipe rattled against his yellowed teeth.

Mr Williams and Miss Foster laughed and giggled as I approached. He was married, happily they said. She was barely out of school – younger than me. Thinking back, it seemed so innocent; now it’s all so different.

The office closed in 1994 – it was turned into luxury flats within six months. Those of us still working there were moved to a new place in the new industrial estate on the other side of town.

Mr Heaton passed away last summer. His days wrapped in fumes eventually taking their toll. Mr Williams remains happily married – he’s now a grandfather of eight. Miss Foster left after just a few months. Heard she moved to Australia – I wonder if she remembers Mr Williams.


These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. 

Sunday Photo Fiction – A New Master


The mysterious new squire at Branford Hall already had the locals talking: the village’s social highlight of the year had been moved! The previous squire had been a stout defender of tradition, and the longest day of the year always meant the Masquerade Ball. Through winter and spring the villagers, rich and poor, would work on their costumes. It was a night when, no matter who you were, you were an equal: the flower lady from outside the Green Goose public house was just as likely to be dancing with the squire as his good lady wife.

From longest day to longest night – the move certainly ruffled more than a few feathers. However, they all still attended, even battling through swirling snows to reach the manor. Once inside, the seasons were quickly forgotten. The new squire was a most obliging host. Roaring fires warmed once frozen bones, drink flowed merrily and freely. Lord and Lady, Mr and Mrs danced and laughed all night.

On the stroke of twelve it was time for the unmasking. As was tradition, the squire and his family were first to reveal themselves. A gasp went around the hall: the squire was as white as a sheet. His silk gloves peeled off to reveal pale boney fingers. His family were similarly off colour.

The squire slowly licked his cracked, red lips before two gleaming fangs clicked down into place.

‘Feast young ones,’ he ordered, as the warm, smoky air was suddenly filled with bloody screams and the aching of satisfied, thousand year old bellies.


These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. It is over the 200 word limit, but as it’s the first story for the new site, and Al is a fan of the subject matter, I thought ‘what the heck’!