OPEN DOOR

It always followed the same pattern.

Middle of the night. Panicked phone call. Incoherent story.

She always ended up agreeing to go over.

This is different. Door wide open. Probably just a neighbour didn’t close it right. Out of habit she checks the mailbox. Empty.

Up the stairs, lit by flickering halogen. Along the corridor. Knock on the door.

Door gently swings open. Creeping unease.

She calls out her name. ‘It’s me. Where are you?’

No answer. Unease turns to dread. Bed lies empty.

She finds the scrawled note on the table: ‘This time they found me.’


Copyright Roger Bultot

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).

To read stories of 100 words based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.

Also linking to Fandango’s One-Word Challenge for today: Pattern.


For those who haven’t yet read my trilogy of novels, The State Trilogy is now available on Amazon in one collected volume on Kindle and in paperback. Three books in one (with a modest saving compared to buying them all individually!).

INTIMATE

Could you be this intimate with anyone else? Anyone apart from your lifelong best friend?

She had been with plenty of men, in relationships and one night stands. She had never felt anything like this. She looked over at her. She was staring back at her. They were thinking the same thing. It felt right.

How had they ended up here, lying in bed together? It had been an evening like any other, apart from the news. They watched the rioters storm the Capitol, engrossed in the drama as democracy struggled to survive. It was too much for her to bear. She was always too passionate about politics. It had been the same during the Black Lives Matter protests.

She comforted her, wiping away the tears, stroking her hair, holding her. Nothing that they hadn’t done for each other for the last twenty years as friends. But something felt different. She had thought about it before, they had talked about it before. Now they looked at each other and their eyes said the same thing.

That first hesitant kiss, their lips meeting softly, then pulling apart. Were they sure? Then another kiss, longer and lingering and her hands running through her hair and down her back and they were pressed together and she felt a hunger and a yearning.

They looked at each other now. They were still friends, but they were something more. You can’t be that intimate with someone and go back to being just friends. And she didn’t want to be just friends with her. She wanted so much more.

They returned to the real world slowly, lazily, lounging in their apartment. She put the news on. Four dead. The new President confirmed. Democracy was fighting back. It was a new dawn.


Written for #FOWC, hosted by Fandango Today’s prompt word was: Intimate.


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THE RACE

Rain batters off the window. I lie in bed listening to it. It is my favourite sound, until I remember I have to get up and go out.

I get up and pull on layers of clothing. Definitely a day for a hat and jacket and gloves. Then into the car, with just a piece of fruit for breakfast and energy.

I manage to get parked and walk to the start line, hunched up against the rain that shows no sign of relenting. The wind gusts around, making the rain slant horizontally.

There’s music playing and a loud PA shouting out indistinguishable words. The crowd of gathered runners are exuberant. There’s plenty of fist-pumping and waving and greetings and warm-up exercises and laughter. I can’t bring myself to join in.

The space fills until as the start time approaches. A fitness trainer leads a mass warm-up. Everyone jostles for position as the firing gun cracks and the elite runners set off. We walk forward until the start line is visible. I set my watch and start jogging and instantly feel better. Even the rain abates as we all began our half-marathon. I even manage to raise a smile of encouragement with some fellow runners around me.

I lie in bed and listen to the rain battering off the window and I can’t wait until I have to get up and go out for a race.


Written for #FOWC, hosted by Fandango on his blog This, That and the Other. Today’s prompt word was: Exuberant. Click on the link to read contributions from other writers.

Looking forward to the post-pandemic world when we’re allowed to gather in groups again and take part in mass participation running events. I’m not an exuberant runner, but running on my own is getting a bit tiresome!

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DREAMING OF HEATHER

The bed sheets are damp with sweat. The muggy, warm air offers no relief. I unwrap myself and lie on top of the duvet. This weather has to break soon.

It isn’t just the close atmosphere that has made me sweat. I had been dreaming of her again. Vague images of my dream come back to me as I lie in the dark.

A summer’s day. A field of purple. She’s wearing a white dress, translucent in the sunlight. She dances with a flower in her hair: ethereal, light and shimmering. Her smile beckons and delights.

I close my eyes and see her again. Reaching out for her, feeling her soft skin as she takes my hand.

Lying together in the long grass, feeling the warmth of the sun and her touch, our bodies side-by-side.

Birdsong. Daylight pours in through the curtains. Another night has drifted away, and so, once again, has she.

In the distance, there is a rumble of thunder and the first spots of rain hit the window. The weather has finally broken.


dream
Copyright Sue Vincent

This is a response to the #writephoto Prompt: Dream curated over at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo. Click on the link to read other stories inspired by the image.


STATE OF WAR squrere

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