I finally got my act together and put together a story for Friday Fictioneers. I love this prompt, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who also the lovely hostess of Friday Fictioneers. It also happens to be Rochelle’s birthday. Happy Birthday, Rochelle! I hope you’re enjoying yourself and relaxing. Rochelle’s book Please Say Kaddish For Me was recently published. It’s getting great reviews. Check it out!
Lana loves to put on a show. Ivy and Alex put on shows for each other. William, a student, hides behind drawn blinds. Octavia, lost in her own apartment, is on a strict pill diet. Lloyd, the overachiever, wakes before dawn with his stocks and treadmill. Sheamus, this guy never leaves his apartment, never sleeps. He’s always watching; across, below, inside. Conveniently across from his vantage point, a reflective window shines light on their misery.
It’s the perfect mix of joie de vivre and desperation. With penthouse views, Lloyd sips his brandy, watching the watched. Misery is calling his name.
For more stories from the Fictioneers, click here.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly Link-up. Writers from around the globe attempt to write a 100-word story based on a photo prompt. Today’s photo was supplied byKent Bonham.A big thank you goes out to our lovely hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
I think this is a picture of a train station. I could be wrong, but that is my inspiration here. You may have heard of the popular novel, Girl on a Train. Well, here’s “Boy on a Train.”
Genre: Thriller (100 words)
Boy on a Train
He sat in the corner of the railcar, wearing his leather jacket and usual scruff.
When passengers cleared, Lily edged closer and settled across from him. “I know you. Was it a class? Or is it Une Petite Tasse? ” He nodded. “You know it?”
“I don’t go there.”
Except he went there yesterday and the day before; he followed her scent. Last time he checked, it was J’adore. She liked to dab it between her thighs before she left in the morning.
He stood and whispered, “Goodbye, Lily.”
She froze to the screech of steel. She’d never introduced herself.
More stories from the Fictioneers can be foundhere.
The book club gathered weekly, an exclusive female unit, outfitted with painted lips and stiletto heels. They didn’t gather to talk about the latest, popularized drivel. Their eyes darted from their books to scout the room, ready to pounce on the last available intelligent males on the planet.
Simon peeked through a column of books and watched in horror as they laughed boisterously, obviously disturbing the other patrons. He plopped into a cushy chair near their table, and glared.
Ian, the store owner, tapped him on the shoulder.
“Simon, man. These are paying customers. You’re scaring them.”