Photo Prompt
Each month, we post a photograph as a writing prompt. Post your 100-word story in the comments section, and we’ll choose one to feature in our next issue. To see examples, read photo stories we’ve published in the past.
In the spirit of fun and fairness, please follow these guidelines:
• Post only one story per photo prompt.
• Be mindful of others’ feelings when commenting (keep it positive rather than giving feedback).
• Remember this is a shared safe space for all lovers of 100-word stories.
Art Credit: Tim Caynes
Hannah’s phone ripped her from a dream about alligators flying in a passenger jet above the heartland.
“Hello?” she mumbled, unable to read the caller ID without her glasses, lost on her nightstand in the dark.
“Are you sleeping?” Rob asked. Her ex-boyfriend couldn’t seem to understand that breaking up meant no more calls.
“Of course,” she grumbled. “It’s two in the morning.”
“No, it’s not,” Rob replied. “It’s eleven here in Vegas. That means it’s eight on the east coast. Do the math.”
Hannah disconnected and powered off her phone. Breakups are hard, but time zones should be easy.
Landing With Hyenas
My flight is slowing down, descending to the runway and on the approach, I’m counting every minute until I’m out of the middle seat.
Three hours in the middle seat, and so unprepared for life lessons from two young women with their numerous side glances, laughing like hyenas and talking about sex, body image and birth, like scenes from the play, “The Vagina Monologues.”
It won’t be long before I celebrate my sexuality with a glass of champagne, soak in the silence and
simply hear my heart beat, but high-pitched hyena giggles will linger in my mind for a while.
This is really beautiful.
“oh my gwad! this is beautiful dad !”he said in excitement stretching his head to see the greenish land and how small the houses and cars are. mr Andrew could only nod constantly as he wipe away his tears. toby look further enjoying the view from the jet window. if there is only one wish left to ask in life,that will be to see Toby live once again,and explore the world round as a young pilot in embryo mr Andrew sat down lost in thought as toby call for him. “dad,dad thank you” toby said smiling already looking pale and weak from watching the view.
“you are welcome,rest a bit” mr Andrew said calmly. the jet plane landed safely. the next day toby was gone, he left the world to join the stars in the sky.
Compass Passion
Maybe I will always feel the weight
Of the air.
Whether I’m 30,000 feet up in the sky or I’m laying in manure on the ground.
There’s a difference
In pressure. But either way I can feel every pound.
I keep trying to learn how to fly to heaven
Above all the air
Weightless
In my airplane because I can’t fly there on my own
But if I ever made it I think I’d cry
For everyone laying in the manure
Looking at the sky
And praying to wake up one day
And know how to fly
I’m sorry.
THE JOYRIDE
I jump out of bed and rush to the airfield. Today l take my first joyride . The pilot , a youngster is there before me.
” Welcome !” he says.
We get into the two seater and take off .
” Wonderful ! ” l say , my heart racing.
” Thanks .”
The landscape is stretched out below us like a giant map.
” You ‘ll have to help with the landing”, he says. ” Still a little rusty. ”
“Help with the landing? ” l repeat blankly.
” All instructors do that .”
” But..but aren’t you the pilot ?”
“Aren’t you the new instructor ?”
Endless greenery stretched to the horizon. Below, lazy lines in the farmland curved back and forth. I rested my head on my hand as the countryside passed below. The apricot-colored engine of the plane was a spot of contrasting color reminiscent of a sunset.
“Anything interesting outside?” my father asked, a newspaper propped on his lap.
I imagined myself below, acres spread out before me, surveying everything that was mine. Hands on my hips, a straw hat on my head, fresh dirt below my practical boots. A contented smile spread across my face.
“Nah,” I murmured. “Just daydreaming.”
The constituents were furious – and rightly so. From the swaying picket, squatting behind bent umbrellas, they heckled,
“It’s too loud!”
“It’s too blustery!”
“My washing! I’ve lost eight pairs of knickers already!”
“And look at my bunny,” a girl wept, clasping said pet under her cardigan. “Li’l Bucky’s blown bald!”
Jenkins MP floundered on his soapbox, tie and toupee flapping.
“I understand your concerns,” he screamed. “But our experts remain adamant that–”
As the wind took him, Jenkins came to the realisation that a mile-wide jet engine may not have been the wisest means of ventilating his county.
I want to avoid panic, so I whisper to my seatmate that we’re in trouble. I need her to stay calm and help me keep my eyes pried open. I warn her that if I close them or look away for even a second, gravity will cleave the engine off the wing of our plane. It’s your classic A Sound of Thunder situation, I explain. Something in the past has changed, but so long as I maintain visual contact, reality will stay fixed. We’ll skirt doom. I tell her to use her nails if she must. I beg her, hurry.
THE RIGHT BUTTON
3.00 am. I wake up in cold sweat. The same dream again : l am flying over lush – green countryside. Then l press the button , releasing the bomb. The lush- green explodes into a mass of fire , smoke , destruction and death .
” Too many war movies, ” says the therapist , prescribing diazepams.
But l am afraid to sleep . Ever since l realized my childhood dream of joining the Air Force , this nightmare has plagued me.
Today l report for work to find that my squadron has been transferred to Afghanistan.
I pull out my laptop. ” No more nightmares awake or asleep. I quit. ”
I press the right button, ‘Send ‘.
Up and away like the song we go soaring above our planet in our stationary plastic glass capsule. We named it air plane. Such incredibility now seems so normal so routine; puts us to sleep when we gaze down at such an unimpressive view of the earth we have enslaved and captured. Our capsule spews noxious fumes, invisible only to our eyes. Our bodies tell a truer tale. Do we remember when green flecks were forests flowing across the land? When the air was like swallowing pure silver streams?
The flight attendant looms. Sir, would you like a drink?
Sure.
(Apologies – this is the version I’d like to submit. Formatting got a bit weird in my original).
“Validation”
She splashes the deck, a deterrent, across the coffee table. I-71 rattles the windows. Filthy floor, two lights, a forlorn magnolia by the ashtray. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
The Lovers; Joyce dancing in the tulip beds. A warm July mist. Her trowel is sharp.
Two of Cups; Tango night. Joyce leads. He could hit the worn hardwood like sticks cracking, La Cumparsita all the way down.
Healing; A sunlit therapist’s studio. Rehearsed smiles. Fifty-five minute intervals. No relief. No relief-
-no relief. She opens her iPhone. Twenty-seven missed calls.
She admits to a noontime visit. She admits to everything.