Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge presented by my old friend Al Forbes.
The idea is to write a short story (200 word max) inspired by what you see in the picture (below).
This week’s prompt is a photo by the delightful Dawn Miller, a long time favourite of mine.
Click on this link to enter your tale, and to see what others have written.
© Dawn Miller
Click here to hear the author read his words:
Prime Site
I sit outside the little café in the square and study the old railway station.
It is the finest building in town, and in the best position.
It catches the morning and evening sun, but it is cleverly protected at the hottest times by tall parasol pines.
It overlooks the carousel and the boules courts, with gardens at the far side.
The upper floor would make a great apartment, I think.
Although it is only five minutes walk to the beach, the extra elevation also gives views of the foothills.
I am told it is owned by the town, and only the mayor can give permission to sell.
And he never will, apparently.
‘Is that the chap with the moustache and the little grandson over at the carousel?’ I ask Rafa, who runs the café.
‘Ah yes, little Philippe, his pride and joy!’
The speed of the sale causes much annoyance, and the price, when disclosed, is almost derisory.
I am asked how I managed to negotiate such a deal with the famously inflexible mayor.
‘Just charm,’ I laugh, looking over at the children on the carousel.
Sound Bite Fiction 
Oh my goodness the sinister undertones of this gave me the creeps!
Perfection!
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Charming – as usual!
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Woah. In Hindi, we call such people ‘meethi chhuri’, a sweet knife. Truly dangerous that one. What a great thriller. Loved it.
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I feel horribly naive after reading the comments here, I assumed the narrator was complementary or helpful in some way to the grandson, malice didn’t enter my mind.
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How lovely to welcome a new visitor.
My strap line at the top of the page – where nothing is quite what it seems – gives you a clue as to what to expect.
And most commenters here are cynical, bitter folks, regular readers and friends, they know a little of how my mind works, so tend to fear the worst.
I hope you will visit again, Eryl, perhaps wearing your hat of suspicion.
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I’ll certainly visit again; maybe as I do my hat of suspicion will weave itself!
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Love the descriptions but not so much the narrator. I was shocked by the ending. Well done.
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Yeah, he’s not so sweet, is he?
Thank you.
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As in many stories there’s that character who’s willing to do or threaten anything to get what he wants. I usually don’t mind him as much, but I’m not keen on using children, even for a great place to live. I did live the description of how the narrator saw his potential apartment in terms of views and details. Hugs CE. Hope you are enjoying life.
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You are such a sweetheart, Amanda, thank you for caring for me and my characters.
Glad you found some good stuff too.
Hugs
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Thanks CE. That’s such a nice compliment. I appreciate it very much. There’s good things in everything, every story 🙂 Hugs 🤗
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Simply superb Ceayr, but what else does one expect from you.
A slight note, or call it doubt. Shouldn’t there have been an asterix or at least a space break just before …The speed of the sale causes much annoyance, and the price, when disclosed, is almost derisory.
I am just thinking aloud. But brilliant nevertheless.
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Thank you, Neel.
I take your point but, generally speaking, I like to deliver the minimum, let my reader work a little.
Did you find it did not flow?
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Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Blackmail, kidnap – whatever it takes.
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It’s the same the whole world over…
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Not that old railway station! I bet the mayor did not tell about the dry rot.
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It is, in fact, a beautiful building, Michael.
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Your last line is a little worrying. But then I guess it’s up to us to read into it what we will. Intriguing.
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Grandpa was certainly worried!
Thanks, Keith.
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Sinister to threaten children. Grandpa will certainly have his revenge when the time comes.
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As I said below, some people you just don’t mess with, James.
A small town mayor knows when he is out of his depth.
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Sounds grim. Unless your narrator has done something even worse than I’ve guessed, though, I can’t help feeling he should be looking over his shoulder instead of feeling smug. I reckon a grandad put in fear doesn’t come far behind a woman scorned, in the hell hath no fury pecking order.
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Some people you just don’t mess with, JS.
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Standing to attention now, sir!
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there is something very creepy about this tale. I’m left with goosebumps. But possibly that was intent?
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Kinda!
Thanks, Susan.
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