The Purple Door

“Quick, under here!” urged Jenny, pulling her friend out of the rain.

“But what is this place?” wondered Nick, looking wide-eyed at the quaint purple door. “Does somebody live here?”

“Well, if they do, I’m sure they won’t mind us waiting here until the rain stops…” Jenny replied.
Her sentence was interrupted by the sound of the ancient door slowly creaking open.

“Well, hello there,” came a raspy, almost cackling voice. “I don’t get many visitors.”

Without looking to see who had spoken, the two children yelped, darted back into the pouring rain and raced along the path.

“Pity,” sighed the old lady despondently.

(105 words)

A short story I wrote for the Friday Fictioneers  writing prompt.

The Audition


Julie glanced at the row of stern faces and gingerly picked up her bow.
She took a deep breath and began to play. The blissful melody filled the auditorium, lifting the spirits of the audience. But Julie didn’t dare look up. Too much was resting on this.
When she’d finished, the judges politely applauded.
“Thank you, we’ll be in touch shortly,” said an aloof, drawling voice.
Julie smiled back, still too nervous to speak.
Suddenly a man stormed into the room, shouting vehemently.
“It’s too late!” Julie laughed boldly. “I finished already. There’s nothing you can do to stop me now.”

From a short story prompt on Friday Fictioneers

Gosh it’s hard to write a short story in 100 words!

Crime Log

“Ugh, my head!” I winced, clutching my pounding head and glancing around at my surroundings. 
I was in my hotel room, a cheap hotel in Las Vegas. Far away from the dazzling lights, colors and energy of the Strip, it was the only one we’d been able to afford. Still, we didn’t mind it. The important thing was that the six of us were together for Stacey’s hen weekend. We were so excited to be on the holiday of our lives, far away from our peaceful, quaint little English village, just a short bus ride away from all the shows, casinos, bars and parties we had previously only dreamed of.
I was, however, unsure of what Jessica and myself were doing back in our hotel room. I was still wearing last night’s dress, laying on my bed, with a stinking headache. 
“I’m never drinking again!” I murmured, as I slowly plodded to the bathroom, feeling nauseous and clutching my pounding head.
After peeing and feeling relieved at not vomiting, I decided to make some instant coffee. While waiting for the kettle to boil, I absent-mindedly flicked through the free newspaper the cute guy at reception had given to us. It mostly comprised of adverts about shows and events. But two words stood out from the others. Lucy Reynolds. 
“It can’t be!” I exclaimed. 
“Lucy Reynolds is wanted by the police for questioning, following last night’s murder of the well-known gambler and millionaire Bob Collins. If you have any information about her whereabouts, please call the Las Vegas police department on…” 
I stopped reading. This couldn’t be real. I hadn’t murdered anyone. I put down the paper and lay back on my bed. Perhaps I was still dreaming. I tried dozing off again, when suddenly there was a loud banging on the bedroom door.
“Police! Open up!” 
There are no police, I’m just dreaming. I reached for some headache pills and gently massaged my head. But the banging did not stop. I felt nervous, sweaty, achy and tired. But I had to open the door to be sure. Jessica was stirring in her bed.
“You’re bed’s nearest.” she muttered. 
I got up, gingerly crept to the door and two burly police officers bust in.
“Lucy Reynolds. We have a warrant for your arrest. You do not have to say anything…” 
I zoned out as they read me my rights. My knees gave way and I sank to the floor, faint from shock. The two officers lifted me back to my feet, handcuffed me and led me towards the door, amidst Jessica’s terrified screams.
“Let her go! What are you doing? Where are you taking her?” she shrilled, loudly enough to wake everyone in the hotel that hadn’t already been awoken by the police officers’ incessant knocking.
Hotel guests and the other members of our group raced to our room, as the officers calmly led me towards the elevator. My friends all joined in with Jessica’s screams.
“Let her go! There’s been a mistake!”
But the police officers replied blandly that they were merely doing their duty. On we went. Into the elevator. Trapped. Without my friends, accused of a murder I hadn’t committed and all alone in a vast, crazy city. 

(A 500 word story I wrote, after seeing a creative writing prompt on Writer’s Digest)