Friday Fictioneers – Fish

~ neilmacdon
cafc3a9-terrasse-dale-r
Photo Prompt © Dale Rogerson

There was not a cloud in the sky when the rain began. Not water-rain. A single moist slap on the tarmac announced the start.

I turned. A mackerel flapped iridescent on the empty roadway. Then another. Scales brushed my cheek, like the beard scratch of a lover’s kiss. Fish began to fall in torrents.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I looked up, hoping to see spuds too, so I could open a fish and chip shop.

But miracles aren’t what they used to be. There weren’t even any bloody loaves.

 

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here

78 thoughts on “Friday Fictioneers – Fish”

  1. Cod! Your right of course plagues and miracles are not what they once were. What happened to the frogs and bubonic periods, oh how I miss them As for turning water into wine, well now who’s responsible for all the plague of alcoholics. Fun read.

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  3. Brilliant, So clever, Neil. These “somewhere in space hanging suspended” umbrellas seem to be a thing now. We saw them in Liverpool and I saw them in another town on tv the other day.

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  10. What an imaginative take on the prompt! And so many delights in the writing, of which “Scales brushed my cheek, like the beard scratch of a lover’s kiss” is, I think, my favourite. Great last sentence, too.
    And I can’t resist joining in the fun. I guess this is what the weather forecaster means when they say, solemnly “You may see an odd shower from time to time.”

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  16. Here I was going to awaken the heavens with rains of gum drops and lemon drops;) My friend, it’s so nice to meet you. Great minds think alike. Now, I’d hope if it were raining fish, the umbrellas would catch that which would land on my plate:)

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  29. The umbrella and the mackerel rain reminded me of a chapter from Murakami’s ‘Kafka on the Shore’. I love the crazy imagination and especially this line- Scales brushed my cheek, like the beard scratch of a lover’s kiss

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