The setting was perfect. Candlelight sparked on the elegant wine glasses and smugly heavy cutlery. Waiters in long aprons glided effortlessly between the tables with impossible numbers of plates balanced on their arms, as if they were walking some unseen tightrope.

My waiter placed a bowl in the centre of the exquisitely geometric place setting. Inside the bowl, a crust of ginger fur respired slowly, rising and falling.

I can take a joke as well as the next man. Crouching low, I bit into the succulence  of the waiter’s leg.

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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

The sun hid behind a cloud, casting the gorge into deep shadow. The rushing river laughed because it was now invisible. Ansna could no longer see the bull thundering towards her, but her ears spoke to her, and her legs knew when to begin the run. She’d trained her feet well.

“Alright, great bull,” her voice called. “Let’s dance.”

She raced towards the booming hooves, calculating closeness, dug her pole into the ground and took off.

As she sailed over the beast’s back, the sun sidled back into the valley. The hillsides hooted back the hunters cry. “Ansna, Bull Leaper.”

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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

I’ve had a brilliant idea! To write music with words as notes. This will be the making of me. Yes, scales—seven notes and then a repeat at higher pitch—chords, transpositions.

“The cat lightly on the mat sat.”

They’ll shower me with awards and offers.

“On the mat, deviously skulked the panther.”

Hmm, I’m not sure this is quite working yet.

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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

Something with tiny legs crawls over my sprawled hand, a thrush chitters, and water chuckles nearby. I know myself connected by a thousand tiny threads to this place, a part of its rich loam, a piece of the tracery of roots and branches. Somewhere a woodpecker jackhammers and the roots pulse with alarm. The water and my heart confess to one another in the same ancient tongue.

I am content. Here, there will be rest, and I will become something else. The good earth suckles at my wound, and the sounds of the battle dim. Today is a good day to die.

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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