The diner’s unremarkable. Could be anywhere, and almost anywhen. But Shelly, she is remarkable—tough, with a head of hair like springs and a tongue like a buzz-saw. I’ve had a thing for Shelly for near on thirty years.

“You can get anything you want in Alice’s Restaurant, exceptin’ Alice,” as the song goes. That’s Shelly’s. I turned up once with a mariachi band and a convertible full of red roses, like that Richard Gere movie. Woman only sniffed and muttered, “damn fool boy.”

Suppose you might call me a stalker, except the relentless pursuit really tickles Shelly. One day she’ll succumb.

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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

Others have walked this way before me, down the long processional. From the Land of the Living to the Land of the Dead we come, torches bright in the last curtain of the night. Happiness, awe, and fear walk with me, but I am one of a host, and the druids shield us as we enter the great circle.

The solstice sun stabs out through the dark and brushes a finger to the guide stone. A terrible brightness. I cannot look as the year is reborn.

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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 am the very model of a modern, civic gentleman. Bestriding the world like a colossus, honour and power are mine. I dine with the rich and famous.

These people understand me and I understand them. To coin a phrase, we have an understanding. Between friends, I share state confidences, and they reciprocate with offerings. This is the oil that keeps the wheels of the real world turning. The little folk we serve would never comprehend. So, far better they never know. And I trust you as always, to keep my secrets.

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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 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

We are so very tired. Half a world we’ve walked, through snow, rain, and baking sun. And everywhere they say, go back. The unwanted—that’s what we are.

The border post looms ahead. There are men there with dogs—hard men with grim faces. Even at this time of year, when they’re celebrating the birth of a baby to a refugee couple. Bells toll and sirens blare.

Am I not a person too? But of course I am not. I am just a problem, without face or history. And there is nobody to part the Red Sea for us.

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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

There are mirrors bouncing light back and forth. Some reflect doors, or what seem to be doors, though they may just be other mirrors.

Space expands explosive to infinity. Time slows to treacle as I turn and turn. A chorus of selves, perfectly synchronised, pirouette with me.

After a time that may have been aeons, I make to leave. Approaching the door, another me steps up to bar my way. Trapped! But I know how to get round myself.

“Would you be so kind as to step aside?” I ask meekly.

“Sorry, not a chance,” replies the mirror self.

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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 waves rushed in as the Thames Barrier was breached. Water laps around Buckingham Palace, and Greenwich Hill has become an island. The King has moved to Scotland, and rowing boats ply the Chelsea road.

It’s not like we weren’t warned. But there was always something more important. And the hotter  things got, the less we listened. When throngs of desperate people began to bang on our door, we turned them away. Full up, we said.

Is it too late now? For London, yes. But not for you. Yet.

Can we come to yours?

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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