M’lud, it went like this. The cascading water turned the wheel. The wheel cranked the rope. I steadied the rope, which raised the barrel of bricks.

Unfortunately, the water ran out. The barrel was now heavier than I. It started down, jerking me off my feet.

Halfway up, I met the falling barrel, receiving a severe blow on the shoulder. When it hit the ground, the bottom burst, releasing the bricks.

I was now heavier than the barrel. I started downwards. The barrel was coming up, so I swung through the window like an action hero. Mrs Cuthbertson was very surprised. So too the man who wasn’t Mr Cuthbertson.

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With admiration for Gerard Hoffnung. 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.

Look, I can’t even read those signs. How am I supposed to know whether this is a taxidermist or a tailor? Is that even a proper language? And there’s nobody in the alley, no cues. A murder’s possible, of course, but CE will have that sewn-up. 

So, what the actual…. I’m trying my best, honest. Maybe a philosophical rumination on signifier and signified? Well, bugger that.

I just want a table, a nice table beside the river. Watch the world go by, have an absinthe, make eyes at the girl on the next table. That’s all I ask. You couldn’t even give me a river?

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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 past occupies my present. I make tea, bake biscuits, cut the grass. The change is too vast to comprehend.

I take the garbage out, go to the shops, do the laundry. The machine runs out of control and the engineers panic. Old gods shake their shaggy heads and snuffle in the underbrush.

When it’s all over, when today has become yesterday: maybe, then, we’ll be able to tell what it meant.

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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

Writer in lockdown

Cries and moans punctured the sky, a flight of bats escaping into the night. The church bells tolled and tolled ceaselessly for the dead. The scent of rosemary burning in the chafing dish irked Will’s nostrils, but at least it kept the stench of rotting corpses at bay. Mayhaps, Mistress Tomkins next door had succumbed, along with her babes, boarded as they were into their quarantine house.

And yet, the closure of the theatres gave Will time to write. His quill poised over the page. “A plague on both your houses,” he wrote. Aye, it had a ring to it.

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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 fan was adoring, half bending from the waist in a stiff posture that must have been uncomfortable. Probably, he wasn’t aware of anything but being in the presence of the Master.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he babbled, “thinking of these ideas for your books.”

On a whim, I decided to tell him the truth. He’d never believe me, anyway.

“Life. I encode a simple story into a bacterial genome. Let it evolve randomly over millions of generations. Read out the results. An AI selects the most surprising viable outcomes.”

The fan tittered.

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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 don’t care for Bill. He likes the style himself as William.

“You put on airs,” I say. “But you’re nobody special.”

His fist clenches, as if he’s going to hit me. The punch will hurt, but he’ll be finished.

Instead, he pushes his mug into mine. “Cheeky little bugger.”

Then he does something weird with his face—it goes all crumply.

“Are you sad?” I ask.

“No.”

“Yes you are. I can see.”

Bill sighs, gazing out to sea. “You think telling the truth is obligatory. But you’re wrong.”

This is puzzling. “What’s more important?”

“Getting on with people.”

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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

Ted didn’t know he was lost. And perhaps he wasn’t, at least not lost to himself, wandering with an impish grin through the woods. But he was lost to me. And the panic was mine.

Ted remained calm. He didn’t know we quartered the forest looking for him.

One day soon, he won’t realise he’s Ted. But I will. And, together, we’ll keep Ted alive. We’ll fill the mailboxes of his mind, so long as he still owns the keys.

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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 moon rose and a nightingale sang. She gave him her love, its raw vulnerability a box of knives.

He offered her, in return, his secret shame. I will never hurt you, he promised with the careless fervour of new lovers.

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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

A life in polystyrene. Small, really. Compact enough to carry. Though, to be fair, it takes me both hands. And it aches me, what with my bad back and all.

So this is Wally now. A box of ashes—the remains of his body; twenty-two assorted notebooks—the remains of his soul; and a mysterious cardboard box. Which of these holds the real Wally?

The ashes I can tip in the garden. Scattering, they call it. For now, I flip through the notebooks. There might be a novel in them. Or passwords for a secret Swiss bank account.

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I open the box. I shouldn’t have. Wally’s last little joke.

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