They emerge from the stadium, first a trickle, more anticipation than a presence. “We are the Rovers” carries like a tectonic rumble from inside. There’s a hint of bubbling, dusted with blue and burgundy team scarves.

The dribble becomes an ooze, then a torrent, flooding the empty streets. Sulphurous fumes hide the houses and church. The streets are choked. There’s no individuality anymore, only molten burgundy and blue rivers.

The stadium roof blows off, showering us in burning concrete. At last, the river slows, stops, freezes. One trapped face holds a howl. Someday vines will grow on this rich volcanic soil.

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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 Guest

It was a lie, of course. No tells showed—his performance flawless—but I just felt it. For a long moment, I stared out the window. In the park beyond, my gaze playing on the dog-walkers, collars turned up, trekking stubborn, and on the wheeling birds and leaves. Let him sweat. 

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Thankyou, no.”

Did he know I knew?

“So, why are you really here?”

He steepled long fingers and sighed. Would he deny the implication?

“Good. Enough pretence. Sadly, the task is to kill you.” He offered an inlaid wooden box. “It’ll be painless.”

“I appreciate that.”

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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

Henry’s too good for this world. Everyone says so. Shirt-off-his-back type. But Henry hides a secret, and I know it. Not to be disclosed to you, but I promise it’s juicy—the man is atoning.

Several courses of action are open—reveal, exploit, keep shtum. The choice will say a lot about my character.

If you lot are nice to me, I’ll leave your saint alone, how’s that? It’s in your hands now—nothing to do with me.

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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 story passed from mouth to mouth. With each rendition, it changed subtly. The swaggering bully in the tavern became an evil baron or, sometimes, a dragon. But I remained myself, the unitary hero. The minor variations blended in as wrinkles, which faded with time.

Then my story reached the land of the river people. They are less keen on heroes. The tale branched, and now there were two of us. I met him, barring my way at the ford. How to win against myself?

Think! Truculence is my besetting sin. And his. I stepped to the side. “After you.”

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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

Nobody noticed. The swimmers splashed blithe, doggedly oscillating in laps. Nobody looked up as the breeze pulled the flags in three different directions. It made no sense. The façade of the monstrous edifice behind bubbled and peeled away like scabbed skin.

Surely, I said, some miracle is upon us. Nobody listened. The waters parted and a squad of Pharaonic chariots clove the pool. Great trumpets blew, and a murmuration of swallows wheeled above. Then everything snapped back into place with a tiny sucking plop.

I grabbed a passer-by, knocking the ice-cream from his hand. “Did you see that?”

“What?”

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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

When the birds began to drop from the sky, it was weird, even spooky, but I didn’t know this was the end of everything. They littered the lawn like drifts of autumn leaves. Fish washed up dead on the shore. And over it all, the punishing dome of stilled, sweltering heat. The forests caught and burned.

Life’s limits are very finely set, you see. At a wet-bulb temperature of 30.5 ° C, we start to die. Those of us with air conditioning lasted longer. Until the power failed.  

It’s been good.

.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

“Prove it,” he said.

“I can’t. But the Ayeye says it’s true.”

He was merciless. “If you don’t understand the machine’s reasoning, you can’t tell it’s correct.”

All I knew was this felt right, but I had no answer.

“If the Ayeye does the grunt work, has the insight, and formalises the proof, but you don’t grasp the meaning, does it even mean anything?”

“Pah! Philosophy!”

“Well, here’s a philosophical question for you: what’s the point of 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

What do we need the gods for now? Oh, they strut and fume as we tear down their statues and temples. Zeus releases a stream of thunderbolts which fizzle and spark before plopping spent on the carpet. A mist of angels wring their little hands before evaporating. Legba holds a weeping Inti close as they thin and dissipate.

We are the masters now. The steam from our great engines blows across a sun hiding its face in shame.  

If only the rains would come as they used to.

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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 flowers are dark, so dark they swallow all light. For weeks, I didn’t notice them, my mind skittering past what seemed misshapen leaves. Only at day’s end, when the dying sun licks them like a craven dog, can you spot them—blood red, nodulated. No insects ever visit these monstrous blooms.

The bees know. I’m certain these are relativistic explosions, slowed to a crawl in our timeframe. We’re under attack. Neither the police nor my MP will listen, not even Mrs. Sanders, who holds that Boris Johnson was the messiah. I’ll gather my evidence. If I’m right, the detonations will slowly fade away.

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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

Albert enjoyed travel. Move 3,000 miles, or ten, and you reached a different place. Well, duh, you might say, but that would be to misunderstand. The places weren’t what Albert craved—palm trees or snow huskies equally a matter of complete indifference. What mattered was the difference—new in a bar where nobody knew his name.

He slid onto the stool in the hotel bar and ordered a sidecar, because that’s what a guy like him drank. The blonde on the next stool eyed him. Tipping his fedora at a rakish angle, he smiled.

“Hiya, little lady.”

“Scram, loser.”

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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