Every one of us unique, individual; and yet so recognisably alike in our individuality. Marlon Brando astride his hog. Question: What you rebelling against? Reply: What you got? They asked, “Still using that greasy stuff?” And we stopped; almost overnight.

Do I actually have an essence or am I just a mass of conditioned buying habits? These questions lead only to madness. If I continue to play my part, maybe nobody will notice. And, maybe, that will be enough.

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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

Shine a light through a lattice and you get a pattern. Rina was like that—a gorgeous tapestry made of rips. You were drawn to the brightness, but that was just the places worn so thin the sky leaked through. The real Rina was the darkness, the inverse pattern you didn’t clock.

Now you might believe this is a tale of tragic unrequited love. Perhaps, you fancy I am a creature of unspeakable ugliness, doomed to be rejected, though I’m the only one who really knows Rina. Not so—I am the pattern, only there on cloudless days.

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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

Aunt Ethel was a great one for her manifestations. And, to tell the truth, they had drama—effusive ribbons of what she said was ectoplasm, infused with an extra-dimensional glow. No cheap quackery for Ethel, no knockings, rappings, or ghostly sheets.

Those seances had just one defect—she could never tell you what they meant, and translation of the spirit world’s message is pretty essential to the craft.

“It means whatever you think it means,” she would insist.

 Uncle Robert would always sigh and insist. “It’s ectoplasm, Ethel, not modern art.”

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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

Among us, Spence was the creative genius: street corner smarts, but still a genius, so of course we called him Prof, and thought the joke original.

“Best place to pull birds,” Smiler insisted, “is the pub. You just gotta say something clever.”

“Like what?” Spence asked.

“Oh like, ‘I must be in heaven cos you look like an angel.’”

“That works, does it?”

Smiler’s smirk faltered. “Not always.”

“Not ever. Laundrette is best, mate. They’re sitting down and are bored.”

“And what’s your pick up line?”

“’Can I help you fold your sheets, love.’”

Like I said, genius.

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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 coasted in, high over the blue-green marble. Our mission is noble, the greatest adventure in history. Now our linguist broadcasts message of peace and hope and welcome to a future of galactic cooperation. What will they be like, these natives? What will they believe? And, oh joy, they’re coming out in small primitive craft to greet us, to embrace us as brothers.

Perhaps it’s a ritual greeting, this release of a smaller vessel. Or perhaps it’s their chief. But the thing is travelling fast.

Too fast.

We must……..

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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

Everything about Bennington House screamed institution, from the serried ranks of windows, stiff as soldiers on a parade ground, to the stern matron waiting at the door in her starched apron and cap,

“A prison? You brought me to a prison?” I lunged and tore free of Beadle’s loose grip, but he caught my arm before I could run.

“A place where they’ll care for you and make you well again, lad,” he said. Though his voice was soft, kindly, I recognised teeth behind the mask.

These people meant to destroy me unless I could escape.

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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

You must never go there. Come on, you know where—to the castle. Oh yes? Well, you’ll need to get across the river first, and you can’t swim. No, you can’t have swimming lessons.

There’s no reason you can’t be happy here—don’t we provide everything you need? Over there, they’re strange and cruel.

Let’s just turn your chair around so the nasty castle searchlights don’t shine in your dear eyes. Out of sight, out of mind, eh? Stay with your ain folk. See Spot, see how he runs. Oh please, darling, don’t leave 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

Hey! Only you can see this. Everyone else sees a cute story about an elopement. This message is just for you. I’m trapped between dimensions. Never mind how it happened, that’s not important. The point is, only you can save me. Remember our café? Be there at precisely noon on Valentine’s day. Follow the man who joins you at the table. Please.

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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

Are ye there, Rabbie? Could ye be? Inside this great white phallus o’ a mausoleum? I dinnae think so. It’s no the phallic symbolism I find improbable, ye ken? Aye, that would suit ye fine. Nor even the grandiloquent size (ye were aye a bit o’ a boaster, richt enough). It’s the whiteness, in a church yard o’ red sandstone needles. Rabbie, ye were a man o’ the people, champion o’ ye ain folk. Rise with the class, no above it, that’s the way o’ it for the likes of us.

But here’s the thing that really scunners me. They put a fu’ng big iron gate across the entrance. Best laid plans, is it? Aye, that’ll be richt. Ma plan, ye ken, was tae lay me doon on yer tomb. Ye were aye a randy bugger, and I was thinking wee Tam could tak me as I sprawled athwart yer deid body. That would hae been strong magic, so it would—a guaranteed pregnancy. Would that no hae tickled ye, Rabbie? Aye, course it would. Whit am I goin’ tae do wi’ wee Tam the noo?

Ach, buggrit, Tam, let’s just get a haggis supper and watch the telly.

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Written for the Min Min challenge. The prompt is Robert Burns’ “The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley”. You can find other contributions here

So many years. Lost for so long, buried really. Standing before the shell of what had been our home, memory floods back. Here, we were happy. So why am I seized with dread? Why do the empty eyes of blank windows fix me with an accusing stare? Wind, that has stripped the gaunt trees of clothing, chills me. Something terrible happened here.

I remember. And I remember why I forgot. Will I be able to forget again?

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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