They don’t understand what I see in you. I’m not sure why that bothers me, but it does. Look, I don’t care they find me odd because  I’d rather curate my collection than play football with them. Or anything else, really. Just you, and that rankles. Yes, I know I should be braver, surer. But I’m not, OK? Deal with it. Eff eff es, nobody’s perfect.  And you are a bit clingy and demanding when I come to think about things. Listen, this hurts me more than it hurts you. We’re through.  

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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 happened proved a bit of a surprise. The plinth, as expected, focused the words’ energy. And the choice of lexicon held no difficulty: a dictionary, a few works of classic literature and a slim volume of my own modest scribblings. None of the words were new, but their order may have been unprecedented.

The beam fizzed. A man and a woman stepped into the dappled glade. They were naked and unashamed.  

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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 know how it is. Nothing makes sense until it’s connected to everything else. This raindrop, glimmering on the Swiss Cheese plant, could mean anything: the first spatter of a coming flood; the tending of a careful gardener; a tear shed by a sad hero.  

Thus is how my understanding of you grew: assembled patiently, slice by chunk, in a thousand days and nights. When did everything change? When did we start taking turns to remove a piece? Now the whole edifice tremors, like a Jenga tower. One day soon, it will topple.  

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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

They said “you must show remorse.”

And I said, “I can’t be sorry for something I didn’t do.”

They said, “Well, it’s your right to claim that, of course, but then we wouldn’t be unreasonable in  concluding you’re in denial.”

To stand any chance of getting free of this, was going to mean living a lie. What a choice! To assert the truth, or to move on. So, what would you have done?

I heave a deep breath.

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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

She was intrigued. The twisted glass nodule captures everyone’s attention first.

“Fused sand from the exhaust of a departing spaceship,” I explained.

A look of wonder spread like a crisp tablecloth across her face.

“And this bit of old clay?” she asked.

“Amphora shard from a Babylonian palace that once held the sweetest Tokaji.”

“And that old rag?”

What prompted her to note my innocent little souvenir? Why not ask instead about the New Guinea war club, or the shrunken head?

“I could tell you,” I said. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

She thought I was joking.

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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

“Did you sleep with him?” I keep my voice calm and matter-of-fact.

There’s a long pause before she replies, “No.”

But she wants to—I see that.

What to do now? Rage or understanding? Heal or widen the rift? This is one of those moments where things change. Forever. A spinning coin tottering before the fall.. Of all matters, I tolerate uncertainty least. And so I maintain a dignified silence.

“Sorry,” she says and tries a look seeking permission to continue.

The silence is working, so I do nothing to break it.

She turns on her heel. “Fuck 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

I was thrilled—my first employment as chef. Well, OK, sous chef. This is a tough business and you have to claw your way up. Day one, I brought my whites and my own rolling pin.

“Wear this,” chef said, handing me a T-shirt and a little cap.

Hiding my disappointment. “Yes, chef.”

A mutter sounded like FFS.

“Flour and eggs?”

“Not necessary,” chef said, pointing to a teetering stack of bases.

“Then I’ll get straight to making fillings.”

An unwavering finger pointed to industrial vats of goop.

“So what do I do?” I asked.

“You take their money.”

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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 tower was intended to awe, beaming its light over the land. In a low town that clung like slime to the earth, this edifice rose, assertively vertical.

“Glory be,” the dominie declared.

Indeed. But whose glory?

It should have been no surprise when the McNabs rowed round the coast carrying torches, smooth John McNab, with thighs like hewn oaks, in the lead.  

“If he has been smooth afore, he’ll be rough the nicht,” Smooth John bellowed.

They burned the building to the ground, with the dominie in it.

Of course—the thing was a provocation, a giant finger raised.

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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’m pretty sure it’s not a black hole. In the first place, it’s square and I can imagine no way gravitational forces might assume such a shape. In the second place, what would a black hole be doing in my greenhouse?

But something is soaking up all the light, which probably isn’t great for my grapes. I’ll ask Betty. She knows everything.

“Oh that,” she says. “That’s my slough of despond.”

A pretty price she negotiates for its disappearance. Still, how bad can a fortnight in the Caribbean be?

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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 all have one—a treasured toy retained from childhood. In some, it’s cute—on display together with the fairground goldfish bowl and the kiss-me-quick hat. But not for me. Mr. Bumps is shameful, hidden deep in a drawer.

I could warn you, I suppose, that if you touch Mr. Bumps, I would have to kill you. From as early as I can remember, my dream was to be a hit-man. Sadly, it turned out I wasn’t very good at violence. Accountancy suited better.

Another solution to the problem beckoned. Nobody is allowed to cross my threshold, ever.

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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