The light scours our eyes. Better, so much better, to live in the soothing shadows. My hand gropes out, finds hers, and squeezes. Here there is love. Beyond, there is hate. Well, let them hate us—their rancid loathing is matched by ours, the anger of the righteous.

Outside, the raucous chatter of birds, but birds are a scam. This I know. Birds are spy drones. You wait. Our day is coming again, and all your drones will plummet from the sky.

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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 knuckles of the world thrust through the grass here. It’s a place he feels safe. The green flesh, speckled by gaudy blushes of vermilion or azure, is soft and tender, yes. But it comes and goes, easily erased. When gales lash the earth, unleashing driving sheets of rain, it’s the bones that survive.

Good bones—that’s what they say about something ugly but enduring, something like him. Flesh is ephemeral, but the bones abide. He wonders, if he lies very quiet on the grass, might he learn to endure?

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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

Drink of the fountain. Listen, and I’ll tell you of the olden times—when we aged, we got frail and sick. You might die of something as simple as a fall or a cold. Yes, it seems incredible now, but it’s true. The machine just wore out. Why couldn’t they grow new parts or fix the DNA errors, you ask? They didn’t know how.

But consider this, lad: when we discovered antibiotics, we revealed the scourge of cancers, dementia, and all the diseases of old age. What may we now have unveiled by defeating aging?

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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 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