There’s a glow. Call it a radiance, if you like. Whatever the description of choice, this spot’s different. Elsa insists this is where the fae folk meet, but Hank scoffs and explains space-time anomaly.

I just sense this as the place where you live. Yes, I know ours is a forbidden love, and yes, I know they’ll call me crazy. But I feel you slide in to take possession of my body. A haunting, perhaps, but one I’ve come to crave.

To yield control is such pleasure. Less so, maybe, for Elsa as my hands close round her throat.  

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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 blame Mum. Mum was glum (see what I did there?). So, when Hettie rebelled, as all kids do, she became an irrepressible optimist. “Thank you, God, for breaking my leg, so I’d have the time to stay home and finish these books.” That kind of Pollyanna thing.

So, when the sea wall broke, and the town flooded, Hettie exclaimed, “It’s just like Venice” and bought a gondola.

Under those circumstances, nobody can blame me for strangling my sister, right?

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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 snows came early that terrible winter, blanketing the moors in formlessness. On the high crags, the Seat of the Kings disappeared under a great drift. And so the land passed into a deep sleep that lasted a thousand years.

I tell you, my boy, it’s said the old kings will come again, when our peril is greatest. Somerled, Angus Og, and Malcolm. They will wake, shake their shaggy heads and stride forth with swords of fire to cleanse the world.

But, consider this—maybe we longer have need of kings.

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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

“Cook, are you entirely certain of this?”

Cook favoured me with a look of withering contempt. “Have you ever known me to be unsure of anything, Steward?”

“But, so many?” And then the killer argument occurred to me. “What if they crap on everything?”

Cook kissed her fingers. “Stop fretting, man. It will be a triumph—a dainty dish to set before a king.”

Certainly, I could imagine the dramatic effect of four and twenty blackbirds revealed in the pie, but doubted the guests would be swift enough to catch, kill, and eat them.

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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 wall directs you straight on into the blue abyss. But the carpet invites proceeding at an angle towards a deeply shadowed arch. Make a sharp turn, and a steep and rickety ladder beckons upwards.

To be honest, I’d expected the sounding of trumps, archangels with fiery swords, at least an old man with jangling keys. The exquisite torment of choice was the last thing I’d anticipated.

Walk the red carpet one last time, Harve. Was that the voice of a serpent, or a phantom in my head?

Perhaps I’ll just sit a spell and consider my options.

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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 antique shop bell tinkled as I entered. The shadows seemed to dance forever into the endless distance. Most objects were too dim to see, but I discerned the stuffed mermaid and the Gorgon’s head.

The wizened man in the frock coat seemed made entirely of sharp angles. “Good morning, young sir. Something in my cabinet of curiosities that might interest you?”

“Thoth sent me. You have something for him.”  

“Ah yes, indeed.” He pressed a heavy leather-bound volume into my hands. “I advise you do not open the lock.”

If only I had listened to him.

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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

Time stopped. I mean, not everywhere. Obviously. Time stopped for me, while, for the rest of the world, the present continues to rush madly into the past, everyone chasing a future that’s always an instant away. I’m not even sure what tense to recount this in. Grammar’s not set up for narrators who step out of the flow.

Narrator? That’s it! I can see the start and finish together, trace beginnings in the light of their ends. For me, the world’s a story. If I could, I’d tell you how it turns out. But I can’t.

There’s no way back to 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

Unease flickered in my belly, like … I attempted the metaphor, but couldn’t summon the proper noun. Like those ornamental fish at the bottom of a murky pond. Why did I recognize no  product in my kitchen cupboard? Was this DIY thing even mine?

A more terrifying question lurked like … a striped carnivore … at fronded border of reality. I refused to utter it. Somewhere, I knew, they were watching, making notes, graphing responses.

A cup of tea. Make a nice cup of tea and all would be right. There were no tea bags.

“Let me out,” I pleaded.  

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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

There’s a baker’s boy. Alfred. He’s pushing his bicycle up the steep cobbled lane. Dvorak’s New World Symphony swells. And I am transported back to a simple untroubled age of honest labourers and glittering toffs.

As the boy reaches the top of the hill, one of his loaves falls from the basket and tumbles down the lane. With a sigh, he retraces his steps. The conductor mops his brow and taps his baton as the lad collects the loaf and begins his trudge back up again.

Alfred made this Abbey wall. He burned the cakes. The Danes are coming.

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As a note of explanation to non-Brits, this lane featured in a bread advert and Alfred was King of the Anglo Saxons in the late 9^th Century. The story is a reflection on the way we create and recreate historical myths. 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

Call her Tiamat, call her Leviathan, also known as Jörmungandr or Cirein-cròin. Old as the primordial ocean, she is a creature of the roiling water—the essence of creation and chaos.

I call her Kraken, but not, of course, to her face. When she finishes swimming laps (three), she’ll expect me poolside with a soft towel and cool drink. And I will smile and caress her, though my skin crawls with revulsion at her flabby, wrinkled flesh.

Not long now. All she has to do is sign the will and then she can be one with the waves 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