They were here, and then they were gone—the couple at the next table. Sure, you tell yourself, it’s a restaurant. People sit, they eat, and go, in a constant carousel. But her laughter had been a coded message, unique to you, and the one glance across, unmistakable. That’s why they’d  removed those diners, consumed in a single bite like an amuse bouche. Next, they will come for you. How to mount a defence? The fish knife? If only you’d ordered the steak!

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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

Harry, they say, is a keen plantsman. But is that the same as a horticulturalist? He knows the Latin names, so perhaps. Or do I want, maybe, a nurseryman? It’s confusing to have so many words for gardener.

“What exactly do you want?” he asks.

I wave my hands in what I hope is visionary gesture.

Harry suggests, “Something formal? Cottage garden? Zen meditative space? Wildlife haven?”

I see he’s trying to be helpful, but choice paralyses me.

“Umm, you know, a trim and a tidy up.” That sounds ridiculous, as if I was at the barbers.  “Maybe another day?”

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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

Distant furnaces wink through rips in night’s curtain—an army camped on the horizon. I love the dark skies of this remote place—stars, moon, the … The Milky Way’s gone!

I take a pull on my beer, tamp my pipe, and consider explanations. Our galaxy can’t vanish, I know that. Don’t I?

A space-time warp has ripped our planet from its moorings? Improbable. A cloud precisely obscuring that wash of a hundred-billion stars? A mote in my eye?

By shifting my gaze, I could test that last possibility. Yet I can’t make my head move. The whole Milky Way can’t be gone.

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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 ached with tiredness and the desperation of being lost. A stone in my left shoe rubbed my heel painfully. The stone was the sun—a whole solar system in my trainer. Vladimir Putin appeared in my reverie, riding in a big black limousine and he stopped to give me a lift. The sun was green and thrashed the car’s tin roof with death-white trailing roots.

Should I have killed Putin when I had the chance? Maybe. But I mean, you know, he showed me kindness.

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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

Never let your dog eat dragon meat. The reason is the high phosphorous content. Dogs can receive up to 22.25 mg of phosphorous per kilogram of body weight per day. Exceed this, and spontaneous combustion may ensue. Though dragon is intensively-farmed in the lowland plains and, consequently, is cheap at your local butchers, it is much safer to stick to standard cuts of basilisk or gorgon. To enhance energy and playfulness, nine vets out of ten recommend a supplement of powdered mandrake.

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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

Hah! Think I’m trapped in this labyrinth, just waiting to be hunted-down by a bloke with a ball of thread and a stabby thing? Nah, I’ve got tricks, me. How do you escape a maze? Simply turn left at every choice point (or right if that’s your political inclination).

It would work, except this puzzle isn’t two-dimensional. There’s up-and-down as well, stairs ending blind, and abyssal falls.

And that’s not all. The walls move around—the place operates in four dimensions, changing over time. The nifty wheeze will be ensuring that when Theseus is, I am not. 

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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 probe took 148,000 years to reach the star, and the return signals need over 4 years. You might think, in all that time, we’d master quicker space travel. Wormholes, maybe; but no—we’re saddled with the ancient probe’s capabilities. 

My avatar can roam anywhere around planet Proxima B: almost as good as being there, though without sensuous contact. And that is a big problem. The specific issue is Kr’Kara. First contact turned to scientific collaboration, and collaboration to intimacy. I love Kr’Kara, and they love me. Or did. Turns out they dumped me two years ago.

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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

Josh was always a joker. “Shall I tell you the tale of how the guitar got its stripes?”

But I wasn’t listening—rapt in another tale as the instrument called to me. I had been born for this.

“For a thousand years,” I breathed, “This instrument slumbered in the stone. Champions have come and tried to draw it. And they failed, because I am the rightful king.”

 Stretching out a shaking hand, I grasped the hilt.

“What stone?” Josh asked. “It’s on a rack, dummy.”

“Excalibur,” I intoned as the thing drew loose and heavy in my grip.

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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

Aromatic tobacco smoke circled his head—a cloud of knowing. The Great Detective regarded me with amusement. “You know my methods. All the clues are there. What do you see?”

He could be an annoying git. “Two rickshaws,” I muttered,

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly. Two rickshaws, sans drivers and passengers. And a river sans sampans. Where did they all go? The young ladies have disappeared down-river with the drivers in the sampan.” He puffed smugly on his calabash pipe. “The drivers were, in fact, lovers. This is a double elopement.”

Git! “Umm, very clever. But shouldn’t we check whether they’ve just drowned?”

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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 you left, you took my certainty. You accuse me of betrayal, and I can see why, on consideration. But I dare not contemplate this. To do that would erode the precarious ledge of footing, risking a catastrophic plummet.

So, I must blame you, and counter this betrayal to mine. I should have known—your eyes were always too close together.

The truth is, I don’t know what to believe, or who. Trusting has become so hard, including in the story I imagined was mine—I am no longer made of whole cloth.

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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