To the side of the trash, they’d stacked a red easel among the desiccated pot plants and old paint tins. On the easel, a hyper-realist painting depicted a cabin in the snow. I couldn’t help myself. Turning as I walked up the path to the door, no footprints showed. Of course—I was in a picture.

The cabin was empty, and the back door stood open. In the yard, a row of desiccated pot plants and old paint tins flanked an easel with a painting of a wooden house.

I couldn’t help myself.

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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 the tendrils began to fall, it felt like light warm rain. At first. Only later did we realise what they can do. In the beginning, all was joyous, like snow on Christmas Day. We experienced bliss as the things dewed our skin. It was rapture.

Now we know that they secrete chemicals that trigger our neurotransmitters. Perhaps too late we’ve started to resist. Our homes are sealed tight, and we go out now only in hazmat suits.

But I’ve made a terrible discovery. The tendrils are not sentient—they’re weapons. After them, something else is coming.

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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 rhinoceros in the woods. I know—I saw it grazing quietly, supremely indifferent to the fact we don’t have rhinos here. Either my sighting’s mistaken, or we’re wrong about the rhino’s range. This dilemma must be where that awful phrase “my truth” comes from.

Truth is truth. But then we must consider the chain of deduction too. Perhaps a zoo escape? That would solve my existential crisis.

Phoning the zoo would verify the possibility. But if the escape didn’t happen, my crisis returns. Maybe better not to find out.

I’ll make a nice cup of tea and ponder

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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

He was in the presence of a miracle. Not the burning bush kind. No angels swooped down with fiery swords. But a miracle nonetheless. The air coruscated, and nothing was quite like it had been a moment before.

A voice which issued from no mortal mouth sounded the bell of his skull. “Go forth and slay my enemies.”

That was disconcerting.

Though feeling a little foolish, he answered, “I’m really not sure that would be the right thing to do.”

“So be it,” the voice replied. “Many are called, few are chosen.”

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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 sun rises through a sulphurous sky on a desolation of gantries and cranes. This is no spaceport, no futuristic capital—everything is grandiosely functional. And yet, tough men built great things here, proud of their skill, and easy in their laughter. But no more ships will slide down these slipways.

How did it come to an end, all this? A world has vanished, not just of things, but of communities. What will we do now, us welders and fitters and engineers? Who will value us? We are passing into history.

I do not care to go gently.

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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 air held an odd scent, something metallic. Underfoot, the floor bounced springy as moss. There was music—like the plucking of a lute, but deeper and full of strange yearning. Nothing was as it should be. I drew my sword.

A knave materialised, wearing an outlandish motley jerkin and breeches. This demon spoke, but the sounds made no sense. Before he could ensnare me, I cleaved him in twain, head to toe.

The last thing I heard was a sigh and, “Next time, let’s try not to bring-through a warrior.”

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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

How odd change is, all my remaining days in this dark world and wide. Once, I knew a rainbow realm of all the hues. Once, it was all laughing and running and sweetness in the green, green grass. Truly, I do not mind my blindness—I own a fat album of memories to glory in. And I have sound.

But odd it is on a Sunday afternoon to hear the thud of gleeful hammering and sawing. Labour has become rest. And the true labour of my neighbours, when they are really at work, is silent and digital.

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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

My children, listen well. Walking in the hills, I heard a wondrous sound proceeding from a cloud. There I saw a black servant playing a viola, and his recital was superior to all the King’s musicians. I tell you, that was the Devil himself.

The creation is perfect, harmonious, divine. When we sing in praise of God, we recreate the harmony of the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth—life as before the Fall. But Satan inserts himself into the gap between one note and the next. Beware the tritone—it is the Devil’s music.

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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 Great Detective sported an infuriatingly smug expression. With a twirl of his mustachio he asked, ”What do you notice, Hastings?”

I hated him and everything about him—the affected accent, the smugness, the smell of his pomade.

“A car abandoned in the woods.”

“Mais non, mon cher Hastings. Use the little grey cells. Observe. Deduce.”

Tosser! Absolute tosser! I shrugged.

The GD enlightened me. “The engine. It is gone. But, surprisingly, not the wheels.”

Aha. The maestro had made a slip. “Actually, I think not, mon cher. The engine was in the back in this model.”

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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’d think perhaps this is all the residue of a merry night—the empty bottles, the pyroclastic flow of wax. But no, it wasn’t an extended revelry. This was the work of seconds.

When he walked into the inn, the air carried a whiff of cordite, or maybe brimstone. Never having smelled brimstone, I can’t be sure.

“Wine,” he said. “Your best, if you please.”

When vision returned after the flash, he’d gone, along with all my customers. The imprint of his fingers remained, melted into the wineglass.

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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