Memories within memories. Before the war, there was dining and dancing, evenings at the Opera. No, wait—I’m getting confused. The Opera was London—our old life before we took power. But here too we once had parties, I’m sure of that.

Nowadays, there’s politics and war. War is politics conducted by other means, as Clausewitz sort of said. Turns out I’m deliciously good at politics.

Events flap and billow in the gales of history, and we struggle to hold them down.

.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

It’s hard to remember, but I think it all went tits-up when Grandad took his teeth out. The vicar’s wife shrieked, as if he’d exposed himself, or sunk the gnashers into her ample rump. Grandad, perhaps to be seen to do something, grabbed the picnic hamper and flung it over the railings into the river. The florist swung a punch. Soon, all the wrinklies were one brawling mass.

When the bizzies arrived, they’d surely blame me as the only young ‘un. A pub at the end of the walk sang siren songs of refuge (“Wasn’t there, Guv”). I legged it.

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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 scribe puts down his stylus and sends the clay tablet for baking. A good day’s recording of the village’s wheat yields, so he allows himself a cup of beer with his dinner.

In the tavern, villagers avoid him. He’s used to that. Scribes are never popular.

Voices at a nearby table rise as the ale flows. “Writing! What’s it good for? Spying on our harvest! And what does that get us?” “Bloody taxes.” “For the bloody king, may Ahura curse him.”

The scribe shivers at the next outburst. “We need to put a stop to all this writing business.”

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Writing seems to have been invented three distinct times. The cuneiform of ancient Mesopotamia and the hieroglyphs of ancient Egypt are well-known, But the third, proto-Elamite from ancient Iran, is shrouded in mystery. One fascinating feature of the Iranian invention is that they gave up writing for 800 years around 5,000 years ago. We can only speculate why. 

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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

Even the walls are vibrating. The very air in my little house pulses. Enough. I have to go next door.

“Would you mind,” I ask, making my smile as friendly as I can manage, “turning the music down a bit?”

He scratches his chin, which he then juts out. “Gotta live our lives, don’t we?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to live it too.”

The door slams.

Six weeks later, there’s a tentative knock on my door. He says, “Locked meself out, haven’t I? Alright if I climb over your wall, mate?”

I sense the prospect of an accommodation.

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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

Every cell door stands wide. The gaolers dead or fled. The prison is ours, the streets too. Strangers embrace me. We spin and dance to music only we hear— a shared soundless music. We are one. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. I try the words out in my mouth. They’re big and hard to chew as week-old bread.

Bread. This I understand. When we hungered, they said, “Let them eat cake.” What use are they? We can sow and reap. They just dance. Today I learned to dance. We’re coming now, on the road to Versailles, with a terrible joy.

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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 demonstrator steepled his fingers.  “The Belanthropus system allows target acquisition for your preferred weapons platform faster than any human operator.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“In the highly complex kinetics of modern warfare, yes. More targets, more kills.”

The General leaned forward, body tensed like a wolfhound. “With this, we’ll anticipate the enemy’s intentions and neutralise them before they strike. It could make attack unthinkable. We must be first to possess this.”

“General,” I said, “this won’t eliminate war, but automate it and make conflict more likely. We have to ban this.”

That’s how I got command of paperclips.

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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

First, they offered us blooms. That was clever. Just the gift of crimson beauty thrusting through the border. We were charmed and dismissed the scrabbling and bulging on the other side. Seams tore, but so gentle and slow we barely noticed. A little disorder is expected in all things—the Second Law of Thermodynamics tells us that.

But, behind the blooms, marched serried ranks of thorns. It’s too late now.

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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 day was hot. I don’t just mean so hot your ice cream melted. This was hell hot; the universe twisting in torment hot; melt your eyeballs hot.

The last of our water was gone a hundred miles back, thinking we’d hit a town, or at least a service station, any time. But the carriageway only went on and on.

Then the world itself buckled, the road ahead wilting.

“This was us,” she said, “We did this,”

“I love you,” I replied.

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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

This doesn’t feel right. Not my hands—they’re grasping strongly. Not my legs—they’re kicking up dust. Yes, I’m youthful again. My heart is strong. But me, I’m wrong. I’m not me. Then who is thinking this? We are. Me and this stranger in my head.

The stem cells have worked, just like the doc said they did in the mice. And the fog of confusion is gone. But I’m not me anymore. These are my stem cells. This is my brain—younger, better, stronger.

But why do I want to jump on that hog and speed away?

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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’re astonished by your biological science. You’ve achieved much and understood little. The mechanics, yes, you grip that, but not what life is. Probably, you absorb it as “red in tooth and claw” because each of you are alone in your bodies, in a struggle of each against all.

So, you don’t taste the obvious—community. Evolution stopped for you at the extraordinary community of cells that is a body. Yet examples of the next stage are all around you: lichens, bees, forests, ecosystems. Life cooperates. But your drive to see only individuals is strong. 

Welcome to the galaxy.

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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