Friday Fictioneers – Maestro

PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

The fan was adoring, half bending from the waist in a stiff posture that must have been uncomfortable. Probably, he wasn’t aware of anything but being in the presence of the Master.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he babbled, “thinking of these ideas for your books.”

On a whim, I decided to tell him the truth. He’d never believe me, anyway.

“Life. I encode a simple story into a bacterial genome. Let it evolve randomly over millions of generations. Read out the results. An AI selects the most surprising viable outcomes.”

The fan tittered.

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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

Friday Fictioneers – Truth Telling

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr

I don’t care for Bill. He likes the style himself as William.

“You put on airs,” I say. “But you’re nobody special.”

His fist clenches, as if he’s going to hit me. The punch will hurt, but he’ll be finished.

Instead, he pushes his mug into mine. “Cheeky little bugger.”

Then he does something weird with his face—it goes all crumply.

“Are you sad?” I ask.

“No.”

“Yes you are. I can see.”

Bill sighs, gazing out to sea. “You think telling the truth is obligatory. But you’re wrong.”

This is puzzling. “What’s more important?”

“Getting on with people.”

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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

Friday Fictioneers – Keeping Ted Alive

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Ted didn’t know he was lost. And perhaps he wasn’t, at least not lost to himself, wandering with an impish grin through the woods. But he was lost to me. And the panic was mine.

Ted remained calm. He didn’t know we quartered the forest looking for him.

One day soon, he won’t realise he’s Ted. But I will. And, together, we’ll keep Ted alive. We’ll fill the mailboxes of his mind, so long as he still owns the keys.

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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

Friday Fictioneers – Transaction

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The moon rose and a nightingale sang. She gave him her love, its raw vulnerability a box of knives.

He offered her, in return, his secret shame. I will never hurt you, he promised with the careless fervour of new lovers.

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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

Friday Fictioneers – Where’s Wally?

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

A life in polystyrene. Small, really. Compact enough to carry. Though, to be fair, it takes me both hands. And it aches me, what with my bad back and all.

So this is Wally now. A box of ashes—the remains of his body; twenty-two assorted notebooks—the remains of his soul; and a mysterious cardboard box. Which of these holds the real Wally?

The ashes I can tip in the garden. Scattering, they call it. For now, I flip through the notebooks. There might be a novel in them. Or passwords for a secret Swiss bank account.

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I open the box. I shouldn’t have. Wally’s last little joke.

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

Friday Fictioneers – Anti-Vax

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

There ain’t no pandemic. I seen inside the hospital. Empty. It’s all a lie. Probably, you’ll decide I’m one of those nutjobs. Think you’re better than me, don’t you?

You’re certain, right? You seen it on the news. I got a big shock for you—the media lies. All them wards full of sick people? Actors. They do that, you know.

Why would they? To stop us finding out what they’re up to, of course. I’m talking deep state here. The vaccine ain’t no cure, cause there ain’t nothing to fix. They made it up so’s they can inject everyone with trackers.

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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. I’m afraid I was naughty this week. Since Rochelle told us last week not to write a pandemic story to a toilet roll prompt, I thought I’d do one this week to a completely unrelated prompt.You can find other stories here

Friday Fictioneers – Gaslight

PHOTO PROMPT © Trish Nankivell

He is angry. But he curbs it well, speaking calmly and slowly. Or at least, I think he’s angry. Maybe he isn’t. It could just be my projection. I know there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Why did you leave the seat down again?” he asks. “You did it to annoy me, right?”

Though I shake my head, I feel the dread of speaking, of contradicting him.

And he could be right. He says I don’t know myself well. That might be true. And what would I do without him to pay the bills?

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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

Friday Fictioneers – The Wink

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

Hey! Whodya-think-you-are? I’m not that way, okay? I mean, I’m flattered, but not interested, right?

Oh, well, fine. Sorry. But it seemed like you were leering at me.

No, I get it. Yeah, I believe you. You’re so right. This meeting is dull. And we are the only two people here making sense.

Conspiratorial, sure. I see it 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

148. Cara’s Saga

Tale the First. In which Cara is apprenticed to Pasco

As you know, Cara was born just after the devils came. But she understood no other world and was, like all children, accepting of everything and of nothing.

Even as a young girl, she would ask many questions. ‘Where did we come from?’ and ‘Why are we here?’

She asked so many questions that, in the end, her parents ran out of answers. When Cara had reached three hands of summers, her mother decided to leave their village and take her to Chucanchu to foster her with old Pasco. He was a great Makar, who could teach her the answers, and the rhyme and metre for reciting them.

At the gates of the city, Cara saw devils for the first time, a pair standing sentry. They had eyes like people, but she dared not meet their gaze for their bodies glittered in the sun. She pressed close to her mother. But after the guards allowed them to pass, she looked back in curiosity. And then she stared at everything, turning to left and right. Though Chucanchu is not the greatest of our cities Cara knew only her village. She was astounded by the thronging streets, the busy markets, and the great buildings.

Her parents left her, and she was not afraid.

Cara plied Pasco with all the questions that had been dammed up like a river behind a beaver lodge.  She asked, ‘where did we come from?’ and the Makar said ‘that is a good question and I will tell you.’

He said, with mischief in his nut-brown eyes, ‘We came from our mothers.’

‘Yes, I know this, but where did they come from?’

‘Why, they came from their mothers.’

Cara stamped her foot. ‘I mean where did everything come from?’

‘Now that is a deeper question, child, and I will tell you, so listen well. Everything came from nothing, and to nothing it will return at the end of days.’

‘That makes no sense,’ said the girl. ‘How can everything come from nothing?’

‘Makes no sense, you say? But did you not come from nothing? Until you were born, you did not exist.’

Cara had to agree, and Pasco continued.

‘Some people say that everything grew in a great gout of fire, but others say it cannot be so. For we know fire cannot burn without air. And, furthermore, air fills all of a lodge at once, from one end to another. So, I, and many others, hold that air came first, and the world was born in a huge rush of wind, though I was not there. Air is the mother of everything, I believe.’

‘So if only air and wind existed, where did all the other things come from?’ asked Cara. ‘How did the land and sea and the mountains arise?’

‘The sea was made next. In the air, clouds gathered and grew dark, and rain fell. It fell for more days than we have counting words to name, until above was the air, and below was the water, though I was not there.’

‘And how then came the land, and animals, and people?’ asked Cara, breathlessly excited at what she was learning.

‘Patience, child,’ laughed the old Makar. ‘The world was a long time a-making, and its tale must needs be a long time a-telling. As air is the mother of everything, so fire is the mother of the world. At the bottom of the water, fire grew.’

‘But how can that be? Water puts out fire.’

‘That is only the fire we poor mortals have. Yet there exists another fire, purer, hotter, that lives in the deeps. Have you not seen the mountains that smoke and belch forth, and the scalding water that hisses from fissures? Does rain extinguish that fire? Does the sea put out the blaze when land rises from the waters? That is the original inferno of the deep. The fire gathered there, building and growing. And at last it rushed forth, up through the sea and high into the air. As it cooled, it solidified, and so the world was created, though I was not there.’

‘And people? How did they come?’

‘To understand people, I must first tell you about Crow,’ Pasco replied. ‘In the beginning was Crow. There was not form upon the world, nor creatures upon the land, and only Crow’s wings stirred the air.

‘Crow was lonely. So he brought form and shape to the earth. He retched, and from the earth’s belly beasts emerged, swarming, swimming, and walking each according to their type. In his efforts, he dug out a great mass of gold which he flung into the sky, and she became the sun. Then a great mass of silver, and he became the moon.

‘But still Crow was lonely. So he played a trick on the earth. In his beak, he held a shiny smooth pebble, round as the sun and smooth as a lake. The earth wanted the shiny thing and grew a hand to grasp it. Quick as a flash, Crow dropped the pebble and seized the hand’s wrist, pulling until the hand stretched into an arm. Twisting the arm, he forced it to rise from the mud, making a head and torso. The mud grew legs, sat up, looked around, and said, “Amazing, Crow. What a splendid world you have made. I could never have done this.” Crow was content and placed the pebble into its hand. From the mud came men and women, though I was not there.’

Pasco went on to tell her of Crow’s mischief, but that is another tale, and you already know it, as every child does.

Tale the Second. In which Cara asks about the Coming of the Devils

‘Tell me of the coming of the devils,’ demanded Cara. ‘I saw their eyes.’

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To read the rest of Cara’s Saga and how she learned to sing the knots that bind the world, download it for free by clicking the button on the right

Friday Fictioneers – Job Interview

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Now the orange guy has gone, I’m a cert for a career in journalism. No more fake news.

Umm, well, we never did fake news. We just do news. No matter who’s in power, true is true.

Yeah, the pointy heads really like truth. It’s meat and drink to them. You’d think they don’t need to wipe after they poop. Okay, I can do true.

I’m not sure reporting is for you. To be brutally frank, you seem to have one or two prejudices.

Sure, but I’m balanced. That’s good, 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