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

She loved the ring. Of course she did; who wouldn’t?—a cluster of garnets set in a silver mount. Bling! And its tech features charmed her—the monitoring of heart rate, movement and sleep patterns. With the GPS tracker, I know exactly where she is at every moment. That’s true love. We have a bond.

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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 is a dead dog on the floor. My dog. A moment ago, before the injection, she was wagging her tail trustingly. Now death has come, silent and graceful, to my home—a black furry absence. My dog is no longer in this body.

Before it happened, I’d begun washing the car, something I stopped half-way when the vets arrived. Now afterwards I’m not sure what to do. All that suggests itself is finishing the car wash. I’m glad she had that totter around the park on Monday.

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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

“Way back in the old days, when I was a boy before the Chiasm, big tech corporations manipulated information for profit.”

“Wow! What’s a corporation?”

“Yeah Dad, and what’s a profit?”

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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 catting satting on the matting, ideaings passing through their heading: ideaings of dinnering and of hunting.  A womaning was arriving. They were holding out feeding to the catting.

The wave function collapsed. And the cat sat on the mat.

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In our grammar, nouns are things and verbs are actions. But what if we didn’t make this distinction between nouns and verbs and saw, instead, processes? The quantum world is perhaps a bit like that.

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