The past occupies my present. I make tea, bake biscuits, cut the grass. The change is too vast to comprehend.

I take the garbage out, go to the shops, do the laundry. The machine runs out of control and the engineers panic. Old gods shake their shaggy heads and snuffle in the underbrush.

When it’s all over, when today has become yesterday: maybe, then, we’ll be able to tell what it meant.

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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

Writer in lockdown

Cries and moans punctured the sky, a flight of bats escaping into the night. The church bells tolled and tolled ceaselessly for the dead. The scent of rosemary burning in the chafing dish irked Will’s nostrils, but at least it kept the stench of rotting corpses at bay. Mayhaps, Mistress Tomkins next door had succumbed, along with her babes, boarded as they were into their quarantine house.

And yet, the closure of the theatres gave Will time to write. His quill poised over the page. “A plague on both your houses,” he wrote. Aye, it had a ring to 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 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

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

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

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

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

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

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