The natives are more notable for their industriousness than cleanliness. I cannot pass among them unnoticed because their skin has a deathly pallor, but they will talk to strangers. Many worship a man nailed to a tree, whom they consume symbolically on their holy day. They carry his image as a talisman around their necks, believing this will protect them from evil spirits.

Leadership is poorly developed, and they choose chiefs to make their decisions for them, rather than thrashing out problems in community meetings as civilised people do. Wealth is determined by possession and ritual display of little bits of paper, rather than by the real utility of cattle. I miss the heat of the savannah.

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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 screaming girls and the boys swallowing their terror in feigned insouciance. That was me once. I remember the stolen taste of candy floss on Carol’s lips. And the accidental brush of a soft breast in the chamber of horrors.

Carol was taken a decade ago. These days, I can only sit and watch. There’s always the possibility of a spectacular crash. I’d like that.

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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 sense it. I can almost grasp it. The future. Sitting just outside my window, like my first shiny new car on a festival. That time is not here yet, but anticipation brings it into the present. One day, soon, this will all be over. We’ll emerge, blinking in the sunshine, laugh and greet old friends. Now it’s clear who we really depend on. We’ll put an end to misery and want. We can build back better.

Can’t we?

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

Everything has changed—the way I fit into the world and how I move through it. In an instant, I have become old. I am invalid. Kind people offer help, and I feel anger. Inquisitive glances glide off me when I look up at them. I am a Teflon pan—nothing sticks to me.

If only I hadn’t climbed that roof. If only I’d left home five minutes later.

“We’ll remove the cast next week,” the doctor says, and I am summoned back to life.

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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 blankets hide us in warm safety. Your legs part when I put my hand on your thigh, and I feel the moist arousal. You offer me your virginity. Yet, I cannot. Or, I should not.

Three years planning and your five-thousand-mile journey stymied by a single look.

While you were already in the air, just half a day ago, I fell in love. I lack the wisdom to know what to do next.

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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

They called it the magic door. Crowds would gather outside, peering in. When Harvey pushed his way to the front and squinted at the glass, all he saw was a dim hallway beyond, with some tatty overcoats hanging from hooks.

And then. The reflection of mama crossing the street, shopping bag swinging from her hand. Mama, dead these seven years. He whirled. But the street was empty.

Perhaps, he’d find her again if he went in. Throwing his shoulder against the door, he crashed through. Black and white tiles, and a flock of coats nattering like old ravens.

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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 street is much like any other. Narrow. Scrawny dogs sleep on the sun-baked cobbles, and people cling to the cool of the shadows. History hangs heavy in the humid air. The rattle of Sennacherib’s chariots and the tramp of Caesar’s legionaries echo faintly, along with the brutal jeers of Allenby’s Tommies. The toll of ancient bells carries screams.  

I cannot love you here. The blood drowns my tenderness.

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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 children are hiding. Again. Perhaps they think if they can’t see us, we can’t see them.

Lily can’t crouch. Her rigid spine forbids it. And so, she will be taken first. The art of concealment is less about being invisible than about blending-in.

Kids like to stand out. But not in ways that make them different. Lily is too different to survive.

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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

Afternoon lay, humid and heavy, on the harbour. Dogs slept in the quayside shadows, and even the air seemed to pant moistly.  

I wanted to escape and, suddenly, buying a boat seemed like a good idea. I dialled the number on the “For Sale” sign.

“Oui?”

“Je voudrais.” I began fluently, “um … vendre”. No, that was sell, not buy. Already, events had taken the wrong path.

Cutting the line, I collapsed into the wobbly metal chair.

 “Café, s’il vous plait,” I instructed the waiter, one of the few fluent phrases I commanded.

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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