As you can imagine, I was outraged. Finger pointing at the pile of trash dumped on the sidewalk, I tried to summon words: “Who? Who? Who?”

Henry, who liked to think of himself as something of a wit, jibed “What are you? An owl?”

I tried again. “What? What kind,” my lip curled, “… of person  … does this?”

“Pretty ugly,” he agreed. “A real eyesore.”

And then it came to me, a chance to out-Henry Henry. “Help keep America beautiful. Throw away something lovely today.”

We strolled on, laughing.

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 about the place was just slightly wrong. It strove for gentility and a sense of timelessness—etched glass and dark wood, old casks and dim lighting. But the scent of madeira and cigar smoke had been sprayed from a bottle or applied with a cloth. The waiters’ cravats weren’t tied quite right, and the mournful music was recorded. You can’t really have a fado salon anywhere but Portugal. And, behind the bar, a sign that read “Please do not ask for credit as a punch in the mouth often offends.”

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

Beyond the edge of the world, did you create anything? Here, the illusion is perfect, even hyperreal. The colour is unusually sharp, the light pellucid as the laughter that gurgles from happy children and thronging crowds. And your gifts keep coming. Here, nothing could make me want to ever leave.

But, if I dash round the corner fast enough, will I find the street ends on a yawning chasm? Or will you fill-in detail faster than my eye can catch your making?

Once, I thought I spotted empty grid lines before the flats zoomed skywards. And I was terrified.

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

Sparks arc, zigzagging up between the conductors. Mr. Henderson thinks he’s demonstrating properties of electricity. In fact, he has opened a door.

I peer closer. But I’m not learning about short circuits. The air crackles with brimstone and I see tiny angels ascending the ladder to heaven. For a moment, the heavenly kingdom becomes visible.

The seraphim, in high voices that only I and dogs can hear, chant “holy, holy, holy.”

Their Lord is angry. They issue my instructions and, with grim determination, I steel myself for the task.

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 old house was leaking light. We tried to staunch the flow, bandaging our home with drapes and then with shutters. But that prevented us keeping watch.

Ma pulled her shawl tight and said every family was allotted a ration of brightness—when it ran out, it was gone. Dad would grunt and carry on whittling.

We never found out what he was carving, maybe a house-deity to protect us.

Neighbourhood children danced and played in the dwindling fountain.  Other shapes too moved faintly among them. Inside, we dwelt finally in eternal darkness.

 

 

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

Harvey was appalled. The street below pullulated with people, jostling and pushing noisily through each other.

“Mum,” he said, “Those folk are idiots. No social distancing. Don’t they know they’re going to die?”

Taking him by the shoulders, she gave him that look, the one that said she had something important to teach him.

“Those folk don’t have the option of staying home. If they don’t go out and earn money, they’ll certainly die.”

Harvey asked why.

Because they’re poor, she explained. But this only led the lad to ask why they were poor. Her answers ran out then. And that set the course of his life.

 

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 never stops. The long segmented worm trundles round the tormented globe, zipping it back together. We patch the rips from which poison oozes and make the world whole again. That’s what this machine is for.

 I was born on the train and I will die on it. Behind our clanking passage, land heals, seed stirs. In my dreams, I slip from the footplate and tread the mulch, weed the crop, harvest food. But we have a job to do. The train never stops.

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’s always a backdoor—you just need to know how to find it. In Roxy’s case, the way-in was animals. She adored them, specially dolphins and whales.

I’d never have got through the iron gates and security cameras at the front, where her fans and the paps waited. But tomorrow, when I take her to the aquarium, I’ll go down on one knee and she’ll be mine.

The snap of Rover’s leg in my hands still haunts me. But he’ll be running around soon. The break was clean and Roxy ensured he had the best vets money could buy.

 

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