It was wrong, I know, but I was angry. I struck out, at a Master. My nail caught in his cheek, and a layer of skin sloughed off.

Underneath, not bone and blood, but levers and pinions.

I ran and ran.

In the dormitory, my workmates crowded round.

“The Masters,” I babbled. “They’re machines, not people.”

“Okay,” Slabbert said,” and so?”

“And so we have to do something.”

“What can we do? Better to concentrate on the things you can control. Like the choice between skinny latte and macchiato.”

 

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

He opens the book, grabs its spine, and shakes. A heap of words tumble onto the table. Some verbs skitter and roll, ending up lost behind the pepper grinder. The scent of azaleas assails him from the vase. With the long forefinger of Michelangelo’s Cistine God, he stirs the lexical mound. Subjects swirl, encounter objects, and bind. Predicates zip on.

The battleship, the shoreline …. bombards.

Henry, the dog …. eats.

Nowhere is there love because that is one of the verbs that rolled away.

His brow dampens and his hands shake.

 

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 first shaft of morning sun lifts the courtyard from shadow, like an old-time cinema organ rising from the stage. Yes—another message. I smell gardenias and a hint of sulphur.

Hunkering down, viewing from a distance, turning round suddenly. I try stratagems to decipher the chalked words, but I can make out only the word all.

A threat or a promise? Give me all your money? You have been naught, you shall be all?

Of course, I could wait through the night to catch my mystery correspondent. But if you peek, Santa doesn’t come.

Perhaps the word is allo?

 

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 might, of course, have been pure chance—a group who happened to be standing one behind the other. But I didn’t think so. This looked purposeful. These people were waiting for something. I joined the back of the line.

Leaning forward, I caught hints from the conversation of those ahead of me.

“Well, that one’s no better than she ought to be ….”

“Five-nil. What a  ….”

It started raining.  Some raised umbrellas but nobody left the queue. This must be important.

I rejoiced I’d chosen the right line, as water streamed down my face.

 

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

When things started falling upwards, I knew it wasn’t going to be an ordinary day.  The colander and the beer tankard whirled above my head, making a tiny planetary system.

If life gives you lemons, as they say, make lemonade. I spread my arms and prepared to float into the roof lantern. We’ve all dreamed of flying, right? But my feet remained planted.

That’s my failing. If there’s a rule, I obey it. The law of gravity held me sullen in its grip as the cat began slowly to ascend the blue dome of the sky.

 

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

Yesterday was Tuesday. Much like Monday, nothing special. But today is totally changed. Until yesterday, you were in the world, and now you’re not. I don’t know how to comprehend this.

I pick up the book you were reading. Sniff it. But it smells of printers’ ink, not you. I try to read the words, the last words you saw, the same ideas that passed through your mind filling mine, as if some semblance of you might remain in them.

Until I reach the word “yesterday”, such an innocent word. But I cannot continue.

 

 

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 day before yesterday, it was charming—a sport of nature. I popped it into a wine glass and provided water to drink.

The seed grew so fast, tendrils unspooling and feeling along the walls. Even when I realised, I did nothing. Perhaps it was already too late, but I didn’t try.

These were not branches but emptiness, spreading cracks in reality. You’d expect to feel terror, but the mind adjusts, as if to an ache. I can admit only to curiosity about events.

Maybe the cracks will widen and something will come through.

 

 

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

With each day I am moving into the time before. I am becoming an ancestor. My limbs are frail and my breath comes heavy. Never again will I chase down a deer.

But the young ones sit at my feet and ask me “In your experience, how is this done?” And with every answer, they venerate me more. I move in a loop, catching up now and again with the era of my forebears.

 

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.

Ten steps lead up to the door. I’d dated Esther ten times. These things have a meaning, I know.

In my pocket, Mum’s ring bumps against my hip as I mount the stairs, like an ambassador bringing tribute to a potentate.

I press the bell. Overhead, a flock of new-hatched starlings trace patterns in the sky. There are ten of them.

She opens the door and I smell the scent of gardenias. A waft of coriander has followed her from the kitchen. On one knee, I proffer the ring.

“Are you nuts?” she says. “We’ve been on, like, ten dates.”

 

 

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’s purple. Not like a bruise but like an emperor. What’s it doing on my drive?

Perhaps it’s a swarm of rare butterflies on their elusive migration. The Purple Emperor avoids flower nectar and seeks out rotting flesh.  Maybe what’s in my cellar is attracting them. With a shiver of revulsion, I try to brush aside the fear.

But too late. Already lepidopterists are gathering under my trees, armed with nets and small packets of Stinking Bishop cheese. I rush to bolt the door but two have taken up station with field glasses in my kitchen.

 

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