Oily water slaps glaucous against the barge’s flank. A dead rat floats past. I unload crates of strawberries, already sweet-scented in the early morning sun. By lunch-time, ladies and gentleman in the piazza will remark on the fruit’s succulence as they lean conspiratorial towards each other across starched linen tablecloths.

I was not born to labour. Perhaps my father was a Duke. They tore me from my mother’s arms and gave me to Mabel and Henry, good honest people who pretend to be my parents. This is not my past, but it’s the only one available.

 

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

Inside every head there’s a world. Simon’s skull was like that–when he looked at you, he wasn’t seeing what you did in the mirror

“Why don’t I raise the blind?” Natalie would always say when her brother stared out the kitchen window, “so you can see better.”

With weary patience, he’d explain the screening pattern of the fabric revealed how things are.

“There goes Mrs Abercrombie,” he said. “She’s one of the lizard people. Her eggs are blowing behind her like leaves.”

Natalie realised just because a thing doesn’t exist this doesn’t make it untrue

 

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 remarkable thing about the space was its spaciousness. Hall after colonnaded hall receded into the far distance.  Clouds obscured the vaulted ceiling. Even Marcus, safe big Marcus holding my hand, was diminished.

The second remarkable thing–the Capitol refracted identity. Mirrors on every wall reflected mirrors, and I saw myself seeing.

The third thing, well, everyone knows that –the mortality of gods. They killed the Emperor that day, right in front of me. And the mirrors multiplied his dying into a massacre of thousands, one death for each of his crimes.

Now we must learn to worship ourselves.

 

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

Russ started in the southeast corner. By year-end, he’d reached the far side of the field, which looked like a Somme battlefield.

Eventually curiosity got the better of me “Whatya doin’, Russ?”

He didn’t even stop digging. “What’s it look like?”

That seemed a trick question, so I didn’t say. I tried a different tack. “What for ya diggin’ holes in the ground, Russ?”

“I’m not.”

He was knee deep in the pit so that seemed a stupid answer.

“It ain’t the holes, idiot, it’s the rims,” he said. Snow began to fall.

“Like lace,” he said.

 

I’m afraid Russell’s picture tickled me so much I had another go at it. 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 had a white beard, a red suit, and a twinkle in his eye. Yeah, that was my first thought too. And, of course, his name was Kris.

“Look,” he said, beginning the consultation, “the more statins you take, the less likely is cardiovascular crisis, but the greater the chance of cancer.”

Well, that was a kick in the head! I told him to repair the cancer genes. It transpired that meant I’d get dementia instead.

He wound up for the pitch. “Personalised medicine today offers a good death. A massive coronary half way up an Alp is very popular.”

 

 

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

Well, it was an easy mistake—I’d said a crystal ball, and he’d bought me a crystal bowl. But it made me angry anyhow, perhaps just needing someone to yell at.

“I can’t hardly tell the punters’ fortunes in a sugar bowl, can I?”

“Could you read tea leaves instead, spread them on the bottom?” His lowered head and moist eyes almost broke my heart.

The thing hefted heavy in my hand. He cowered. The rim flared blue, reflecting the sky. Yellows of the pine table lurked in the facets. And green. And red.

There’s magic everywhere when you look.

 

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 the first pair of shoes turned up, well, I were delighted. I put them on and walked. Them ten league boots took me all the way from John O’Groats to Lands End. I walked clear out of them and settled on the promontory overlooking the bean green Atlantic. Waiting

Today, a second pair of boots on my moss-gnawed doorstep. Sinister derelict things. With a note tucked into the right shoe. I couldn’t pull it out, and anyway I can’t read. But I know what it says.

Pebbles crunching. I walk into the ocean. It’s so very cold.

 

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields, who has given us boots before, to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.

My story is a companion piece to Walker, written in response to the first pair of boots.

Something weird was happening. I just didn’t know what. Since we left Dad, life was odd. We moved three times in twelve years. And each time, Harold was there too.

Mum promised to explain, now I was old enough. She met me in a motorway services, with Harold in tow.

“We’re on the run from the Mafia,” she said. “Your father crossed them.”

Harold gave me a bracelet. A transmitter, so he and other agents could always locate me. He told me to be wary of doubles, people who looked like friends but were really bad guys.

I mean, what would you do? This was my mother.

 

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

We call it The Event. The moment when everything changed, when we lost writing. Ink refused to lock onto paper, and just drifted in the air like dark fog. Neither quill nor printing press could force the binding. Every time we opened a book, the letters sprang from the page and roosted in the rafters. Servers were wiped clean

I believe I’ve found the solution. Listen.

“Once upon a midnight dreary

While I pondered weak and weary….”

We will remember and recite.

 

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 man is panting as he reaches the summit. The small of his back twists with ache, bending him forward as if into a wind. He stumbles, legs barely able to support him.

Hell of a place to choose for a meeting, he mutters.

An eagle soars effortless on thermals, and a breeze carries the scent of lemons. A bush bursts into flame. The prophet selects a chisel from his satchel and prepares to take dictation.

I know what you’re thinking, but you are mistaken. Just because something didn’t happen doesn’t make it untrue.

 

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’m having major connectivty problems, so please forgive me if I’m not able to comment on your post