Eyes watering with strain Brother Eadfrith bent over the parchment, retracing in ink the silverpoint outlines. His back ached. Late afternoon light slanting low through the casement cast a shadow, and he shifted the sheet of vellum on the oak desk.

With delicate brush, he applied the ochre border and then crimson for the saint’s robes and animal’s coats.  Finally, he laid gold leaf onto the capitals. The sun touched the page, and beauty clasped the text. Lines of fire connected hidden meaning that sparked from image to sentence, from intricately scribed knot to ornate capital – earth, ladder, heaven.

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wissoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.

Fancy sharpening your skill with writing exercises? The Scrivener’s Forge offers a new exercise every month to hone one aspect of your craft. Take a look at this month’s exercise here

She found him yet again wandering through the station.

At least he looked embarrassed. “A station at night is beautiful,” he said. “Calming. So few people, but the dedication of an empty temple. Victorian railway stations are one of three British contributions to world civilisation.”

Alice followed his gaze to the great glass roof and shared the awe. Her hand crept into his.

“Arrivals and departures. When I was a boy, smoke billowed under that canopy, like mist on the hills.”

Alice squeezed his hand. “You’re good at comings and goings – it’s just the stays that trouble you.”

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find It here

Fancy sharpening your skill with writing exercises? The Scrivener’s Forge offers a new exercise every month to hone one aspect of your craft. Take a look at this month’s exercise here

Fancy sharpening your skill with writing exercises? The Scrivener’s Forge offers a new exercise every month to hone one aspect of your craft. Take a look at this month’s exercise here

Sound accompanied Yasmin’s days – sails creaking, gears clanking, and grindstones gnashing. Yasmin feared silence. Though the wheels inside her made no sound, sometimes she gritted her teeth.

“I’m not pretty,” she acknowledged to her suitor, “but I won’t sell myself cheap – I know the worth of my inheritance.”

“Silly girl,” said Damasos, and his mirth was like wind in sails. “Mills hold no interest for me. Our fate together lies in palaces far away.”

A Prince! As the soothsayer foretold!

Sitting together beside the hearth, old and content, Damasos laughed his laugh. “Did I actually say I was a Prince?”

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find It here.

Arms outstretched like a superhero, there was my Doug preparing to bungee jump. Seems it wasn’t all work at that conference. I hit the reply button, and my phone offered “how fun!” as an instant response. Though ungrammatical, I accepted.

Doug’s next message came. “Having a great time apart.”

“Real class,” I typed, “dumping me over the phone. Whatever. I’ve been wanting you out of my life anyhow.”

There followed a long pause. Then “Screw you. That was autocorrect. Meant to type at Pat’s, not apart. I’ll collect my things next week.”

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.

It was the only diner for fifty miles.

“Patriots’ Diner? No way I’m going in there,” April said as I swung off the highway.

Of course, I understood why.  “C’mon hun, I’m starving.”

Her arms folded, hugged herself, perhaps to hold in the anger. April didn’t like arguments but, once started, the woman could be meaner than a weasel in a trap.

“Why don’t you stay here and I’ll fetch something,” I suggested. “Burger?”

“If you think you can pass the patriotism test.”

The tone was sweet, but I knew she was setting a test of her own.

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.

Between the idea and the act falls the wish.

Between the encounter and the wish lies recognition.

He had stared through this window before.

Not outwards at the fence and the horses patient in the snow, nor inward with his nose pressed to the glass, but at the spider-lace curtains.

He was trapped in that gauzy sliver between here and there, between now and then.

Beyond those curtains lay another story he could not name.

Against the whiteness, a diffuse light mounted

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.

Before the story, help needed

I need your support with a flash fiction competition. My 150 word story was posted today on Ad hoc fiction (click the link to get to the story) and remains there for a week until 14 December. If I get enough votes I progress to the next stage of the competition. If you like the story please press the Vote button. The stories are anonymous, but mine is called Parting. You may have to scroll to get to it. It is number 13 of 60 stories. Vote early, vote often. Thanks so much.

Breakfast was oatmeal porridge, with a little milk or treacle. Then it was off along the coast to school. On the way, I glanced at Bob who shoved his face into mine. “Whit are ye glowerin’ at, John?”

“I’ll look where I please,” I replied staunchly, “and hinder me if you dare.”

I knew the rules. In school we spoke English, but around the fields it was our own honest Scots. Using English outside the school was unacceptable – it showed you had lost your temper.

The boy put up his hands. “Nae, I’ll no fecht ye. Ye’re speakin’ the English.”

This story comes from the boyhood of John Muir, later founder of the Sierra Club, before he emigrated in 1849, aged 11, from Dunbar to the US. His own account of his childhood can be found here.

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here

“Dad, please. The asteroid’s passed, and we’re still alive, okay?”

The tent flap remained zippered tight as clenched teeth. I guessed the etiquette was the same as doors – you waited to be invited in.

“Dad?”

His voice was clear and stronger than it had been for years. “Go away. I’m armed.”

“It’s me – Josh.  Open up.”

Silence.

You expect your parents to grow old gracefully or, at worst, to become a little forgetful. Not to blossom into survivalist delusion.

“Dad? Civilisation has collapsed. There’s only you and me. Let me in. Feed me.”

“Josh?”

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.

He unbuckles the belt and slides it loose. The thing slithers through the loops like a snake, hisses like a snake.

“You’ve dishonoured us.” Even Papa’s voice is a hiss as he rears over me. “Brought shame on the family.”

The belt hurts, and I try to shield my head with my arms as the serpent bites and bites again. Probably I am screaming, I don’t know. All I’m thinking is whether he’s going to kill me.

“I have no choice,” he says, “you left me no choice.”

Papa is right – Anthony is not white.

Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here