“This is me?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded.

“Two-thirds of a pizza, a half-drunk glass of wine, my watch and some condiments?”

Again, that smile.

Tom told me once he picked through the rubble of the bombed village for an hour, arranging the detritus to compose his photograph. A frayed teddy bear from one house and, from another, a tin plate with a bullet hole.

“Wasn’t that lying?” I’d asked.

He replied it was revealing the truth.

“And the truth about me is?”

Tom hugged me and whispered “Maybe that you’re alone. Or maybe you changed plans.”

 

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.

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 on character and likeability

 

When I wake, there is writing on the wall – “my thoughts abandon me with every word”. Had I written that? The script is elegant and flowing, unlike my scrawl.

Writing should be confined to notebooks – on walls it’s a transgression. At the age of eight I was punished for writing on the lounge wall, sent to bed without supper. Even after two coats of paint, the message still seeped through.

I envy those who can write on walls without guilt, but the infestation of words troubles me. I wonder how it would feel to write on human skin.

 

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.

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 on character and likeability

 

The cloud ruffled the top of Table Mountain, tendrils fraying down towards the city.

“They call that effect the tablecloth,” Thandie said.

Sitting under the shade umbrella, I sipped my mojito and gazed across the harbour. We were in her country, her city, but I felt a disconcerting familiarity. Africa should be more alien.

She seemed to read my mind. “You expected mud huts, didn’t you? Lions? Tribal dances?”

All I could do was laugh and reach across the café table to squeeze her hand.  “You’re dark and exotic enough for me. And there’s still your father’s kraal to come.”

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.

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 on character, desire, and suspense here

You prepare a bed on the drowsy veranda and carry me to it, like a bundle of sticks. With meticulous tenderness you settle my wasted limbs. But I sense you feel something missing from our love, now there’s no longer any cause for jealousy.

I was beautiful, wasn’t I? Admirers threw flowers onto the stage, and you burned in a rage of uncertainty. The doubt bound you to me. Can you cope with tranquillity? Will you stay with me to the end?

 

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

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 on character, desire, and suspense here

 

There’s whimsy and then there’s madness. In the square, the giant escapement was cute. We sat by the fountain and savoured the play of sun through the holes. Hands big as railway signals indicated the museum and the train station. Disquieting.

We chose the museum. You learn a lot about a community through its relics. The face of a Gulliver-sized fob watch was set into the cobbles of the plaza.

“What time is it?” I asked a whiskered citizen in a top hat.

He capered. “Tea time, of course. It’s always tea-time.”

The only train out was at High Noon.

 

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. 

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 on character, desire, and suspense here

Between the Pharaonic pillar and the insect there is a terrible connection. My heart batters its bone cage and my breath comes in gasps. Between the bug and the finial of the balustrade there is also a connection. The locust bestrides the ornate globe, moving up from Africa. Selling insurance is my trade, but even I know we’re in the presence of a portent.

A plague, a Biblical plague, is coming. I seize Seymour’s hand as the sky darkens with a million tiny wings.

“What is it, honey?” he says.

“Don’t you see them?” I say. “Don’t you hear them?”

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.

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 on character, desire, and suspense here

“I’ve built us a story to live in,” he said.

“But I don’t like you much,” she replied.

The little man looked smug as If expecting this. “No matter – you will in the story.”

“In any case,” she said, “it’s impossible – I promised Albert to be in his play.”

“Pah! Bert! The boy’s plots are sound, but the characterisation is weak. You’ll end up thin and wasted.”

Arms folded, she glared, foot beating out a rhythm of unease.

“There’s a beach,” he wheedled, certain of wearing her down. “I’ve hired the summer. And you’ll never grow old.”

 

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.

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

It was dark when the stars began to fall. Not a creature was stirring. Except Josh. He pressed his nose to the cold windowpane and stared as the bright nebulae and galaxies fluttered and twirled to earth.

“Ben!” he whispered to his brother.

No response.

“Ben!” More urgently. “Wake up, Ben. The sky is falling. There are stars all over the garden.”

“Yeah right, Chicken Little.”

Ben was four years older than Josh, and that made all the difference.

 

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.

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