I was cooking breakfast, bacon sizzling in the pan, when they called to tell me you were dead. Had been dead for four years. Perhaps murdered. The gears of time slip, and the past crashes into today with the force of a motorway pile-up. Events concertina, throwing up mountain ranges and dredging shadowed valleys.

If only I hadn’t. Or you didn’t. I search the Internet for four-year-old details. A marriage gone wrong. A property dispute. A failed police investigation. The news runs out as attention shifted.

The bacon starts to crisp and burn. I serve-up just in time.

 

 

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

“That’s an awful lot of water in one place,” he said, standing on the edge of the world and scanning the ocean. He wheeled, strode back into the hotel, and never returned to the seashore.

Instead, he built himself a pond, enclosed within the courtyard of his farmhouse. The water duplicated the sky, reflecting inverted trees. The low ramparts of the steading held chaos at bay. He was content.

“The ocean is very big,” he told his wife, “but we are also very big.”

 

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

 

Howard paced the corridor on his nightly rounds, overhead lights receding to the vanishing point. On each side, shutters protected treasures he had never seen:  the deeds to a castle; a dragon coiled tight around an oak chest of jewels; diadems of starlight.

Howard Carter felt destined for greatness. He wouldn’t be a security guard all his life.

“What do you see in there?” people would ask him.

“Wonderful things,” he would reply.

But he knew what dreamed behind those shuttered doors remained beautiful only until the moment a door was opened on cardboard boxes, overstuffed sofas, and cricket bats.

 

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

The man who came back from space is upstairs dying. When Dad returned, there were medals, starbursts fireworks, and marching bands.  He was war hero and celebrity rolled into one, and also my father. Some rubbed off on me – at school I got the girls.

But he never talked about it.  Not to me, or anyone. He never did anything again and became more and more withdrawn, taking to his bed five years ago. Though I keep hoping he’ll tell me the secret of the stars, all he’s said is “fame’s not all it’s cracked up to be”.

 

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

 

 

Legs pumping, heart pounding, Irgul thrust his way up the mountain path. He raced through the stone archway into the cloying fug of the memory chamber. Donba glared, strong arms corded as he stirred the thick vat.

Irgul bent, hands on thighs, gasping for breath. “Sorry, sorry, I’m late. Give me a minute.”

“It’s a solemn responsibility keeping the tribe’s remembrances mixed. Where were you?”

Irgul winked. ”Making memories.”

His friend had to laugh. “Yes, I saw them arrive. Crimson. Nice one, lad.”

He took the handle from Donba and ladled, lest the heavy elements separate out.

 

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

The Machine’s skin was hard, harder than any crocodile’s, tougher even than stone. Irgul stared at it. Today, after reaching manhood, he would become one of the four Bearers. After the feasting, they would parade the Machine round the village, like their fathers before them.

Irgul reached out and caressed the Wheel. It turned. An idea glimmered just beyond his grasp.

Sp’andor, the old shaman, watched the boy and smiled, remembering when he also had that seductive idea for transportation. Irgul would discover for himself, he thought indulgently, how easily clay pots smashed when jolted along the forest paths.

 

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

I don’t usually do sequels, but so many people asked about what happened next in last week’s story. So here it is. Sorry to those of you who didn’t like the story. I promise not to turn this into a trilogy.

“If this DNA sequence is a signature, whose signature is it?” Joel hated the implications of Emily’s discovery about the Alpha gene, the gene they’d found in everything from humans to amoebae.

Emily ticked off possibilities on her fingers. “One, a Creator.”

“A deity who spoke Greek?” Joel shook his head, but in confusion, rather than with his characteristic sarcasm.

“If you think that’s weird,” Emily continued, “how about number two? We’re running inside a computer simulation.”

She reckoned this wouldn’t be the best time to tell Joel she lacked the Alpha gene.

 

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

Joel wasn’t a believer. Not in spirits, faeries or deities. But neither did he believe in coincidence. Two samples containing the strange DNA sequence he could dismiss, but not 500.

“It’s crazy,” he told Emily. “the gene’s present in humans, mice, fruit flies, and amoebae. It’s ancient. But does nothing.”

“Oh, it does something,” Emily said digging her hands into the pocket of her lab coat. “But you’re not going to like this.”

She spelled out the amino acids the gene coded for – Alanine, Lysine, Phenylalanine, Histidine, Arginine.

Joel didn’t follow. “So?”

“It spells Alpha. This is a signature.”

 

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

 

“I mean, what’s their point? What do they do for us?” Calum is emphatic in his opinions. He has similar views of football hooligans and foreigners.

“Pollination” I suggest.

A wisp of smoke curls from the pest gun as he advances on the filo-pastry wasp nest.

Calum shakes his great grizzled head. “The beggars stung me for no reason. Bees don’t do that. Bees are useful.”

“Maybe they don’t need to be useful. Perhaps it’s enough that they exist?”

Like an activist protecting a mangrove swamp from a marina developer, I step forward and seize his wrist.

 

 

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

The causeway extended across the fen into the mist.

“You can see how Alfred the Great escaped the Romans here,” Jane said.

“Vikings,” I said

“What?”

“Alfred escaped Vikings, not Romans.”

A gust of wind lifted the fog’s cowl. At the exact vanishing point of the causeway, the afternoon sun kindled fire in a pyramid.

“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto,” I said. “We should go back, Jane. Now. Or we’ll miss tea.”

She raised her ray gun. “That’s okay. Phasers on stun.”

Hand in hand, we marched forward into the white pre-world of possibility.

 

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