It was a slight—he recognised that. And this merited anger, even reprisal. 

The afternoon continued lazy—wind ruffling the grass like a stroked dog, the insects’ bass and the birds’ trill stitching a pattern into the dome of the sky.

Wrath filled his glass, and he drank. Was her offence sufficient for an hour’s rejection? Or a screeching, door-slamming walkout? In the drowse and the piercing sunshine, it felt hard to calibrate. A slick bead of sweat licked his chest.

He couldn’t afford to lose her. That much was certain. So, a bit of a sulk, probably, then flowers.

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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

There’s something about a corner. Anything might be round it—a second-hand shop with the perfect antique frock; a view all the way to the horizon; a man with strong arms and a dimple in his chin; anything.

Her steps accelerated as she approached. She was brave, and the world could be new again. With raised chin and lips parted, she breasted the bend, alert for fortune.

Just ahead, a familiar laugh—Henry leaning in to share a joke with some bitch. Why was he not hurting, too? She ducked into the coffee shop, not ready for corners after all.

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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 must have existed—maybe still did, in some dusty library. The analysis was fool-proof.

“The stats don’t lie,” Robin said. “In this quadrant of the graph, there’s a story where Galahad gets Guinevere and Arthur’s cool with it.”

Will saw words blooming—on the walls, hanging from trees, across the pavement—and scoffed. “Stats! An infinite number of monkeys, right?”

But Robin knew. From textual variance in the legends, he reconstructed scattered paragraphs of the lost story. He’d show Will the branching map of Arthurian myth.

But Will Scarlet had slipped out and was cuddling Marian on the porch.

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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

“Should it look like that?” Mark shook as he pointed to the bank exposed by the melting snow.

I couldn’t see a problem, and told him so.

“It’s tessellated.”

Not knowing what the word meant, I nodded sagely, but the tremor in his voice worried me.

“Dirt should be crumbly,” he said. “Nor an array of parallelograms. That’s not natural. Someone, or something, wove it.”

Holding my hand up to placate him, a glance at my tessellated palm stalled me. Somewhere on the floodplains, marked out by those lifelines, tiny steamers plied the rivers. I plummeted into the weave.

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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

Thank you for that heel of bread—the first I’ve had in days. I have seen too much, and too little. Two kilometres up the road, there’s a checkpoint. What happens beyond that is a mystery. Maybe lovers walk the meadows, and cows graze the fields. Maybe there is only rubble, I don’t know. But I know what happened here. I could tell you stories. But I’d rather forget. I just want to feel something again.

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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

Next to the shoe tree, the bush grew, and the story encoded in its DNA flowered. The newly fruited books hung heavy from the branches.

Daphne plucked one at random, opened it, and read.

“No,” she said, “Juliet is supposed to die.”

“Mutation,” Karl explained. “Random mistakes change the tale.”

For a long time, Daphne was silent. At last she said, “Then nothing is certain.”

Karl nodded. “But, in this universe, I love you.”

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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 stones were old, very old. Things had happened here. I laid my hand flat on a dressed block, and my palm tingled. The past spoke through me. There was smoke, and screams, and the clash of metal. A warrior king strode the battlements, looking out to sea, desperate to glimpse allied sails.

I possessed a gift.

Like anyone blessed with The Sight, I endured mockery.

My wife brandished the site guide. “Don, this was a granary, not a castle.”

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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 pores and pits on his cheek make a moonscape, as he leans in close. His breath smells of garlic and rotting flesh.

“Tell me,” he says.

Silence is the only power left to me—the choice to withhold communion, to remain locked tight. Of course, he will get angry. That, too, is a power I retain. There will be threats, even violence. I may scream.

But I won’t talk.

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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