Archive for the ‘Friday Fictioneers’ Category

Anna’s Escape

Posted: November 1, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
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Photo Prompt Sarah Ann Hall

How Sasha loved his women, lined up before him nervously waiting to be led to the ball like splendid mares from a stable.
He alone had chosen their gowns, for he knew what was best for each.
Cerulean-blue for green-eyed Tatiana, moss-green for blonde-haired Marie.
But where was his prize? His Anna? His pride?
Inside a flurry of robes; with a curse and a promise, Sasha burst into her rooms.
A quarter of a mile away, barefooted Anna, dressed in a simple grey shift and rough woolen cape, heard the shot that killed her guard.



Yep, it’s Wednesday-Friday again. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields we have a beautiful picture (provided by Roger Bultot) to stir our imaginations.

Photo by Roger Bultot

I’d like to live the remainder of my life in the rose glow of candlelight.
Somewhere within the shadows bordering darkness and expectation
where the world is neither full of wild desire nor deep disappointment.

There, my children would softly hum accompanied by a choir of crickets
and the thrum of one-hundred bullfrogs.
And fireflies would spark in the midnight air.

Instead, I’m trapped in the bright neon glow of fluorescent bulbs,
held in place by blue plastic tubes twisting like snakes around me,
listening to the thump-thumb of an oxygen pump
while my children softly cry.

Wednesday-Friday has rolled back around. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields we have another picture to weave a 100-word story around.


At some point, everyone delivered a wish.

The believers arrived regular, bearing all kinds of gifts.
Patty: Appeared every Sunday totin flowers, til “Baby” was born too early.
Wall-eyed Lester: Brought colored rocks. Hopein for a girlfriend. I tried. I did!
Ain’t seen neither of em for a while.

The scoffers turned round after some twist of fate or nother.
Lindsey-June: Stage 4 cancer. Didn’t even try.
Jim-Bob: 57 Chevy caught fire on bridge #7. No fixin that!
Clairene: Not nobody can patch a dog flattened by a truck.

Today, everyone delivers one wish.
Wall-eyed Lester revs his chainsaw.

I make a wish.
No one tries.

His garage was full of boxes jammed to the flaps with a truly odd assortment of, well, rubbish.
Clear glass jars of toenail clippings, dust bunnies, cookie crumbs.
Matchboxes from around the world.Cocktail umbrellas. Plastic hula dancers.
Desiccated mice feet inside cardboard tubes.
Owl claws strung on leather shoestrings.
And rubber bands so old they crumbled when touched.
The thing that creeped me out the most?
A box of stuffed birds, moth-eaten and moldy, with bright yellow beaks
just like the one he sent to Mikey Short
with a note that read,
“Sing like a bird and you’re dead.”



Thanks, Ted Strutz, for the thought-provoking picture. I’ve taken this ferry many times and can smell salt air just looking at the water. And thanks to Rochelle for choosing it to prompt our merry band of Friday Fictioneers to write a 100-word story.


Full moon after full moon, our Emily watched and waited.
“I will return,” Simon told her. “I love you,” he’d said.

Her mother shouted,”Scum!” while her father roared,”Ingrate!”

Still, our Emily stared out the window of the house along the shore, rubbing her ever-swelling belly like a magic globe with the power to pull Simon back across the sea.

Years passed, the child grew, Emily’s beauty slipped away. Still, she waited. Our Tansie’s heart broke when she was chosen to deliver the note written in Simon’s hand, “Find another, lovely Em. Our ship is sinking. No help in sight.”
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The Squatter

Posted: September 27, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
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Wednesday-Friday has rolled around again. This is my 100-word contribution. To have this make a complete circle you will first need to read No Other Love by Sandra Crook. If I were more computer savvy I could add her link here. Alas, I’m not. This will stand alone if you don’t read her story first. Thanks for reading.


Sally occupied the top floor of the empty building. She didn’t have much, didn’t need much. Times were hard. But when had they been easy?

Sally ripped seams of thrown-out clothes and hand-stitched the cloth into dresses. Pretty ones too. Veggies the grocer culled, looked perfect when peeled and pickled. And abandoned furniture appeared brand new after she applied a bright coat of found paint or hammered in a few well-placed nails.

Unobtrusive as a ghost Sally came and went – usually at night. Because of that, not a soul knew she was home when Chloe set the apartments on fire.


It’s Wednesday-Friday and time for another addition of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for posting Sarah Potter’s picture and making us all think. Here is my 99-word story.


Samuel: Two-years-old
“Come to Mamma, baby boy, walk on over here! You can do it.”
Mamma: pretty and bright-eyed, dark-haired, plump.

Samuel: Eleven-years-old
“Honey, Mamma hasn’t got time right now. Run along.”
Mamma: thin, tired all the time.

Samuel: Eighteen-years-old
“Look, Buster, I’ve had it up to here with you. Get outta’ my face.”
Mamma: gaunt, jittery, hair matted and dull.

Samuel: Twenty-years-old
“Packed your bags. They’re by the back door. Get.”
Mamma: skeletal, dull-eyed, her hair gone limp and whispy as spider webs.

For the last time, Samuel shut the door against the chemical stench of crack cocaine.