Posts Tagged ‘friends’

Today’s picture was taken by Roger Bultot.Thanks, Rochelle, for posting it. I’m sure this scene will inspire many wonderful stories! My 100-word piece about this gorgeous old cafe follows.

Not for the food

Sarah came to the cafe for the sounds
clatter of spoons
rattle of plates
the jingle of laughter and
jangle of that tiny tarnished bell over the door

Sarah made friends here
broke up with boyfriends here
Went away smelling of over-cooked eggs
and burned bacon
and feeling like she’d just left her home.

Home was a mangled car in the yard
home was the sound of the too-loud TV
Mama’s tears
dogs barking
and a faucet drip, drip, dripping

Home smelled of mold and cigarettes
Home was Daddy lying in
her brother’s empty bed
eyes staring at nothing

Wow! Wednesday-Friday is here again. Thanks to Magaly Guerrero for the fun photo. And to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for posting it so our merry band of Friday Fictioneers can each create a 100-word tale.


Me and them shoes been pals for a long time.
Yes indeedy. A long, long time.
Went to our first dance together.
Got married together.
Them shoes took me to the hospital when my Sara was born.
Carried me to the graveyard when she passed.
Yep, we got us some history.
When Burt left, them shoes took me to the bus station.
Went all the way to Kansas together
then on to New York city.
Joined us a chorus line.
Danced until we was both too old.
Got to pack them shoes away now.
We’re leaving for a better place.

Hard Times

Posted: January 13, 2016 in Friday Fictioneers
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Once again it’s time to sketch a story from Rochelle’s weekly picture prompt. This week’s photo has been provided by Amy Reese. Thank you, Amy. My story weighs in at 103 words, whittled down from 111.


A pack’s worth of cigarette butts lay at Jamar’s feet when he rose from the bottom step. His knees and shoulders ached from hunching in the 20-degree cold. No coat, no hat, shoes held together with tape. A slap to his thigh brought his lab, Tinker. Together the old pals shuffled through the snow to the corner – their corner – hard won and jealously guarded.
Jamar set the cracked porcelain bowl beside his foot, pulled a harmonica from his pocket. The first note was raw. Still, a dime clinked into the bowl, followed by a woman’s voice, “That child can’t be more than ten.”



Posted: February 19, 2014 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , , ,


Had the bell rung five minutes earlier? Ten?
Tommy didn’t know, not really, he never paid too much attention to time
only the sound that brought his best friend back from wherever he had gone.
That was what he always paid attention to – Andrew rising or falling from the ground or sky.
The orange flowers had been moving when Tommy raced around the corner
shouting his dead friend’s name.
Now they are still. The bell is quiet. No Andrew. No friend.
Why hadn’t he waited? Five minutes? Ten?
Will he ever return?