Nothing – Friday Fictioneers

It’s Friday Fictioneers time! The challenge is to write a 100-word story in response to a weekly photo prompt chosen by our host Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Follow the link to her blog for more information. Thank you to all who take the time to read, like, or comment.

2017 12 01

PHOTO PROMPT © What’s His Name

Nothing

Christ, it was cold. Colder than his marriage bed, these 12 years since Mary passed.

She had loved the farm, and she had loved him. He tried to comfort her with talk of heaven, but she would only smile and say, “Nothing could be better than here.”

His hot whiskey piss burned through the layer of ice in the outhouse toilet. He let out a chirrup of delight. Small victories.

Somehow he knew this would be his last winter. The thought warmed him.

Perhaps Mary was right. Perhaps there was no heaven.

And, perhaps, nothing could be better than here.

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Lights – Friday Fictioneers

It’s Friday Fictioneers time! The challenge is to write a 100-word story in response to a weekly photo prompt chosen by our host Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Follow the link to her blog for more information. Thank you to all who take the time to read, like, or comment.

2017 11 17

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Lights

He was awake. A full 35 minutes before his alarm.

It didn’t take him long to discover what was wrong. Lights! Flashing incessantly. Infiltrating his solitude through the sliver of space between the curtains. He tore out his earplugs. Oh boy, was he going to raise hell with the Morgans this year. Their decorations always so tacky, and it was only November 17th.

But he didn’t raise hell with the Morgans. Not this year or any other. The fire crews were unable to save them. And he was never bothered by their Christmas lights again. A fact he sorely regretted.

Pause – Friday Fictioneers

It’s Friday Fictioneers time! The challenge is to write a 100-word story in response to a weekly photo prompt chosen by our host Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Follow the link to her blog for more information. Thank you to all who take the time to read, like, or comment.

2017 11 03

PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Ann Hall

Pause

Have you ever knocked over a vase? There’s a moment, just before it hits the ground, when time stops. It’s a barely perceptible phenomenon: the briefest pause; a state of absolute clarity at the tipping point between cause and effect.

The same thing happens when you destroy your life. You might set the events in motion years earlier: the feelings you repress, the anger you let burn, the one last drink you always have. The vase can fall for a very long time. In the pause before it shatters you see everything clearly, and spend eternity picking up the pieces.

Prime – Friday Fictioneers

It’s Friday Fictioneers time! The challenge is to write a 100-word story in response to a weekly photo prompt chosen by our host Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Follow the link to her blog for more information. Thank you to all who take the time to read, like, or comment.

2017 10 27

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Prime

Incarceration on the prison planet Ouroboros is equivalent to a death sentence. Training on how to survive the harsh environment is offered to prisoners during transit. Those who listen are usually killed for supplies by those who don’t, who later die because of their own ignorance. Few survive long. Fewer leave.

Prisoner 6081809, known as ‘Prime’, looked up at the pink sky. Crossover was his favourite time of the cyclical year: when Ouroboros exits the orbit of one sun and continues its figure-of-eight journey into the orbit of the other. Chemical trails indicated a new consignment was landing.

Fresh meat.

The Legend of The Hewn Man – Friday Fictioneers

It’s Friday Fictioneers time! The challenge is to write a 100-word story in response to a weekly photo prompt chosen by our host Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Follow the link to her blog for more information. Thank you to all who take the time to read, like, or comment.

2017 10 20

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

The Legend of The Hewn Man

A girl once lived where a mighty oak now stands. She possessed knowledge of nature and of love: the oldest and most powerful forms of magic.

When the hunters came, her lover stood between them long enough for her to escape. But men who seek violence will have it, one way or another. They opened him up from navel to neck, and left him where he fell.

The girl returned as a raven, an acorn in her beak. She planted it where his blood soaked the land and awaited his return, that she might nest in his arms once again.

The Phoenix – Friday Fictioneers

It’s Friday Fictioneers time! The challenge is to write a 100-word story in response to a weekly photo prompt chosen by our host Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Follow the link to her blog for more information. Thank you to all who take the time to read, like, or comment.

This is my first post in a while. I was off trying to write a dissertation. I don’t recommend it.

2017 10 14

PHOTO POMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

The Phoenix

“Oh please,” she laughed. “You’re writing a story about a phoenix?”

“It’s a metaphor,” I said. “The phoenix represents my struggle against adversary.”

“Adversary? You mean adversity, moron. And what adversity? All you do is stay in your room playing video games and reading comics.”

She laughed again and her features morphed: her eyes became black voids, her mouth pinched into a sharp beak, her auburn hair caught aflame. I reached out a hand to smother the fire before it consumed me.

“Don’t touch me, freak! Mum!”

“Leave your sister alone.”

“She’s not my sister,” I muttered. “She’s my adversary.”

Graffiti – Friday Fictioneers

It’s Friday Fictioneers time! The challenge is to write a 100-word story in response to a weekly photo prompt chosen by our host Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Follow the link to her blog for more information. Thank you to all who take the time to read, like, or comment.

2017 07 28

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Graffiti

Emblazoned across the station’s once beige tiles, a colourful scene was now depicted: A man stood with his trousers around his ankles, arm outstretched to deposit a coin into the public payphone. The artist had positioned the subject in such a way that if someone wanted to make use of the wall’s electrical socket, they would be forced to plug directly into the man’s naked backside. The crowd of onlookers wasted no time in obliging.

“Bloody kids,” the security guard muttered to the grey haired woman beside him.

“Quite,” she replied, smiling.

Her bag jangled softly as she walked away.