Tag Archives: Stories

Friday Fictioneers: Love-in-a-mist

Here we go again – hundred word stories (more or less), based on the latest Friday Fictioneers photo prompt chosen by the one and only Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


When it’s foggy, I remember. I had gone for a walk, but soon I couldn’t see where I was. I climbed to the top of a hill, where the fog was thinner, and then he appeared. At first he was only a moving blur. I watched as he came closer and took shape.

He was young, but his clothes belonged to another century. He started when he first saw me, and then shrugged and accepted my appearance, strange though I looked to him. We talked for minutes, or hours – I don’t know – until the fog lifted. He faded with it.

For years, I searched for him every foggy day, but magic only happens once. At least he left me a token, my dear child. If only I could have left something with him.

Friday Fictioneers: Nothing Like It

Friday Fictioneers time again…be sure to follow the link to read other interpretations of the photo and offer your own hundred-word story!

copyright_bw_beachamNothing Like It

There’s nothing in the world makes you feel free like a boat. Out there on the water, no roads, no speed limits, just use your common sense and don’t plow into the side of an oil tanker, because any fool knows it can’t change course fast enough to get out of your way.

So there I am, nice sunny day, motor cranked up, bow tilted up to the sky, next thing to flying. Nobody told me the tide was going out.

Nothing makes you feel trapped like sitting stuck in a mud flat waiting for the water to come back.

Friday Fictioneers – Frustration

It’s time again – it’s past time – for Friday Fictioneers. So here’s my story, an entire day and almost a half ahead of this week’s deadline…


I am a deep-sea diver.

I paw with clumsy hands through the debris of other lives, a vase, a rusty hammer, a discarded leg. Once somebody valued them all, or wanted to. Why? Who knows. Their meaning is lost now, whatever it was. But it seems important to study them one by one, lift them, consider them, watch the startled crabs scuttle away to a new hiding place, wait for the sand to settle.

There are no crabs. There is no sand. Only an empty cluttered house, and a figure searching for order. As hopeless as sweeping back the tide.

Friday Fictioneers on Saturday – After

Another Friday Fictioneers story, inspired by the picture below. Make sure you check out all the other stories based on this picture, over on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site!


She stares at the frayed decorations put up for the fiesta, before. The half-full bag in her hand droops.

“Where is she?” An irritated voice.

“I’ll go look. Again.” The woman who comes out of the dark doorway might be older, or just more worried. It’s hard to tell.

“Come and help,” the worried woman snaps.

“I was thinking.”

“Fill that bag while you think.”

The daydreamer sighs. “We’re looters, aren’t we? I mean, this stuff belongs to somebody else. Used to.”

“And they’re gone and I’m hungry.”

“Yes.” She follows the worrier into the abandoned store. “I wonder how long before the city falls down.”

Friday Fictioneers – Prepared

Friday Fictioneers time again. Don’t miss all the other Fictioneers’ stories!


All the kids knew that house was haunted. You’d be safe if you took a magic light inside. Otherwise the ghosts would get you. And if I didn’t go inside, Brian would get me.

So I took all the money I had to the flea market. “Any magic lights?” I asked the woman at the table.

“Magic?” She laughed. “Oh, that old house. You kids still tell that story?”

“It’s a dare,” I mumbled.

“Well, one of them’s magic. But I can’t tell you which one.”

I pulled out my money. “I’ll buy the whole tablefull.”

Now I have the magic light, if I can carry them all. Hope the story’s true.

Friday Fictioneers: Little Houses

Friday Fictioneers time again!

(And don’t miss your chance to read all the other Fictioneer stories.)

bjc3b6rn-19Little Houses

Lilly is playing beside the mountain with the little houses. The mountain is as tall as Lilly. Her brother Brad is bigger.

“Silly Lilly. Messing with the mud.” Brad kicks at the mountain.

“Stop it! You’re gonna hurt the little people.”

“There’s no little people, Silly Lilly.”

“Is too. See their houses?”

“There’s no houses. Just sticks and stones.” Brad kicks again.

“Stop it!” Lilly hits Brad.

“Mom! Lilly hit me!”

“He started it!”

“Oh, stop it, you two. Lilly, you’re a mess. Go put clean clothes on. Brad, get your stuff for soccer practice.”

Mom pulls them into the house. Lilly waves bye-bye. Nobody else sees the little people bustle out of their houses to make repairs. Nobody else sees them wave to her.

Saturday’s Friday Fictioneers: After the Storm

Back to Friday Fictioneers at last…

c2a9dawn_q-_landauAfter the Storm

The third day out, we saw something red far off. “It’s a beacon,” Jim said.

“So?” I was too seasick to care. “We don’t know what it means.”

“It means land. That’s good enough. Now, get up and help with the lines.”

Jim had me hopping back and forth across that little boat releasing ropes on one side and pulling them tight on the other while he zigzagged through the water. He swore that’s how sailboats travel. I told him it’s stupid.

Eventually we came close enough to see the derelict red house. “Beacon, huh?” I said. “Now what, genius?”

“Now?” he said tiredly. “Now I’m sick of you on my boat. Suppose you swim home.”

Friday Fictioneers: Panic

Well, what would you do, confronted by a photo of a dismembered mannequin and some graffiti? You’d write a hundred word story about it, of course.

You wouldn’t? Well, that’s what the Friday Fictioneers do. Try it – you’ll like it!


November’s a gray month, so dark so early. Take the wrong shortcut, and you might run into anything. Something rustled behind him. Leaves, he told himself. But the leaves were gone for the winter. Only a mugger, he told himself with a sour smile.

It wasn’t like rustling, he decided. Or footsteps. Something scraping along the sidewalk.

“Help me.” A voice at waist level behind him. A child in trouble? He paused, turned.

The statue approached, swiveling stiffly from side to side. Its torso was missing, and its head wobbled atop its hips. The lips moved. He yelled and ran.

The head sighed. “This neighborhood. Everybody goes to pieces.”

* * *

Please comment and let me know what you think of this story! And as usual, thanks to our fearless leader and cat-herder, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Friday Fictioneers – True Love

And once again it’s time for Friday Fictioneers – hundred word snippets of fiction, all based one way or another on Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s photo of the week. I’m not sure just what this story of mine is. Is it romance? Is it horror? You tell me. And write your own story about Rochelle’s chosen picture; then share it with the rest of us.

al_forbesTrue Love

She was so beautiful.

I don’t know why I say “was”. Centuries wouldn’t change her.

When we met, she was wearing a vast skirt that swayed delightfully as she walked, balanced by a tight bodice and a huge bonnet that almost hid her face – the sort of thing my sisters said was the latest fashion. We promenaded and talked for hours.

At last I drew her close. With my free hand, I untied her bonnet. “Don’t, my heart,” she said. “You’ll regret it.”

I tilted her chin up. Her tears ran down the snaky hair coiling against her cheeks.

I could be free again, she said. If I forgot her.

But I’ll never forget you, my lovely Medusa.

Friday Fictioneers: Mystery

Friday! Time for another hundred-word bout of Fictioneering. Check out the other stories linked at Our Fearless Leader Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s web site – and let me know what you think of mine, okay?


It wasn’t picturesque, but it was weird. And none of the tour guides would explain. There had to be some reason for all the shopping carts just offshore, all around the island, and he was going to find out. One night after dark, he strode down to the gardens next to the beach and settled himself behind a bush.

The moon rose, glowing across the waves. They came with it, calling back and forth to each other in a liquid language he didn’t recognize, pushing the carts toward the supermarket with flips of their muscular tails.

Mermaids with the munchies.