Posts Tagged ‘friday fictioneers’

j-hardy-rubble

Ash piled high over racked concrete, splintering rafters, rotting furniture. As far as Jared Thomas looked, there was nothing but grey.

“Look upon what you have wrought,” the woman said, her face hidden behind shining steel. “This is your legacy.”

Jared bent down to see a photograph of a girl and her mother, trodden underfoot and coated in dust. He wondered if there was anyone left.

“I never wanted this,” he said.

“You did not care before you beheld it with your own eyes.”

“I can change,” Jared said. “Please. Take me back. I can change!”

The woman said nothing.


Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and J. Hardy Carrol for providing the prompt photo!

inside-the-diner

Cheerful fifties tunes greeted Tara and Greg as they walked into the diner, a bell chiming behind them. There wasn’t a speck of dust in the place.

“Hi, folks!” a waitress said. “What brings you to our diner?”

“We needed somewhere quiet,” Tara said. “Somewhere to relax.”

The waitress smiled. “That’s usually what it is.”

The world flickered, like a bad signal on a television: counter rippling with black mold, music slowing, the waitress’s face rearranging itself like a jumbled jigsaw.

Tara blinked and all was normal again.

“So,” the waitress asked, leaning close, “what can I get you?”


Word Count: 99

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Roger Bultot for providing the prompt photo!

auto-aftermath

Screeching horns. Crashing metal on metal. Squealing tires. Glass splintering in spider-webs of shards.

And over it all, the thunder of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder.

After, they sit on the curb, staring at the wreck of the car: windows blown out, tires flat, mirrors snapped off like old branches.

“Could have been worse,” Aaron says, taking a long draw from his cigarette.

“Car’s a wreck,” Dave says, cradling his bloodstained arm. “I’ve got a bullet in me. How could it be worse?”

“Could be dead.” Aaron stands. “Come on. Job’s not done yet.”


Word Count: 95

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and providing the photo prompt! 

sandra-crook-1

The guards shut the Palace gates tight and barricaded them with whatever they could find: antique chairs, president portraits, vases. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

“It’s all right,” the President-For-Life said, waving a hand. “The people love me. All these revolutionaries… They’re all being paid. They’re actors.”

“Then they’re actors with guns,” a guard replied.

“I have a plan,” the President-For-Life announced. “A great plan. You’re all going to run out there and hold them off while I go out through the back.”

The guard sighed, pulled his gun, and shot the President-For-Life.

Viva la Revolution,” he muttered.


This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Sandra Crook for providing the prompt photo!

frost-on-the-tombstone-liz

Leafless branches shivered in the wind, shaking loose the white frost that clung to them. This was a lonely corner of the grounds, overgrown and untended. The owner of the house upon the hill – its stone walls reaching up towards the sky, spreading its wings like a bird in flight – could not bear the sight of the tombstone.

It had been there three hundred long, cold, solitary years, resting atop ancient bones that he was too afraid to have examined.

Written upon the tombstone in bold, capital letters was his own name.


Word Count: 92

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Liz Young for providing the prompt photo!

shoes-and-books-by-magaly-guerrero

“There’s an imprint,” the man whispered, breathing in the old leather. “An echo.”

“And what does that mean?” Melissa’d had enough of him sniffing around her shoes.

True, she’d told him he could do it, the events surrounding them had been peculiar (with peculiar being used as a euphemism for “bloody terrifying), and he was her best chance of getting to the bottom of it all, but did he have to sniff?

“It means that the shoes remember their previous wearer.” He rose. “They’re haunted.”

Melissa sighed.

Haunted shoes. Just what she needed.

And they’d been just her color too.


This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Magaly Geurrero for providing the prompt photo!

dale-rogerson-pizza

Lily gave Mark a look of disdain. There was, he thought, an art in the way she curled her lip.

“It’s not really my fault,” he said.

“All right.” Lily sat down. “Explain. I’m a fan of absurdist fiction.”

“You could have left a note. ‘Do Not Eat. This is for the party.’ I came in and saw a pizza. What was I to do?”

“Put a little effort into restraining your gluttony,” Lily replied.

“It was one piece.”

“And it was one bullet that killed Lincoln.”

“But–”

Lily glared and Mark knew he’d be off to buy another pizza.


Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Dale Rogerson for providing the prompt photo!

(See? I can be normal sometimes.)