Posts Tagged ‘friday fictioneers’

venice-fatima

There is a city like ice in the sun, like smoke in the wind. It is a maze of sparkling water, of spanning bridges, of shadows and whispers.

Through narrow alleys the traveller walks, silent as a cat. Crossing a low bridge, he looks down at the waterway beneath. Small waves lap at foundations.

He thinks of a story about a bird that ground a mountain to dust.

The waves will not take as long as the bird.

The city is a dream, a mist, and one day it will be gone.

But for now, it is here.


Word Count: 98

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

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meep-by-the-window

They watch it on the monitors: grey against grey, shadow against shadow. And the more they watch, the more they cannot agree.

“Like a bird,” says the first man. “A bird with a plume made of smoke.”

“No, no,” mutters the second man. “Like a hooded man. A hunched, thin man, his legs like matchsticks and his face like darkness.”

“It has no shape,” the third man whispers. “It is a shifting thing, a cloak with no wearer.”

The door handle shakes and the monitors blink out.

The men can agree now on what it is.

It is here.


Word Count: 99

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

russell-working

Josiah Lee was an ordinary man. He sold carrots at the ┬ámarket, he helped the Smiths clean their drains, and he knew everybody’s name.

On a warm June night, he rose from his bed, took up his shovel, went into the yard, and began to dig.

When the sun rose, he still dug. His pajamas were mud-stained and his bare feet scratched. His wife called out to him, but he did not hear her. His daughters tried to pull the shovel from his hands, but he fought them off.

“It’s down there,” was all he said. “In the deep.”


Word Count: 99

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

bowl-and-leaves

In the crystal bowl, light flickers, distorts, shines. Green leaves curl in the refracted light, drinking it in. The stem twists like copper wire.

The mother doesn’t pay attention. The plant is just another plant yanked from the dirt without a second thought, no longer a living thing but merely a centerpiece on the table.

But the daughter strokes the curling green leaf.

“There, there,” she whispers. “It’s all right.”

The leaves shiver. Roots reach out for nothing.

The daughter picks it up and darts out the back door.

Her mother shouts, but she doesn’t listen.

She’ll bring it home.


Word Count: 100

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

dadsshoes

They are wandering shoes, soles worn through walking, tips taped in layers of silver. The dust that coats them is the dust of a hundred places, scattered far and wide.

She wore them for many years, when her stomach roared with hunger and her fingers stung with cold. Now they sit beside a half-dozen other pairs, shining and new.

Her husband tells her to throw them away, but she cannot bring herself to do it. It would be like throwing away a part of herself.

When she dies, she will be buried in those shoes, to wander once more.


Word Count: 99

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

nyc-jill-wisoff

Nobody knew why the buildings were lit up. They were always lit up these days. A memorial to one thing or to another.

Every day something was lost, either to the marching sea or to the roving militias. The coasts were gone, towns and cities plunged beneath the roiling waters.

There was nothing they could do. The city had put up barricades, to keep out bullets and waves, but everyone knew they would be no use when the end came.

But up in the dark, through layers of brown cloud, strange eyes watched the lights and reached down helping hands.


Word Count: 100

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

k-rawson

Mererid wandered three days through the winding forest paths, the sun hot upon her neck, before she came upon the stairs. They were no more than halved logs, stuck in the soil, but they meant perhaps Mererid was not alone in her exile.

A twig snapped and footsteps echoed through the trees. Raising her hood, Mererid hid.

The figure’s shadow stretched like an oak tree. His breaths were the snorts of a bull. For a moment, she saw two burning eyes amidst bark skin and thistle-beard and shoulders like mountains.

He passed, climbing his stairs.

Mererid went the other way.


Word Count: 100

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