Category Archives: Fiction

Short Fiction

Old World Vacation

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

I never liked garlic, and I certainly hated “garlic breath”.

The minute I walked into the tiny get-away cottage, I was overwhelmed by the garlic. Truthfully, the place reeked.

All of it went outside and the I opened the windows wide to freshen the place.  With just one whiff of dinner, I knew I was going to live on bread alone despite the hostess going on and on about immunity.

Late the next night I met the only local that didn’t have garlic breath.  Divine.

Awake once again, my aversion to garlic is worse.  And sunlight. I should have listened…

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Dale Rogerson. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

No Longer Needed

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

I stared at the highchair mixed in with the rubbish.  It was as clean and as solid as it was the day it was made some 40 years ago.  Was that trendy company even still around?

Shaking my head, I walked on.  It had been a long time, and I was surprised at the emotions it brought back.

At the time some had laughed off the flu-like symptoms, ignoring the high death toll.  But the long-term effects were harder to ignore.

As “The Children-of-the-Plague” reached maturity, the full scale became apparent.

It would just be one lost generation, right?

Wrong…

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Roger Bultot. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Nope

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

It had been a long day and we were all hungry and tired.  The town looked peaceful enough.

“Left here,” Miriam said.

We slowed as we approached 347, the address in Miriam’s guidebook.

“There it is!”  I pointed. “Can you read the sign?”

“I hear the food in this town is awful,” Miriam said.  “Let’s move along.”

I could tell the kids were disappointed, but I kept my smile. “Sure.”

As they consolidated power, it became harder and harder for our kind to find a safe haven.

There was still hope for the next town. We got on the highway.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo ©Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Serenity #writephoto

Photo by Sue Vincent

It was one of those blue days.  The sky hung low, the clouds wafted off of the perfectly smooth ocean, half masking the ghost of a sun.

It fitted Matt’s mood perfectly. Yes, calm, almost serene, yet blue.

Why do people have to die? And young people who have done no wrong?  Why?

His eye cast down; he kicked a stone.

“What’s this?”

The glint mixed in with the pebbles on the beach seemed to more than reflect the outward light, it glowed on its own. Continue reading

Recreation?

 

They

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr

called it a moment in time frozen in amber.

The historians diligently reconstructed the corner to give visitors a small taste of life 100 years ago.

Keith frowned.

But they had sucked all of the real life and flavor out.

Where was the noise?  Where were the variety of smells over that ever-present background stench?

And people, where were they?

A city street is not things, it is people.

Keith cried out in despair.

*

“…they say if you listen closely, that you can still hear the driver moan as he did when dying.  Now, the storefront over here was…”

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo ©CEAyr. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Boys Will be Boys

(trigger warning)

The front door slammed.

Matt watched from his bedroom window as Ryan stormed away from the house.  What did he say to Mom? Matt wondered.

Ryan stopped at the end of the drive, looked both ways, hunched his shoulders and then slowly walked down the road.

Ryan was in one of his moods again.  When wasn’t he?  Was that what 17 was all about, hatred and anger?  Resentment of everything?

“Don’t try following me, you lib-tool snowflake!” Ryan had said.  “And if you even think about going in my room, they’ll never find the body parts.”

All Matt had said as “Good morning,” and maybe something about being glad it was Saturday, but Ryan blew up at him.  And what was with that stupid warning about his stupid room? Nick had said that he thought Ryan was making bombs or something there.  Matt wasn’t sure if Nick was joking.

With the thought of his best friend, Matt ran down the steps. Continue reading

Token #writephoto

Photo by Sue Vincent

Edna sat down at her favorite bench, giving silent thanks that it was open.  She had seen it occupied at other times of the day, but it was always open for her late morning breakfast and had been for years.

How long had it been?

She thought back.  She had started to come down to the park the year after Ed died.  Let’s see, that was in ’98.  And it was two years later that she settled on that one bench.

So there it was, 18 years of sitting there with her lunch every day.

She spread some crusts out, as always, before getting up and doing her the bit of walking she did every day.

There were a few paths that curved around the lovely garden that she loved to take.  Her favorite, though, went through a little hidden grotto.  Not a cave, just a little nook in the wall.

But what a magical place! Continue reading

The Influencers

jhardy-image

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

“Look, Mom, angels!”

Timmy pointed at the flaming people falling from the sky.

“Ah-huh.”  She didn’t look.

Tim quickly discovered never to mention those others since they were invisible to most.

But people did respond to them, as they whispered in ears and tugged on shirt sleeves.

As an adult, Timothy watched in horror as the world was shaped by the flaming beasts.

And then they were gone.

He hadn’t thought of them in ages.

Getting ready to push his latest legislation through, Timothy paused.

Had they accomplished their goals and left, or had they just become invisible to him?

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo ©J Hardy Carroll. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Crescent #writephoto

crescent-moon

Photo by Sue Vincent

“Hey boy, get me that crescent wrench.  The middle sized one, now, ya hear, boy?”

“I’ve got a name,” Mark grumbled to himself as he dug through the pile of greasy tools trying to figure out which wrench was the “middle sized one”.

As Mark compared seven different wrenches, he inwardly cringed.  Dad would mangle the car and make it worse.  No use telling him that he needed the right tool, and that the crescent wrench, even the exact one he wanted, wasn’t right.  He’d heard it before. Continue reading

Home

ted-s

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

“I like this one!” Liza said.

“Really?” Dylan asked.  “The colonial houses are cool, but this…?”

“The Jazz Age, my favorite.”

Liza turned, drinking in the restored house.  It was so familiar.

An old photo on the wall showed the house as it was on November 4, 1919.  She had been there!

But that was impossible.

As she glanced around, irrational thoughts crossed her mind.  “That table fits, but it isn’t the table,” or “That’s not right!”

She stepped out of the house. It was no longer summer. Edward drove up in his brand new 1920 Ford.  She was home.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

***

I was thinking Strawbery Banke in Portsmouth, NH.  It is an old residential section turned into a museum.  It has homes restored to look like different eras from the 1690s to the 1950s. One house had all of the periods represented as it had been lived in continuously for over 250 years.   So this house that Liza liked was restored to 1919, but Dylan liked the houses from 1695 better….