Tag Archives: Friday Fictioneer

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“.

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“.

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“.

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….

A Lift of the Curtain

hollywood-crowd

PHOTO PROMPT ©-Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

So that was all it was, cheap gifts and false fronts.  A place full of manipulated laughs and tears; predictable plots and dreams foiled by the dream-weavers.

From a distance it seemed a land of hope and magic until you lifted the curtain to expose the “Mighty Oz”: the gears of the machine being greased by the flow of money.

And more money, it was all about the money, even those ordinary people who loomed as untouchable giants, just pawns of the almighty dollar.

Sandy wept.

Her beloved America had become the fabled land that used to just mirror it.

***

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“.

 

The Last Train

Train Cars

PHOTO PROMPT – © Jennifer Pendergast

Fog rolled across the prairie with a shriek of a forgotten whistle and the thunder of a locomotive.

Irv held his grandson, Bill, as the apparition approached.

And there it was, car after car of chemicals heading east, roaring past just as it had all of those years ago.

Bill’s jaw dropped.  He’d never seen the like.

Irv had.  The Earth had to give up its bounty, even though there was precious little.  The teaming millions and billions wanted and wanted.

The trains had stopped, replaced by the killing smokes.

A breeze blew away the train.

“Let’s go,” Irv said.

***

Word count = 100

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

Captured in Glass

dolphin_01

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

“Sow your wild oats while you can, for you will not be young forever.”

Heeding his grandfather’s words, Harold spent the five years after graduation as a bit of jetsam on the sea spray, traveling the world.

That was then.

He had long ago traded the exotic ports of call with the familiar office, the wild sea for a suburban home. The wind on his back was now a suit jacket, the countless stars in the sky were traded for far-too-countable dollars in the bank.

But he kept the freedom of the sea at heart, with a promise to return.

***

Word count = 100

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

Memory’s Last Masterpiece

palettes

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Bold, inked details filled the foreground while the distant horizon disappeared into an indistinct wash of half-guessed color.

Tear blurred figures strode up the path towards Meg, the faces little more than a blot, but the names well known.

The names, the names.  People and places.  Things and ideas.  The names paraded down that watercolor path towards her and away from her.

“Grandmother?  Are you still with us?”

The dry-brushed voice belonged to a name half-familiar, but not one set into the scene the way Winslow Homer was.

She tried to paint the present, but her palette had gone dry.

***

Word count = 100

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