Into the Woods

I haven’t participated in Friday Fictioneers in a long time. If you’ve never heard of it, Friday Fictioneers encourages participants to write a 100 word story based on a photo prompt. Click the blue froggy to read the other stories.

© Rachel Bjerke

I went to the place where we used to meet, where we shared secrets with sheltering trees. I followed my wandering feet, back to the place where we used to meet. The moss grew thick over the stones and the earth; time thickened air that once was sweet. The well was there, as I knew it would be, the old well in the place where we used to meet. I leaned over the edge and stared into the deep. The water was black and the only face was my own, alone in the place where we used to meet.

Reflect

Friday Fictioneers: One photo, one story of 100 words.

© Janet Webb

There are things you know you’ll miss—for me it was cheeseburgers, that particular satisfaction of drinking a cold beer after a long day out on the lake. Then there are the people; the ones who grow old and fade away, leaving you alone like the last skeletal leaf clinging to a tree when the snow starts falling. That part was harder, watching parents and friends wither into nothing, into food for worms. They didn’t tell me I would miss my reflection, that I would slowly forget my own face. Sometimes, I’m not certain I exist. Then, I get thirsty.

It’s Good to be King

Friday Fictioneers is short and sweet: one photo plus 100 words equals a complete story. As always, we are led by Rochelle. This week’s photo courtesy of Marie Gail Stratford.

         Chaz lounged in his newly-acquired throne, entirely made of tiny ivory sticks, and watched his subjects clear the battle rubble from the room. One body left a deep red smear across the floor as a white-faced man dragged him out by his feet. Three women began scrubbing at the viscous pool. He looked up at the hulking beast that crouched behind his throne. Its yellow eyes followed the bodies out the door.
         “Go on, then,” Chaz said and the beast rumbled away in the wake of the carrion. It’s good to be the Supreme Emperor, he thought with a grin.

I went a little abstract on this one with the chopsticks and Siracha, and less abstract with the idea of superiority.

Bonus story: a sci-fi short about a rebel alliance planning to rebel against a tyrant.

Internship at Wolfram & Hart

One photo + one hundred words = one story for Friday Fictioneers.

If you’re unfamiliar with Wolfram & Hart (or the TV show Angel)…shame on you. For the sake of the story, imagine a law firm that serves the needs of all the creatures that hide in dark corners and under beds and in stories told around campfires and you’re there.

 

Photo by Adam Ikes

         Finn jumped back with a yell, upsetting the box of invoices from 2007.
         “What is it?!” Sara, the other intern, clutched his arm.
         “It’s a ram’s head.” Finn began to breathe normally again.
         “I thought sacrifices were done on level 5?” Sara peered around him.
         “They wouldn’t preserve the head if it was a sacrifice,” Finn said, setting the overturned box upright.
         “Let’s find the box and get out of here,” Sara said.
         Finn quickly agreed–he felt like the severed head was watching–they’d be envying the beast if they didn’t get the box of depositions to the Partners before lunch.

**If you like this check out Betwixt and Between for the beginning, serialized story of my own version of supernatural Attorneys at Law.

That World

Friday Fictioneers. One leader to rule them all, one photo (by Claire Fuller this week) to bind them, one hundred words to lead them all and…what? Oh, wrong challenge. We do have a fearless leader who is more than just a figurehead in Rochelle, who captains our venture as we set stories adrift in our online spaces–one hundred words before the mast. Look at the photo, write a story, link it back, and try to read and comment on some others’ pieces as well!

         “Why do we always come to this beach?” Marina whined. “No one ever comes here. It’s boring.”
         Caly sighed, shifting the beach umbrella on her shoulder. She couldn’t help wishing her daughter inherited more of her father’s temperament. Owen always sat placidly and let the storms of their daughter’s tantrums wash over him. Caly remembered him once telling her that was why he loved them.
         She looked up at the statue, covered in lichen and seagull’s droppings and wondered if this was how her many times great-grandfather once felt. Calypso sighed, thinking: Triton had it easy.

 

I’ve seen a lot of things about fairy tales on different forms of social media today so Little Mermaid popped up as soon as I saw this–the Disney Version, not the depressing original.

Abscess

Friday Fictioneers. It starts every Wednesday, led by Rochelle of the Purple Fields, and has one picture (by Ted Strutz this week) accompanied by a 100 word story. Like what you see? Click the froggy below to see the other participants’ work and click here to see past entries of mine!

Photo by Ted Strutz

         The tools reminded him of hours spent in the dentist’s chair, unfriendly hands delving into his teeth and gums. He suppressed a shudder and took a deep, cleansing breath to regain the necessary calm. The boat was pulling away, bound for a harbor booze cruise despite the leaden sky.
         He hummed the theme to “Gilligan’s Island” as he cut a circle out of the glass, careful to sever the safety mesh, too. His silenced rifle fit perfectly as he sighted down the barrel, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The man on the deck staggered and slipped beneath the pewter waves.

Helena will be keeping track of the body count this week. Direct all complaints about bloodshed to her. Jessica B. Bell, on the other hand, likes bloodshed. I suggest you don’t rile her up.

Graduation

If you’ve been following along, you may recognize today’s protagonist from a previous Friday Fictioneers (one photo, one hundred words, one story) piece. I hope you’ll enjoy seeing him again–as he will almost certainly return, whether in another FF challenge, or something else altogether.

Photo by Jennifer Pendergast

         Jakob pulled his hat low, shading his eyes against the sun. The archway was unchanged. A stone portal that held no meaning for ninety-nine percent of the students who passed through it. But he remembered his walk beneath it, the eve after graduation.
         His grandfather waited beyond the arch, dark eyes and hollow cheeks emphasized by the glowing light of a small brazier at his side. Jakob remembered the goose-flesh pebbling his bare chest before the fiery brand seared into the flesh over his heart.
         The V had a double meaning–V for Van Helsing and for the Latin venator. Hunter.

If you enjoyed this and want more, go here

In Sheep’s Clothing

Friday Fictioneers and I are back. One photo, 100 words, one story.

© Sandra Crook

Ana’s hands slipped on the steering wheel and she jerked the truck back onto the road. Ben would never have expected her to take the old farm truck. But, he’d come home early in as foul a temper and went into the study to pour a whiskey. She was gone as soon as she heard the ice clink in his glass. Thank God, I left the gate open, Ana thought as she put her foot to the floor of the derelict truck. The sounds of bleating sheep and Ben’s furious honking faded into the distance, like a nightmare upon waking.

Can’t See the Forest for the Trees

One photo, one hundred words, one fearless leader. Friday Fictioneers is brought to you each Wednesday by Rochelle (don’t ask questions). The photo this week is courtesy of John Nixon.

© John Nixon

“I’ve seen this before.”

“Of course you have, Tash,” Oliver sighed. “We’re going in circles.”

“That’s not it,” Tasha said, looking around at the serpentine trees.

“We’re not going in circles?”

“I don’t know, Oliver. You wanted to do this.”

“Pastor Steve said there’s some ancient temple out here. You want to go all the way back home without seeing anything other than shacks?” Oliver crossed his arms.

“No, but we could have found a guide. Or a map.” Tasha felt the hairs on her arms prickle. A branch brushed her arm.

Flesh, fresh flesh, the tree crooned.
Tasha screamed.

Like they I always say, it’s not Friday Fictioneers unless someone dies. Click the link below to read some stories with less (or more) killer endings.

Rolling Fields of Green

Copyright – Danny Bowman

“Granda said it’s dragon. He fell asleep and the grass grew on him and he won’t wake up until the world ends.”

“Your Granda loved to tell stories; he told me that same one, too.” Patrick looked down at his son, who stared fixedly at the mound of grass. They’d spent a week in Ireland, packing up his father’s house.

“Did you feel that?” Connor’s blue eyes were huge. Patrick was about to ask him what he was talking about when the ground vibrated beneath their feet.

A few miles away, a  delivery truck rumbled over the uneven back roads.