The colours of her week

Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for this week’s photo prompt.

The colours of her week

Monday mornings she’s white and wan, but the book club girls arrive at 11 and a cool chardonnay or two soon restores her colour and sparkle.

Tuesday and Wednesday are red days—she’s off uptown for some retail therapy and wine bar get-togethers. She loves her reds.

Thursday’s vermillion. She feels somewhat worse for wear on Thursday. It’s her down day.

But she’s in the pink on Fridays when her handyman arrives. And she’s flushed as a rose as she waves him goodbye. Friday is her favourite.

Each evening she welcomes hubby home, freshly lipsticked and demure in yellow.

*****

This story is for Friday Fictioneers, generously hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

The watch-house


This week’s photo prompt is by J. Hardy Carroll

The watch-house

We called it the watch-house. It was the perfect playground, despite our parents’ warnings.

A hornets’ nest hung from a high window. Someone would come and remove it periodically, but the nest always grew back.

We dreamed up the notion that the nest was a collector, gathering up the world’s evils, growing huge with them, until the watchers came to take it away. We imagined that life sat less heavily on our young shoulders each time it disappeared.

I called in again recently when I happened to be nearby. The nest was enormous. Maybe the watchers have given up.

*****

This is my offering for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting the link-up.

In the embers

Thanks to Anshu Bhojnagarwala for this week’s photo prompt.

In the embers

Archie let his thoughts drift, soothed by glowing embers, the flames’ soft crackle. The fragrance of burning pine-cones took him back to boyhood summers, hunting here in these mountains with Father.

Now, Archie hunted alone. He longed to settle, to share all this with a son of his own. He’d tried to find the right woman, but none had endured. He had held great hopes for the last one—the failure still hurt.

He prodded a smouldering piece of leather into the hot centre of the fire, incinerating every trace. He sighed. She’d looked good in those red shoes.

***

Another story for Friday Fictioneers, a weekly flash fiction link-up kindly hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Out of touch

This week’s photo prompt by Renee Heath

Out of touch

“How long do we have to stay outside, Dad?”

“Not long.They’ll soon go.”

“They’re weird – the way they wander around, with one arm raised. Is that their war dance? Are they praying? What are they anyway?”

“You don’t want to know. Just be patient and keep your head down.”

“But it’s prickly and the ants are biting and I don’t want those creatures going in our teepee. It’s ours, not theirs, and my toys are in there. When will they leave?”

“As soon as they realise there’s no phone reception out here no matter how far they search.”

*****

Another 100 word story (actually only 99) for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Coming of age

Thanks to Ted Strutz for this week’s photo prompt.

Coming of age

“Please, Daddy. Can we take him home? Look—he’s hungry. He wants to come with us, I can tell. Please. Can we?”

“No, Jimmy. We’ve been through all this. It looks harmless, but once it’s been fed and restored it will own you. It will take all your pocket money to keep it going. It will take all your time playing with it and keeping it healthy. It will get into your mind and heart until your thinking gets all twisted up.

“Jimmy, you’ll be a man soon enough. You don’t need to own this monster to prove it.”

*****

This is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this weekly flash fiction event.

Shattered

Thanks to Dale Rogerson for this week’s photo prompt.

Shattered

Bruno visited daily, bringing little treats to cheer her, longing for a spark of interest in the darkness of her eyes.

He knew it wasn’t his fault. The road was treacherous; he hadn’t expected her to be there. He hoped she wouldn’t blame him. In fact, as he’d lifted her into his car he could swear he’d seen a flash of gratitude in her expression.

He knew it was destiny. Guilt, gratitude—they were immaterial. This was love.

When her shattered shell healed, Bruno would take her home, and this little turtle would never be alone and vulnerable again.

*****

This story is my contribution to Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

Here’s a little article about what to do if you find an injured turtle or tortoise. It’s amazing where a Friday Fictioneers prompt can lead.

Time for a change

Photo courtesy of Priya Bajpal

Time for a change

For John she dazzled and sparkled — bold, vivid, the envy of his friends. It ended in a conflagration, volcanic in intensity. She survived in the embers and in time emerged like pale smoke.

And coiled herself around Ian, all smooth curves, soft edges. She blended in, as he wanted, cool beige and white, transparent, until she became invisible to him and he moved on.

She’d been who they needed, these two and those before them, and they were generous while it lasted, more than they knew. 

Now is her time. She feels suffused with a golden glow, rich with possibility.

*****

This story is for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

No return

After a l-o-n-g hiatus, I thought it might be time to return to the fray and submit a 100 word story to Friday Fictioneers again. I hope I haven’t become too rusty. I can feel my flash fiction joints creaking and groaning as I write, but nevertheless, here goes.

Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

Photo prompt courtesy of Russell Gayer.

No return

“It was here. I’m sure.”

“But where are the shelters, the food tents? We can’t land here, in this bleak, soulless place. It’s worse than home.”

“Remember, friend — at home we were persecuted, starved out or hunted down. And home is a lifetime away. There’s no returning.”

“So now what?”

“We decide. Drift through space until the ship dies, or stay. We’re strong now. We have knowledge — to share or use against this planet. After all, they once welcomed us.”

“Look. There’s a sign. It says: New border security policies are now in force. Aliens attempting entry will be destroyed.

Land of Opportunity

lucy-fridkin

Photo prompt courtesy of Lucy Fridkin

“Look, Salvatore.  New York. New beginnings for us.”

Salvatore grasped Mama’s eager, outstretched hand. Here he would invest the nugget of greatness he knew was within him and make his mark. He wouldn’t shrivel and stoop, lungs destroyed like Papa’s, in the sulphur mines.

Already, at nine, Sal knew what he needed: skilled teachers, opportunities.

Shepherded down the gangplank with his brothers and sisters, Sal felt the weight of his good fortune, his pockets heavy with assets. He’d been lucky during the voyage. He’d gathered rich pickings in carelessly concealed trinkets and cash. There’d be a market in New York.

*****

I’m contributing some historical fiction to Friday Fictioneers this week. I’m not sure why my thoughts flew so swiftly to this particular Sicilian immigrant family arriving in the land of opportunity, but Salvatore certainly did leave his mark, in his own way.

You’ll find more information here.

And you’ll find more 100 word stories in response to this week’s prompt here. Thanks once again to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers.  

Penelope’s Project

ceayr-purple-door

Photo prompt courtesy of CEAyr

The early blossoms were perfect. At first no-one noticed. Helen called a cheery hello as she passed, and George waved good morning as he watered his yellow roses.

Soon the bushes were a riot of purple, and Penelope’s neighbours stared, from a distance. George stayed indoors.

Penelope completed her project. This was who she was – a woman with purple flowers and a matching purple door.

The end was swift. Penelope’s padlocked purple door remained a warning to passers-by that the Ministry of Civic Harmony would not tolerate subversive colour schemes. This was a yellow street. Just yellow.

*****

Once again I’m dragging the chain this week, but hopefully someone will still be browsing through the Friday Fictioneers link-up and drop by to read my story. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this weekly flash fiction event.