PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
Dad was waiting at the dock. Arms folded, the chill wind rifling his steely hair, his jaw set.
Before I’d left, we’d had nothing but disagreement—each of us holding down the polar opposite on every issue. Somehow, I imagined that had changed while I was gone. He’d overcome every objection to technology and set his alarm for 2:00 am just so we could Skype twice a week. 6,500 miles between us and we had never seemed closer. But as I got close enough to read his face, I realized: we’d never been further apart.
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Ted Strutz. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Danny Bowman
Henry crossed the Sweetwater for the third time that day. He was thick in Cheyenne country, or so cautioned the pamphlet that had lured him on this journey. He had not seen a living soul since Jackson. The pamphlet had been right about little, Henry mused as he wiped the film of sweat and dust from his forehead. With providence, the land of Oregon would be as rich as promised. Leaving Ohio seemed rash when he considered the miles of barren land he’d seen since Laramie. What manner of people would choose to live here?
And then, he saw them.
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.
It seems like every time I try to toss my hat in the ring for the Fictioneers, I get busy with one thing or another and do not get a chance to read and respond to all the Fictioneers like I mean to. This week looks better, so here I am, showing up for the party.
PHOTO PROMPT© Jan Wayne Fields
It was Brian who was first to laugh after the old man left.
“Backwater bozo,” he muttered. He followed up by snapping a branch in two and hobbling around the fire. “Get out while you still can,” he gibbered, waving the stick at us.
We finished the beer by midnight, then sat back to watch the last sparks of the fire spiral up to the sky. Such an idyllic spot, we thought.
We woke up to the howls.
I sat up. Brian fumbled for his light. Steve shushed us. We held our breath. In the dark outside, a branch broke.
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Jan Wayne Fields. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
She was in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, with that look she got sometimes. Like no amount of heat could make her warm.
I didn’t need this now. Not with the mother of all meetings tomorrow. The whole Cybertown deal rested on my presentation. I needed to sleep. I needed be sharp. I didn’t need her need.
I realized then I could turn around. She hadn’t seen me. I could slip back out, through the bedroom and down the hall. She could deal with this herself.
She was so very pale.
I walked up, touched her shoulder. “What’s wrong, dear?”
This story was inspired by a similar story which Brene Brown shares in one of her wonderful books, although I can’t recall which one because I’ve read and loved them all. I’ve taken some fictional liberties with the fictionalized account.
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the talented and generous Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo prompt courtesy Rochelle! To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.
photo prompt courtesy J Hardy Carroll
She waited until JT was asleep, then slipped out from under the sheet. She plucked a pair of cutoffs from the floor. She’d put them on outside. There was no getting shoes without waking someone.
She gripped the doorknob of the camper and turned it so slowly the only sound was JT’s snore, and the whimper of the girl they’d picked up yesterday. She pressed the door closed silently.
The rest area was a hard mile in bare feet, the semis whizzing by, blowing back her tangled hair.
“Anna? Is that you?”
“Mom–” Her voice snagged. “I want to come home.”
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the wonderful-amazing Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy the dashing J Hardy Carroll. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Kent Bonham
“This is what you call a rental car?”
I expected that outburst. I did not expect her to spend her entire time at the Western Wall kvetching about the segregated prayer areas. The tunnels were ‘claustrophobic’, the Huvra too pricey, and the private tour at Tower of David ‘a disgrace for the money.’
The next day at Yad Vashem, she scolded the docent for disagreeing. “Such a maven you are. So young to know so much about the Holocaust.”
“Ma, she is an expert. This is what she does for a living.”
She pointed up. “The experts aren’t here.”
Tossing my hat in the ring once more for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks dear Rochelle, for hosting this gig and thanks to Kent Bonham for the photo. To read more fiction inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Janet Webb
When Avarit stole the stars, the people shrugged.
“We’ve still got the moon,” they said.
But Vagus worried. What if the moon was next? Or the sun?
“I know where Avarit lives,” Vagus said, for he’d seen it in a dream. A forest, a tower, and the stars in a jar on a window ledge.
The people laughed, but Vagus knew that Avarit had taken things before: like nobkins and gillyfish. And Avarit would never stop until he had it all.
That night, Vagus stared up at the bottomless black and knew: any journey worth taking was worth taking alone.
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the amazing Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Janet Webb.
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