Tag Archives: Friday Fictioneers

He Could No Longer Trust the Mailman

Photo Prompt © Roger Bultot

Photo Prompt © Roger Bultot


There were only three people Clem trusted: the mailman, the kid from the pharmacy who delivered his meds and the lady in 3B.

He was so close to cracking it—the whole thing. Very much near uncovering the underlying conspiracy behind all of it.

From the window, he looked back over his shoulder and tried to decide if one could see it from the street: Clem’s careful collage of post-its, news clippings and abandoned receipts. Because just now he’d caught the mailman LOOKING UP.

Clem turned back: their eyes met. Some knowing passed.

He could no longer trust the mailman.

100 words

This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneer, hosted by the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo prompt courtesy Roger Bultot.

To read more flash fiction inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button.

get the InLinkz code

I post this rather sheepishly, because the last fictioneer piece I posted, I did not get around to commenting/replying/reading as I would’ve like. Thanks for reading. I aim to do better this go-around.

Sometimes They Come Back

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot


They say nothing ever happens in Epic, at least nothing good, and maybe that’s why she left. People ask, “Do you remember her?” People are idiots. I was only six weeks old, how would I remember her? Except that—there’s this statue I saw on the news—a ‘reconstruction’. ‘Jane Doe’ they called her, and they found her bones in River Park—with a dent in the skull the size of a dead blow hammer.

“Do you think she’ll come back?” I used to ask my daddy. And he would smile this smile I used to think was sad and study the grease under his nails.

“You just never know,” he’d say.

You just never know.

This has been an edition of the fabulous Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wiscoff Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Roger Bultot.

To read, more or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button:

PS This week I am on the naughty list–at 16 words over the 100-word limit. My apologies. Thanks for reading.



Pretoria Preetus and the Shop of Troublesome Household Goods

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

“Returnis Shelvum.”

Nothing happened. Exasperated, Pretoria peered in the cubby beneath the register for the Book of Retail Spells. But of course, it was gone.

“Does nothing stay put in this store?” She blew a wisp of hair off her forehead and looked up. The sleepwalking nightgowns had arranged themselves nicely over the bed-buggery short-sheets. But everything else had been a complete disaster since Madame Terminus had left for lunch.

The rickrolling pins had beaned the last two customers.  Madame Terminus was due back any minute. There was only one thing to do.

She lifted her wand and waved. “Confringo!”

This has been an edition of the Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Mary Shipman. To read more or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button.


cityscape with tall buildings

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

“Congratulations Boomer.”

Boomer was the name he’d picked up in the mailroom back when he’d started. He stared at the glass door where they’d etched his name just that morning. There was no limit to where he could go from here, given his rocket ride to CTO.

“At the rate he’s going, he’ll be running the whole company by 2020.” Daleen held up a glass and the dozens of well-wishers crowded into his new office cheered.

He had good friends.

Which was what made it so hard to do what he had to do next.

This has been an edition of the Friday Fictioneers, a weekly 100-word photo prompt hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. To read more flash fiction or to submit your own story, click the blue froggy button.

Broken Promises

PHOTO PROMPT - © Kent Bonham

PHOTO PROMPT – © Kent Bonham

It was where we said goodbye. Where he kissed me on the forehead and we made promises: me to be a good girl and him to be back Friday.

We didn’t even stay to wave goodbye. Mom had a meeting and when she dropped me off at Daisytowne she said, “I don’t know why you’re crying. It’s only three days. Why do you have to be such a brat?”

I couldn’t tell her I knew.

I counted the days anyway. They told us about the crash on Friday night.

After that, I didn’t even try to be a good girl.

This has been another edition of the fabulous Friday Fictioneers, hosted by The gracious Rochelle. This weeks photo courtesy Kent Bonham.

To enjoy more 100-word flash fiction entries based on the prompt, or to submit your own, click the froggy button:

get the InLinkz code


My Dearest Emmaline

Friday Fictioneers is a weekly writing challenge hosted by the gracious Rochelle

Writers are challenged to submit a 100-word (or less) flash fiction piece inspired by the photo-prompt. My offering for the week:

exxon exhibit gem

Friday Fictioneer’s prompt Picture’s courtesy of Marie Gail Stratford

My Dearest Emmaline,

I earnestly await your delight when at last you rest your eyes upon this wondrous land.

It is a sublimely temperate place, with clear skies and crystal waters. The natives are a goodly people: handsome, straight and honorable in habit. All manner of game abounds and the earth lies eager for seed and plow.

New Centre is a hundred souls strong and the men have agreed: we shall send for our families posthaste. Expect instruction soon to come–but first, I must tell you of my astonishing discovery! Today, I happened upon the most curious crystal.


To read more Friday Fictioneers, visit the blue frog button: 

Her Porch Swing

My first foray into the Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle for the story, photo and opportunity to write this. (Better late than never.)

This is a writing challenge which asks that we produce a piece of  fiction in 100 words from the photo prompt given. If you’d like to contribute to this challenge, just follow the link through Rochelle’s blog to read the instructions and copy the photo.


Courtesy Rochelle and her Friday Fictioneers

Her Porch Swing

When she was just a girl, that porch swing swung all summer.

And as a debutante, the men had leaned upon the rail, their hats in hand, for just a chance to swing with her. But none of them was perfect, so she’d waited.

Later men would saunter by: tip their hats from salt and pepper heads and say, “Good day.” But all of them were married, so she’d waited.

But then that seat got broke and then that chain got rusted, and when they just came by in hearses, well–she took that porch swing down.