Friday Fictioneers — Wish No More

© Copyright - Rachel Bjerke

Consumed by slime and locked in haze, the forest wore a visage of enchantment. A once-loved spot in dank despair.

The odd array of outbuildings stared, open-mouthed and blank-eyed like a creature forever stunned. Not a peep from the birds, not an animal brave enough to show its whiskers. Even those of lightest claw or paw feared how the waterlogged leaves squidged underfoot and threatened to drag them under.

Then there was the wishing well, its waters a phosphorescent green, unmoving but for the coins tinkling in its depths; or was it the shifting of tiny bones? A child lost.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 words stories
Photo Prompt: image © – Rachel Bjerke

Friday Fictioneers — Troll

Frost on a stump. Sandra Crook.

The girl stepped out from behind a beech tree, her hair a crest of gold. ‘Over that bridge lies forever-winter.’ Icy breath twirled out of her mouth, although she stood in the sunshine. She pointed towards a frosted glade full of broken stalks, clumped grass, and bedraggled seed-heads, all glazed with frost.

‘It’s in the shade, that’s all,’ I said.

‘I dare you to touch that stump in the middle.’

I crossed the stream and crunched over the white, sure I was heading towards the gnarled remains of an ancient alder tree, until it winked, yawned, and swallowed me whole.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 words stories
Photo Prompt: image (c) Sandra Crook

Friday Fictioneers: Too Many Legs

PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“Excuse me, has anyone seen my mouse?” Damn, that’s not working.

“Help, there’s a tiger on the loose!” Unbelievable. Still no response. You’re all dead from the neck up.

“Fire! Fire!” Well, that’s flaming useless. My lighter’s not working.

“Does that bag belong to anyone?” Excellent, they’re getting twitchy.

“Make way for the bomb disposal unit.” OMG, I hate crowds.

Phew, they’ve gone. Now I can tell my behaviour therapist I made it through the shopping-centre without panicking.

“Oh, no. Help! Somebody, please. Take it away.”

(shaking my fist at the sky)  “What manner of twisted deity creates spiders?”

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 words stories
Photo Prompt: image (c)Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Friday Fictioneers: Crusher

PHOTO PROMPT - Copyright - Jean L. Hays

“You are a naughty, broken car and I’m going to tip you in the rubbish.”

“Ben, for heaven’s sake stop chucking things at the bin. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Come on, digger-crane-Cadillac, let’s scoop this old rust-bucket into the crusher. Wham-bang, wham-bang.”

“Lunch is ready.”

“Oh, but Mu-u-u-um, I’m playing with my cars.”

“Your soup will get cold.”

“In a minute. I’m just–“

“It’s petrol soup with tyre crôutons, followed by car-wax pudding.”

“Yummy stuff. Broom, broom, br-oo-oo-m. On my way up the motorway. Overtaking a police car–“

Skid. Crash. Silence.

Boy-racer in head-on collision with wall. Dial Emergency Services.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo prompt image (c) Jean L. Hays

November’s Guest Storyteller, Christy Birmingham

Christy Birmingham 600x600

Christy Birmingham is a poet, author and freelance writer in British Columbia, Canada. Her debut poetry collection Pathways to Illumination is available exclusively at Redmund Productions. If you haven’t been by her blog Poetic Parfait yet, check it out. You can also find Christy on Twitter.

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Shoveling Conversation

We stood, I threw onions, we never left… in our minds.

It was Thursday, and we weren’t any more drunk than usual. Only a few bottles of Merlot in and already Alex was throwing words my way that amounted to a hit that felt like a shovel to the face.

“You can’t tell me that,” he said. “You told me – you said you wanted to give her up for adoption. How was I to know you didn’t mean it?”

I didn’t hear anything other than give her up for adoption. His mouth moved in ways that I wish I had never felt on my body.

I threw the onion I had been cutting up at the kitchen counter at him. It hit his left ear and he looked at me with the astonishment I wish I had received months ago.

I didn’t know if my tears were true or fake, like our love. Either way, the knife in my hand wasn’t keeping anyone safe around here, and my wine glass was less than halfway full.

 

©2014 Christy Birmingham

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Sarah says: Thank you so much, Christy, for guest storytelling this month. Your piece of flash fiction illustrates so accurately the breakdown in communication that can happen between males and females just because their brains are wired-up differently. I wonder how many times in history men have said to women “how was I to know you didn’t mean it?”.

You can find the links to previous guest storyteller posts at https://sarahpotterwrites.com/guest-storytellers-2/