Friday Fictioneers: The Old Guard


Photo Courtesy:  Sandra Crook

The Old Guard

Word Count:  100


They used to guard the main house, but when the new Chief arrived, he deemed the stone statues ugly and had them relegated, haphazardly, behind the bushes beside the canal.

Mr. Finnegan had chiselled them deliberately, with instructions to place them in a specific order.  In this way, they had become a shield; a defense against old, dark forces which lurked underground.

But in their current state of disarray, they were useless.  In his rear view mirror, Mr. Finnegan witnessed the lake swell and manifest into a gigantic watery demon.  It engulfed the old barracks, destroying it and everyone inside.


Friday Fictioneers – Next In Line


Photo courtesy: Marie Gail Stratford

Friday Fictioneers:  Next In Line

Word Count:  100

The fact that the rose was upright astonished Marcy. She looked around the garden; the other flowers were blooming wonderfully. Maybe it’s not deep enough she thought, and decided to replant it. She removed the rose carefully and dug until the trowel hit an object that clanged upon impact.  Peering into the hole, she saw a thick, gold band.  On a skeleton finger.

The skeleton hand shot up, clutched Marcy and pulled her through the earth which churned and filled her open, shrieking mouth. It then settled flat as if untouched.

The rose lay withering, dying, until it too, disappeared.

Friday Fictioneers: Not So Neighborly


Photo courtesy – Dale Rogerson


Not so Neighborly

Word Count:  100

He’d planned it; Mrs. Merriwether would answer the door in her Sunday morning housecoat, smiling sweetly.  She would thank him for bringing Saturday’s mail from the mailbox, and he would step inside slightly to inquire if she needed help; she was elderly after all.

She would pause to think and then he’d punch her to the floor.  After that, with gloves on, he’d locate and steal the inheritance she’d been wittering on about banking for the past decade.

However, the snow (and potentially incriminating footsteps) had given Mrs. Merriwether a reprieve.

In darkness of his own, he watched her house.

Friday Fictioneers – Dark Magic


Photo courtesy: J Hardy Carroll

Dark Magic

100 Words


Paula ignored the mean girls’ bullying.

“Hey loser!  The back of your head looks like your face – flat and hairy!”  They erupted in giggles but Paula remained calm.

“Hey WITCH!!”  This time, with a discernible thread of hatred, “Your Mother killed herself cuz she couldn’t stand to look at your ugly, wart face!”

That hit the nerve.

The ride began its tilting swirl, becoming faster, reaching higher.  Paula lifted her chin to feel the wind, and to listen for the screams from the girls as their car mysteriously dismantled.

Just like Mother, they will pay for their words, she thought.

All the small things

Almost a year has passed.

Our Christmas holiday felt like the most connected in many years.  Wholly.  Not just parts of it, like the time he gave me a lovely necklace.  The gifts were thoughtful and personal, yes, but it was more than that.

He asked me last year, through tears, what about all of our pictures, and our movies, and our inside jokes?  At the time, they seemed irrelevant.  I was looking at what I thought was the bigger picture.  It was indeed, but I think mostly it was a rear-facing mirror image and it was so big, I just couldn’t see my way around it.  I figured the only way to move forward was to leave all of that behind, and that included tossing aside all the small things.

From far away, they are like a mosaic; a living, growing work of art.  The weekend trips to the beach punctuated by familiar words and phrases when familiar landmarks and places are within sight.  The holiday movies, the actors’ lines that we repeat together, or say individually which evokes laughter every single time, year after year.  The songs and lyrics culminated over time that can pinpoint a memory like a single star in a giant constellation.  The “Do you remember when’s” and “omg, what about’s” and “Can you believe we’s”.

I didn’t realize just how important these things were during the first half of last year when I was ready to leave and create a new mosaic.

Our picture has not been pretty, but it’s ours.  Our life.  Our knitting together of experiences, and though the edges are tattered, they continue to stretch out and grow, and the center is most solid.



Friday Fictioneers – The Next Phase

Douglas M. MacIlroy

Photo courtesy – Douglas M. MacIlroy

The Next Phase

Word count – 99

Minutes after the photo was taken, Gary squeezed the life out of the bird and threw its body in the trash.

He was bored with animals.  Cats, gophers, and whatever wildlife he could get his hands on no longer satisfied him.  He stared out of the window, thinking of the children in his neighborhood; wondering at the logistics of pulling off such a crime.

The Lovely Bones, Gary recalled, depicted an exciting underground possibility.  With sly purpose, he withdrew a piece of paper from the nearby printer, thumbed the lead of a pencil, and proceeded to draw up plans.



I am struck today at just how lost I am.

Somehow, my husband and I landed on our feet, and this year has been about repairing our marriage and finding a new path.  But it’s not solid ground for me yet.

Perhaps there is a void that I hadn’t noticed.  Perhaps it has been swelling and growing for sometime.  I’m not sure what caused it; maybe it was left there when my husband took on some of the burden of our family life which had been mine to carry for so long.

I have stopped meditating.  I am exercising hard.  I am also drinking more than I should.

And, I have stopped being creative.

I am floundering.  Directionless.  In a mental, physical and spiritual rut.  Feeling lost today and upon reflection of the situation, am quick to tears.

Meditation and creation.

I think these might help.

And a new tattoo.