Friday Fictioneers – The Victor

Mikhael Sublett

Photo Courtesy: Mikhael Sublett


The Victor

Word count:  100

Victor studied his wife; finally she had ceased her diatribe.

Retreating and breathing deeply in then out, he joined his hands above as if in tree pose then in front as if in prayer, and closed his eyes.


It had taken longer than he thought, and the exertion had increased Victor’s appetite.

He turned toward the kitchen and walked serenely through the debris.

Predictably, Myra had fought hard; foul words churned from red bow-lips, and pointed red nails clawed until the very end.

At the sink, Victor washed blood from his hands and considered turkey or ham with cheese.


Friday Fictioneers: Portkey Life


Photo courtesy: Anonymous


Better Life

Word count:  100


“That’s odd.” Cordelia stopped, tugging Montague’s jacket as he walked ahead.

“What’s that, pippin?” He stepped backwards, eyeing the boots, and came to rest behind his wife’s shoulder.

Cordelia reached out. “Where did these come from?”

“Best not to touch dear.” Montague chided gently.  “Probably belong to that brute gardener next door.”

Walking on, Cordelia briefly imagined that distasteful man grimace brown-toothed spittle at the effort of strapping his boots together.

In another realm, the gardener (whose name was Simon) gawked at the abrupt change in surroundings;  a beautiful estate all his own.

“All I done was touch the boot.”

Friday Fictioneers – Loop

Karen Rawson

Photo Courtesy:  Karen Rawson



Word Count:  100

Heather loved running this path.  She never deviated and bounded expertly over rocks and tree roots; strong legs pumping, and her orange hat bobbing visibly to warn hunters.

It felt as if she’d been running for years.

Heather paused to negotiate the rickety steps when she heard a sharp crack in the distance, followed by immediate head pain, then nothing.

Heather loved running this path.  She never deviated and bounded expertly over rocks and tree roots; strong legs pumping, and her orange hat bobbing visibly to warn hunters.

She crossed the stream, indifferent to the memorial cross bearing her name.

Friday Fictioneers: Not So Swashbuckled

Jan Wayne Fields

Photo courtesy:  Jan Wayne Fields


Not So Swashbuckled

Word count:  100


With sword in hand, Gerald leapt into the clearing.  He braced, expecting his opponent to pounce from behind the rock.  When nobody appeared, he let out a menacing bellow.

Still nothing.  Ever the professional, he yelled. “Yes, I am the Incomparable Giacomo!  And you want to kill me!”

A murmuration grew among the audience, and the spotlights glared uncomfortably.  Gerald glanced offstage to see the other actor take a drunken swing at the director before crashing through the backdrop to sprawl at his feet.

Gerald’s sword puckered his neck. “I am the Incomparable Giacomo, and you have ruined this play.”


A Strange Request at a Piano Bar

I took my daughter to Five Below this weekend.  If you are unfamiliar (as I was several years ago, and thought it was a store for all things winter) everything in the store is $5 or below.  It’s not like the old five & dime stores, and definitely geared toward teens and younger.

While there, we each purchased a book “Write The Story”.  On each blank page is a title and beneath the title are eight words that must be included in the story.  I thought this would be good practice for both of us because I procrastinate and am very much distracted by my phone, and my daughter likes to write stories.  We agreed to read our finished pieces to each other.

The first story is titled above.  The words to include were Carnival, Sprained, Mask, Oxidation, Awkward, Apple, Juvenile, Controversy, Twirl and Sassafras.  With limited space, it really calls on the old editing skills.


Tommy was a drifter; orphaned in New Orleans, he’d float from state to state working odd jobs at the carnival.

Mrs. Oozabell eyed him. “How old are you?”

He lied.  “Twenty-one.”

She tutted.  “Please, you are just a juvenile.”  But she nodded toward the apple dunking tent anyway.  “You can manage that one.”

Tommy smiled.  “Thank you.”

“Fifteen bucks a day.”  She nodded.  Tommy had to mask his disappointment.  He’d been hoping for at least thirty but he’d take whatever was offered.

The apple dunking tent was opposite an aged carousel with horses that would tilt and twirl, and with few customers wanting to get their face wet for fruit, Tommy wasted time watching the passengers.  His attention perked up when he saw a pretty, dark-haired girl.  She was the prettiest girl he’d seen all day and she was accompanied by two friends. He noticed the slender curve of her arm as she reached for the railing, and was in a daydream when she took an awkward fall stepping aboard.

Her friends laughed but Tommy was by her side immediately.

“I think I’ve sprained my ankle.” she cried.

The carousel manager lumbered over.  “Looks like oxidation on the metal wore the step away.  Guess it was only a matter of time.”

The girl hobbled to first aid and out of Tommy’s life.  He looked at the empty apple dunking tent and decided it was time to move on.  Mrs. Oozabell handed him his earnings.

“You have a good heart.  Find another life, yes?”

Tommy walked the streets until he heard piano music from a bar.  He loved the piano; had taught himself to play in the orphanage, so he walked in and ordered a sassafras sidecar.  The bartender queried Tommy’s age with a flick of his eye and poured the drink anyway.

The place was empty except for a few tables and the pianist, and when the guy was finished, Tommy approached.

“Hey, I don’t mean to step on any toes, or cause controversy, but how do I get a gig here?”

The pianist raised an eyebrow.

“What….you think you’re some kind of big shot?  I’m the piano man around here.”

Friday Fictioneers: Love’s Interest


Photo courtesy: Fatima Fakier-Deria

Love’s Interest

Word Count:  100


Over two hundred years have passed since the fine Rossiter ladies sat beneath the Yew tree, sewing, and talking in veiled ways of romance and social affairs.

The house is open to the public Monday through Saturday but nobody visits the far terrace; it appears abandoned and therefore, uninteresting.

However, if someone wandered down on a dusky Sunday, they might imagine having seen ghostly outlines in silk or satin dresses, and dainty hands tugging needle and thread.  They’d imagine overhearing conversation regarding Miss Rossiter’s love interest; a temperamental man with an unexplained fortune, and a habit of losing his wives.

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.