Almost dead

This 100 word story is for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. Johnny is dead, I have a migraine starting, so what do you expect?

PHOTO PROMPT Dale Rogerson


Trees spangled with daggers crowd around the place.

Let me out! Let me back!

No one would hear, not even the birds. He felt the cold. Never thought he would. Nothing had ever moved him but blood, the sight, the smell, the taste of it, the beautiful tracery of veins and arteries he saw throbbing beneath the skin. He smelled it now, warm and sweet, pulsing through the cold earth. He couldn’t move, they’d made sure of that, before they piled the earth over him.

Sweet, warm.

A scuffle—night vision, he still had that—beady eyes in his. Rats.


Microfiction: Unquiet grave

Got this little critter down to exactly 100 words for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers writing prompt.




There is a feeling of late autumn in the air, of the year rolling into its winter sleep, wrapped in the fallen leaf memories of the summer. The rosemary, symbol of remembrance is stiff with frost, and not a breath of wind stirs the dry leaves piled in drifts about the headstone.

We remember who lies beneath, and we don’t forgive. We gather here every year to celebrate his finally being put where he belongs, but this year, something is wrong. The earth has moved, the headstone shifted. There are fissures in the frost-hard ground.

And the date is midsummer.

Microfiction: Jump

This is for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot


Everywhere there were people: beneath, above, across the hall, across the street, at the other side of the wall, inside her head. The racket of their shouting, drunken, whining, angry voices was unceasing. Even in her dreams they raged at her, feet drummed, music pounded, cars roared.

She watered the plants on the window ledge, looked down into the gulf of the street. She pinched a flower head and dropped it into the emptiness, watched in fall, slow, drifting white and peaceful. She wondered how long before it hit the pavement below. She wondered, put one leg over the sill…

Photo prompt: The stairway

I wasn’t aware until a few minutes ago when I read Geoff Le Pard’s contribution that Sue Vincent ran a photo prompt. It’s a magical photo and inspired this piece of microfiction.



“No one climbs those stairs,” he said. “And no one goes down except on a sled. It’s the gateway to nowhere.”

“Nowhere I’d want to be, anyway,” she agreed and took his hand. “Let’s try further along. They said this was the road.”

They walked away through the winter twilight, looking for El Dorado, Avalon, Paradise maybe. Light and laughter. Glitz and glitter.

In the dark archway, the shadows thickened and the light beyond grew brighter. A red fox sniffed the cold air. With a flourish of his magnificent brush, he trotted across the ice into the golden land beyond the arch.

100 word story: Kabul


They had come to the end of the line. The tracks ended at the edge of the desert amid a huddle of ramshackle warehouses, empty and silent. Beyond, mountains, treeless and hostile, barred the horizon, but there was nowhere else to go. The train emptied, he took Awira’s hand, and they jumped out together. Sand filled his shoes. So dark, the night; so far, the mountains. A lump filled his throat. Behind was nothing but war and death. His little sister squeezed his hand and pointed. The clouds had parted, and the moon turned the desolation to silver. Awira smiled.

100 word story: Swans

They’re getting longer. The image from the twitter duel (see Harriet’s half) is proving persistent.

Painting by Winslow Homer


On the hill he waits, framed in silver against the night, hears her wringing hands, the yearning drumming in her blood. She watches her would-be lover, tall, night-dark, stars seething beneath his skin, feels the heat of the moon, listens to the wild night song. Behind her, the fire in the hearth fills the room with its red glare, but its heat is pale and cool compared with the flush of her cheeks. Stars tremble on the sky’s brow, an owl passes on silent wings, her heart flutters. Swans’ wings, black and white enfold him, enfold her, bearing them home.