Category: Friday Fictioneers

Friday has rolled around, the Fictioneers under the auspices of Rochelle Wisoff Fields and wth photo prompt provided by C.E.Ayr compete to present a story, beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less.

A quick search of history provided this information, Sep 1 Future Baseball Hall of Fame 1st baseman Lou Gehrig hits his 3rd grand slam in 4 days & 6th homer in consecutive games in NY Yankees’ 5-1 win v Boston Red Sox

And here we go: September 2, 1931

The door knob! The pain! Ranger shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.

“What the?” Nothing was right. The derelict house was new painted, the lawn mowed, fence intact. He shook his head again.

Looking toward Main Street, it wasn’t HIS Main Street. “Where am I?”

“I’ve seen cars like that. Ah, Grans living room!”

He saw a boy race by, carrying a newsbag filled with papers.

“Hey Jock, you’re late! Lou Gehrig hit another grandslam. Can you believe it?”

And Ranger remembered. He lived here, so long ago.

He grabbed his glove and ran.

Friday the 13th

From a photo prompt a story in 100 words or less is the challenge. Here is mine in less than 80 words.

“Dare you!” Ranger yelled, racing along the picket fence to the corner. “Scaredy-cat!”

The taunts hit Jarod like licks to the gut, he knew he had to do it. Ranger raced back, shoving Jarod to the gate.

Slowly, Jarod pushed the gate open, sidling to the porch and up the stairs. As he pushed the door open, bright light flashed and he disappeared.

“Ha!” snapped Ranger, “Another one! I wonder where they go?”

Prompt picture is from the incomparable CEAyrFF 05-13-16

I must admit that this photo and  random comments from some newscasters led to the following take on this weeks prompt from the shining Rochelle Glowworm for Friday Fictioneers. Every week she challenges us our troop to tell a story in approximately 100 words, where ever the picture takes us.

To see where the glowing lights took others just click on the link below.

REPEAT – until you get it right!

Charlie watched in awe, the glowing object hovered just above the surface of the city. It had arrived a week ago, amid fighting, screaming accusations from many voices, now silent.

Booming, “We the People, in order to form a more perfect union…” repeated over and over.

The Constitution, the Declaration of Independence sounded.

Inside, pods held politicians, multi-millionaires and newscasters. Mouths and media held in comatose captivity.

The Entities would not release them until they learned their position .and returned to the concepts of government ‘for the people’, not their pocket.

Once again, the charming Rochelle, path finder extrordinaire, has issued a map, the challenge for Friday Fictioneers.  This week the prompt is from one of my photos.

Here, in 100 words, is my little walk in the park. Lane and Jemma have appeared before and seemed to want to wander back.

Wedding Dress

Arrive Taras. gHOST TOWN 092

“Thirty five cents a yard,” The clerk was impatient. Leaving Jemma looking at the calico print, he turned to another customer.

Jemma glanced again at the ready made dresses hanging  in the rafters. Oh, to have twelve dollars to spend.

After all, it was a wedding dress!

Lane had offered  half his pay, ten dollars, but they needed that for the new house and she must have dishes, pots and pans.

Teaching school for fifteen dollars a month and board would not  stretch enough.

Counting carefully, she sighed, “I’ll take seven yards.”

“That will be $2.45”.


Other players have taken different paths, to see where they went click here.


It’s a wonderful Spring Friday, sunshine, blooming lilacs and a bit of R&R as the busy-ness of a traveling week winds down.

On Wednesday our champion bronc rider, Rochelle Two Ropes, posted a photo for the rodeo known as Friday Fictioneers. The photo, this week, from Madison Woods is supposed to start our horses on to the event, to tell a story in around 100 words.

Not the easiest of challenges at times, sometimes that 8 second ride results in a buck-off. Mostly though we make it and hit the score card.

This week, a couple of down on their luck cowboys are preparing to do a days work.


Coffee. Lane clanged the tin cup against the battered pot. That was all there was.wire ff 4-22 Madison Woods

Hard work between rodeos!

High above, a hawk screamed a jackrabbit fighting in its talons.

“Food!” Clay thought, picking up his six-gun and shot.

The red tail dropped his prey, flying fast.

Lane shook his head, “Let’s get this done, back to the ranch for dinner”.


For more, from other cowboys, riders and clowns  Click here

Fellow Fictioneers, some of that busy-ness (translate to health issues and travel) may keep me from the usual round of comments. I will attempt to at least read and ‘like’ all the posts. M




Once again, Wednesday has arrived, and with it our fearless ringmaster, Rochelle has donned her red coat and top hat, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls”, she announces with a crack of her whip. Issuing the challenge to join her at the circus known as Friday Fictioneers. Under her discipline we climb to the high wire to present a story in approximately 100 words.

Other acrobats have posted, their back-flips and somersaults can be found here:


ff4-15-15 kent Bonham

This week’s picture courtesy of Kent Bonham led me down a path that my grandson walks each day.

Brett is autistic, although reading and writing are skills he has not mastered in his 21 years, he can speak, articulating some of the effects of his condition.

April is Autism Awareness Month. I dedicate this little tale to Brett and all who deal with Autism, in its many guises. Maybe it will raise awareness a bit as well. I can hope.


Sound Prison

“Sensory overload” the therapist calls it, “meltdown” in layman’s terms.

People gather around, invading the circle of ‘personal space’, gesturing, talking.

Afraid to approach.

But too near and too loud for the boy.

No matter what, he hears it all. There are no filters.

No way to block the beating

The words have form and substance, invisible,battering.

They swirl around, floating shapes, sweeping in, crushing.

Rhythms pound, hammers in his mind.

Varied tones stab like knives.

He has to close it off! It has to stop!

And so, he sits on the floor, rocking.

Withdrawn, locked in his alternate universe,

Forced to submission by the weaponry of sound.

Back for another round

Yes, like Arnold, I am back with another tale for Friday Fictioneers. J Hardy Carroll provided the photo. Some medical experts, survivors and family  provided the thoughts and Rochelle Wisoff Fields provides the weekly venue. You can click here for other people’s ideas.

Here are my 100 words.

Back for another round

Hidden in this battered hulk

I hear the words repeated once again.

Reliving the morning of multiple tests,

Blood work, x-rays, MRIff 2016-04-08 J Hardy Carroll

Afterward we go out to eat,

Before the meal was done

The phone rings

Three words sink into my soul,

“ mass, referral, biopsy”.

He holds my hand.

Days pass; the voice returns

“Malignant, Chemo, Radiation,”

I’ve heard it before.

But not this,

“40% chance”.

His touch does not comfort.

Time marches on, but I do not

Hairless, staring vacantly

I bow to the inevitable.

An end to pain, hope for peace.

“Hold my hand”.

This week’s Friday Fictioneers Challenge is brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff Fields and I really recommend you go to to read the rules and find out more about our quest to tell a story in 100 words or close to it.

This week the photo is provided by J. Hardy Carroll and a sinister and mocking photo it seems to be…ff 2016-04-08 J Hardy Carroll

A Touch of Terror

Sarah stared through the veil of trees at the dark empty eyes of the old hotel.

Years ago, the center of the town, dinner and dancing, one night stands.

She’d heard the stories, Gyp had told them often enough.

He’d seen it, the fire, the bodies, so many lost!

Old man, trying to frighten the young with ghosts!

Foolishness! All the dead are long buried, fifty years gone!

She knew better, sure of herself, she moved forward.

A cold hand touched her arm, or was it just a branch?

She turned, shrieking, ran.

I might have hit a record, my tale is a mere 91 words.

To read more stories and see where the photo takes other minds click here:

Fellow Fictioneers, Lupus has raised its ugly head this week, fogged brain, pain, recalcitrant joints. Will try to read and at least ‘like’ all the posts.


It’s once again time for another exciting episode of Friday Fictioneers. The challenge to write a story in approximately 100 words. Our great hostess is Rochelle, follow this link to read other entries and play along.

The prompt is a photo by Marie Gail Stratford.

ff3-31-16 Marie Gail Stratford

I have to admit, this week the challenge was pretty difficult. But I finally managed to tell my story in exactly 100 words.

Thunk, thunk, the chopper blades rattle, our bird comes in over the street.

“There, Charlie, that’s our target.”

“Ray, can you get down? I don’t have a clear shot.”

Turbulence rocks the chopper as Ray tries to bring us lower between the buildings.

“Charlie, they’re on the move, hurry!”

“A little more, I can’t get it!”

The chopper tilts at an angle.

“I got them, Ray!”

A magazine slaps into place, perfect shot, thumb to automatic, press the trigger!

“Charlie Counts, CRCT, here with a live report on the suspects fleeing down Elm Street.”




Today’s photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers is brought to us by the talented and sagacious Rochelle.

The goal is to write a ‘story’, beginning, middle, end, in 100 words more or less.

Several thoughts ran through my head when I saw it. Maybe in yours as well?

Ideas from other folks can be found by clicking here:

“Beauty in Ashes”

Coming home, done with a late night shift, she drove past the burned out hulk. Finally, demolition is in progress.

Appliances, fixtures, boards and tiles, scattered debris, stark and ugly, waited for pick-up.

Remains of someone’s home to be carried away.

Nostalgic and a bit melancholy, as she is this sunny morning.

The workers have not yet arrived to finish the job.

The sorting, recycling still to be done.

Impulsive, she stops and places a flat of bright pansies in the empty commode.

A simple gesture that brings a smile.

Hope is planted.