#FF: Painting the pain

old-shoes-cobwebs
© Sarah Potter

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


He was a painter.
A damned good painter.
Too bad he didn’t know it.
He spent his life criticizing his work, finding fault with every detail.
Depression and anxiety plagued him.
His past haunted him like wisps of morning fog roiling around him and settling at his feet, some days rendering him immobile.
A thousand times he said he’d paint no more.

She took his paintings to galleries.
They sold. The critics raved.

He hated her interfering in his life.
Why would anyone pay for his art.
Rubbish! Utter drivel.
He had nothing to say.

And yet he kept painting.

~~~ YinYang ~~~

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#FF: Breaking bread

hearty-bread
© Kelvin M. Knight

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


“Mom, can I have those stuffed pizza things instead of a veggie sandwich?”

“No, you have to stop eating junk. Did you know that sugar is an addictive drug?”

“Hmph. I can’t wait until I leave home so I can eat whatever I want.”

“But this is good for your heart.”

“You don’t have a heart.” Kailen mumbled under his breath.

“What did you…?”

“Nothing. You’re just mean sometimes.”

“One day you’ll learn which side your bread is buttered on, or you’ll be toast.” Mom snickered.

“I know which side is buttered—the top.”

“I mean…. Ach! Forget it. Kids!”

~~~ YinYang ~~~

#FF: I am the moon

danny-boweman-1
© Danny Boweman

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


They pushed the cart up the mountain. Perpetual darkness pushed back.

Tecuciztecatl didn’t understand. He was young and handsome. Nanahuatl was a mass of boils, sick since childhood. He’d never have a mate or children, surely.

On the mountaintop, they lit the pyre in a small crater. They tossed on the slaughtered lambs and calves.

Tecuciztecatl shivered in the night heat. He couldn’t do it.

Finally, Nanahuatl threw himself into the raging flames.

“No!”

Tecuciztecatl watched as flames gnawed at his friend and the new sun blossomed over the horizon.

Guilt overwhelmed him.

He leapt into the crater.

He became the moon.

~~~ YinYang ~~~

A moment in time

smallpox-hospital-roger-bultot
© Roger Bultot

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


Lord Cranston’s raging screams from the west tower faded to mere whimpers. She would never be his.

Evening shadows crept across the courtyard. Tomas gripped her hand as they waited.

She said nothing, but he could feel the slight tremble of her body as they watched the sun settle into the horizon. The limestone walls tinted to blood red.

Yes, the crone had seen them, in another place, another time.

Any moment now.

She grasped his hand ever tighter, a slight smile crossed her lips.

Crimson rays shot through the stone portal, lighting their faces.

The future was theirs.

~~~

#FF: A dog’s life

1502901343035-3fe33f29498d1b1f-3fdae246fddc9c2a.jpg
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


I hate this shower, Duke thought.

I’m clean. I played for three hours in the lake.

Why are they torturing me this way?

How would they like this foamy white stuff all over them? It’s inhumane.

And that smell. It smells like those little purple flowers in the garden. I can’t stand being near those flowers.

Finally, they’re finished. Three wet towels. Heh. Heh. Bet if I shake hard, they’ll let me out of this jail cell.

“Ahh. Duke. Do you have to do that every time?”

Yep, now open that door. I have a lake to conquer.

~~~

#FF: The star still burns

janet-webb-french-still-life
© Janet Webb

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


I’m the figure on the stone. Naked and exposed, or sleeping my days away.

She takes me from this room only to see Dr. Cullen. She says I’m too frail. She says I must stay here. She says it’s for my own good. She says she doesn’t have time to take me to the garden.

She doesn’t understand. My brain works, but this damned body won’t cooperate with it anymore.

Yesterday, she brought me the jar of fairy lights. She said I could pretend they were stars or fireflies.

I pray for the dark.


~~~YinYang.png~~~

#FF: Saving Grace

crook3
© Sandra Crook

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


Brother Ambrose softly hefted the bag of newly ground rye over his shoulder muttering yet another prayer.

Everyone was at Matins, so he was safe. This would make many loaves of bread for the orphan children in the village.

In the seven years he’d been at the monastery, he’d stolen countless bushels of food. If the abbot, discovered his theft he’d be punished for a year, he was sure; but, aye, it would be worth it to see the foundlings eat.

His only justification was that somewhere out there one of those foundling children might be his own.

***

Exploring the past to find the future.