Friday Flash Fiction

kent-bonham

Photo Courtesy of Kent Bonham

Cryptic book in a cryptic photo…My guess is that it’s an adult coloring book or the schematics to some futuristic library system. Either way, I’m struggling with a story. I’ll have to rely on the keyboard muse to take us somewhere interesting this week.

Word count: 101

All That’s Left Behind

The lawn looked bedraggled after all the tromping feet retreated. Yellow tape marked the edges of the yard; “Caution” a warning too late to matter. With no clues or evidence, the police could only speculate.

“Probably just wandered off.”

“No sign of foul play, so…”

Alice heard but couldn’t process the information. Could her family legends be true? Her mother had warned her from taking that book from her father’s desk. She never believed the power was real.

She watched the police cars pull away as though through a fog. They’d find no trace of her son. Of that, she was sure.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

Friday Flash Fiction

being MG

Photo Courtesy of Marie Gail Stratford

‘Chicago, Chicago, that toddling town…’ – one of my very favorite cities in the world is featured this week. Long ago, I thought I might live there. I never was a fan of Midwestern winters, however. Nor their muggy summers. I hear there are about 3 weeks in April and October that are lovely…

Life changing things happen behind the many windows of a big city, hidden from view. Everybody has their own burden to bear, carried silently within.

Word count: 100

Overshadowed

Long shadows fell across the familiar buildings at day’s end. She’d leave her office once she’d composed herself, putting on a happier face to the world. For the moment, she let the news wash over her again.

Nothing to be done, really. She’d get up every day and face whatever needed to be done. The shape of her life had altered, the road ahead no longer endless.

Breathing deeply, she squared her shoulders and shook her head, wishing away the three words burning in her brain. Tonight, she’d live her life and enjoy the city.

Cancer could wait until tomorrow.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary

Friday Flash Fiction

Ted T
Photo Courtesy of Ted T

Beauty in the most unlikely places – this picture is all sorts of interesting. ‘Why?’ is the big question that comes to mind. ‘Why not?’ is the most likely answer. Sometimes you just don’t get to know. You just get to live it.

Word count: 99

Pottyville

Momma always said ‘bloom where you are planted’. She had no idea what that really meant.

Living on the streets as long as I have, I make my home wherever and however I can. Sometimes I imagine a place all mine, with windows and a garden and walls that don’t let the wind through. Dreams come easier when it’s dark and I can’t see the edges. Daylight brings it all back.

So I look at my garden and smile. The pansies dispel the gloom in spite of their unorthodox placement.

Momma would just love how I’ve embraced her motto.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary

Friday Flash Fiction

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Photo Courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

This picture has a lot of inspiration packed into it. I made the mistake of reading a couple of entries and now have to see what new twist I can make on the same prompt. I usually don’t read until I’ve come up with my own. Now to let go and see where the creative river takes me.

Word count: 101

Flux

No man ever steps in the same river twice – all things are in flux like a river.” Elmer said quietly to himself.

“What you going on about?” Opal shook her head. “Old coot.”

He looked at the river, knowing his own feet had stepped there, younger feet, back when his world was new.

Heraclitus had it right. His life barely mattered and any impact would wash away like a footprint in the sand, gone before the next foot landed.

“Don’t forget to shut that damn window. You’ll catch your death.”

Nodding faintly, Elmer closed his eyes, hoping for just that.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary

Friday Flash Fiction

Sean Fallon
Photo Courtesy of Sean Fallon

This made me think back to the days when finding the right battery was critical to my young kids. It seemed like every single one of their toys needed a different kind. And then, once I found (or more likely, purchased) the batteries, I’d regret it because it usually meant they were toys that made noise.

I’ve always thought there’s a special spot in hell for people who design annoyingly noisy toys.

Word count: 102

Powerful

“Hey! My Gameboy stopped working! What the…”

“Mommy! Darling Dance-A-Lot stopped playing…”

“Waaaaah!! No sound…”

My kids made more noise than the toys I’d surreptitiously sabotaged. I knew it was short-lived, however. I had a plan.

“Here – try one of these,” I said in my most convincing voice. “It’s something you’ll love.”

Eying me suspiciously, they turned to look. I held out the treats, calling them to me like the Pied-piper.

“Books, my sweets. Quiet, lovely, books.”

With a little persuasion, they settled in with their new found friends, each one a doorway to a new world. A much quieter world.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary

Friday Flash Fiction

Al Forbes

Photo Courtesy of Al Forbes

A car like this would have been on the road only a century ago. Imagine how much has changed since 1916. This was the future – and it has shaped our world in many ways.

Word count: 100

Blame it on the Wheel

“…Wind, rain, and flooding continue across the Midwest, no relief in sight.” The radio signal was sketchy, but the ominous news was clear: more of the same and getting worse. The old farm was a target for rising waters.

Amber looked around her grandparent’s farmhouse, focusing on her favorite picture of them. They stood beside their new Model T, black and shiny, smiling shyly at the camera, ready to take on the future.

After all the years of carbon emissions from 1.2 billion cars worldwide, things had changed. And the future they were racing toward was suddenly very different indeed.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary

Friday Flash Fiction

Sandra Crook

Photo Courtesy of Sandra Crook

“Like sand through an hourglass, so are the Days of Our Lives….” Thus opened a soap opera that reminds me of my childhood. My mother never watched them, calling them nonsense and pap. I took a short foray into them in High School when it was cool to watch All My Children.

This hourglass looks like a hybrid hourglass/sundial device. I’m not sure how it works, but it’s certainly intriguing.

Word count: 101

Days of Our Lives

“Mom! Where are you?” Ellen stomped around the house. Her mom knew she needed a ride to the mall.

“MOM!” Exasperated, she saw the keys on the hook. She’d be 16 soon. Why couldn’t she drive herself?

Her mother was always saying time was relative – whatever that meant. Why couldn’t she be like normal mothers?

Ellen battled the nerves in her belly. Nothing to driving, really. Easy as falling off a log.

Peeling out, her last view was her mom frantically waving her arms. Glass splintered and time shifted on impact as the final grain of sand slid through the hourglass.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary

Friday Flash Fiction

The Reclining Gentleman
Photo Courtesy of The Reclining Gentleman

Stunted tulips, graceful daffodils – harbingers of spring this chilly time of year. The age old cycle of rebirth and renewal, played out by planting dry bulbs in the fall, letting the chill fingers of winter spur them back to life. Sunshine, water, and a little fertilizer is all it really takes to bring beauty into the world.

Word count: 101

Nitrogen Rich

“Your garden is so lush! You always have the best crop in the neighborhood.”

Color rose to Alice’s cheeks. “Ain’t nothin’ really. Just a dab hand with the fertilizer and nature’ll do the rest.”

Everyone had enjoyed the extra bounty this last harvest – tomatoes, zucchini, peas – all had been prolific.

“I make my own fertilizer – them compost bins are the trick. They take all sorts of scraps and turn it into magic. Nitrogen Rich, I call it.”

Alice smiled as she recalled the last words Rich had said to her. She’d take her garden over that bad seed any day.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary

Friday Flash Fiction

image

Photo courtesy of me!

The pilings are all that is left of the Juanita Slough bridge which spanned the north end of Lake Washington in the late 1800s. They bring to mind the past when I walk by them and create a unique merger of natural and man-made. I like to think about the people who lived along the shore when it was at its heyday. I love how the pilings are now hosting new growth, a reminder that we all can start over, become something new.

Word count: 101

Vanishing Point

Standing at the end of the bridge, Lizzie strained to see through the gloom. He promised to come but she couldn’t stay long or she’d have to explain herself. That would never do. Father had eyed her suspiciously as she made her excuses to walk the shoreline.

Please…she whispered, part prayer, part pleading. In their few short months, they’d shared stolen moments, making their memories last in between. It was never enough.

Out of the dim, she saw his fedora bent against the rain coming toward her. Heart aching, Lizzie practiced the words she must say. “They’ve promised me to another…”

image

The bridge as it appeared in about 1915.

image

Another view of the pilings in the bay.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary

Friday Flash Fiction

CE AYR

Photo Courtesy of CE Ayr

I know I’m late this week – but it’s my first story since mid-December. I have missed out on the fun and need to get back to a weekly commitment!

The name of this home is lovely, a warning, perhaps, or tongue in cheek. We’ve all done it – put our hopes and dreams into something that wasn’t meant to last. Here’s to dreaming – and to capturing the moment when it comes.

Word count: 100

Castles in the Sand

How long ago the memory seemed – she felt again the warmth of that day at the beach, innocent and optimistic. Sitting side by side, they planned each room, designing their first home in the sand by the bay, feeling giddy as children.

She felt the rough grains between her fingers, smelling of seaweed and kelp. A seagull cried overhead, white against the blue sky. Hope soared as their dreams took shape.

The telegram began “We regret to inform you…,” Tears tasting of salt and the sea etched down her face. Their future just another sandcastle washed away by the tide.

To see other stories, please visit the Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site here.

© Erin Leary