Flash fiction: under stone



The last time I saw her she was walking to the cemetery. Sunbright, arms full of daisies.

“What for?” I said. “They’re all dead!”

She did not turn; it was as if I was already gone.

Our last night, I said, “Leave with me,” and she said, “How can I? They will miss me if I go.”

I walked with her to the graves that night. I tried to kiss the ghosts from her, bring her back to life, but she kept turning to them. They called her name; they laughed at me from under their stones.

This is a 100-word story for the Friday Fictioneers, an international writing community hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The photograph comes courtesy of Ted Strutz. Click here if you would like to join the Fictioneers this week, and please click here if you’d like to read everyone’s stories.

Flash fiction: Pull me down


Gerta said, ‘If you’re to stay you must have the Lord in your heart.’

I thought, I’ll take the Lord, if it gives me a roof over my head and a place in bed with you. So I said, ‘I’ll take the Lord, gladly,’ and kissed her honey skin.

She said, ‘I’ve asked Preacher Bartel to baptize you on Sunday.’

So I said, ‘Right-oh,’ though I know the dark-hearted river will pull me down once I’m deep enough, and no Lord will save me. The water knows who I am. It won’t give me back once I’m in.

This is a 100-word story for the Friday Fictioneers, a lovely international writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo comes courtesy of Rochelle. Click here to join the Fictioneers, and click here to read this week’s stories.

Flash fiction: A good day



It’s not so much the rain that disappoints but that the roofs are clean.

Everything’s begin-again washed, tiles like new almost, but I’m partial to the coal grime and speckles of pigeon poo; it gives my toes something to hold onto. Now it’s a job to watch each step and it’s hard to balance, with the bag o’ things clanking against my legs wanting to send me over.

Boss says, every time: ‘If you fall, don’t be callin’ for me.’

If I fall, I’m dead, but he’d hear of it and come in a whistle. He’d snatch the fripperies and jinglies from my sack and call it a good day.



This is a one hundred(-ish) word story based on the photo above. The photo is by Emmy L Gant and the story is my first for the Friday Fictioneers, a weekly on-line writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Ever since I discovered Claire Fuller and her beautiful writing, I’ve been wanting to join this group. And now that I have this shiny new website, I get to be a part of it! Lovely. Click here if you would like to join in, and go here to read everyone else’s stories.