We dance under the wires, fairy legs, fairy feet, can’t touch, won’t touch! Here we are, making our way through. They think the wire can keep us? We are the Folk; we are the ones with dreams and sight. We are the makers of wonder; we slide into the children at night.
Put up your wires, just try, we will still come.
You can’t end or break us; we are spun silver, we are riddle, we are gold.
In the morning, the children sit at their desks and under the drone of This and That, they draw the marvels we gave them last night.
I actually posted a different story for this prompt at first, but then wrote another one because the first one made me sad. I realised I get to do that—change my mind, change the ending. I am a writer! I choose Path B.
This is a 100-word story written for the Friday Fictioneers, an international writing community hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The photo prompt comes from Madison Woods. If you’d like to join the Fictioneers this week, click here. To read this week’s stories, please click here.
I haven’t been here for a couple of weeks, and I am sorry to have missed two whole story cycles! It is lovely to be back.
The first day in my new world, I thought I was free.
The streets of the city went so far, I couldn’t see their ends. The buildings were long-legged birds; it was wonderful to be underneath them. Sounds were true, not muffled through double-glazed glass. Taxis lurched and wailed, people stood whistling at the kerb, and couples bickered on street corners.
It was beautiful.
The first day, I made it half a block before I was stopped.
“Lord! Girl, put on some clothes!”
I looked down.
You’ll be naked when you arrive.
Another thing the witch hadn’t told me.
This is a 100-word story written for the Friday Fictioneers, an international online writing community, hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The photo prompt comes courtesy of Marie Gail Stratford.
This particular story is a modified scene from my novel-in-progress. The photo fit so perfectly, the scene had to become this week’s story. In the novel, this scene is quite a bit longer. It was a very satisfying challenge to compact the moment into one hundred words.
Please go here if you would like to join the Fictioneers this week, and go here to read everyone’s stories.
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.
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.
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.