Haggard and Haggled

Happy Friday and Happy Fall, readers! I’m revisiting an old story for my Friday Fictioneers and having a little fun. Hope you enjoy! Thanks as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this prompt and to Sandra Crook for the photo.

Copyright: Sandra Crook

Haggard and Haggled

Miriam froze, her eyes locked on the merchant’s table.

“Does the lady have an interest in treasures from the sea?” He gestured grandly at the array of shells, sea glass, drift wood and sponges. “All from the shores of Halamare, my lady. From the very sands walked on by the Stella Maris herself!”

Miriam glanced up sharply. “How much for the claw?”

The merchant blinked but otherwise didn’t react. They haggled over price, but soon agreed. The claw was hers.

She tucked it gingerly away. The merchant seemed innocent enough, but she knew a demon claw when she saw one.


Trapped In Eternity

Happy Friday Readers! Once again I find myself apologizing for my long absence. I hope you will enjoy today’s Friday Fictioneers story! Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the prompt and J. Hardy Carroll for the photo. (Where can I get a clock like that? But answer me honestly…how hard is it to dust?!)

Copyright J. Hardy Carroll

Trapped in Eternity

The city of Stoppendorf lived its life by the Clockwork Man.

He resided in the center of town, in the ancient and ornate clock tower. His routine never varied. It was as precise as the hours on the clock, and many people marked their own schedules by his activities.

But for three days now, the Clockwork Man has not been seen, and the tower has not chimed with the hour. The sun has not set. We have not changed. Time has stopped around us. We cannot leave and no visitors have come. The Clockwork Man has trapped us in eternity.

On The Wrong Foot

Happy Friday, Readers! I had some fun with this week’s Friday Fictioneers – there was so much more I wanted to write! Hope you will enjoy this snippet.

Copyright J Hardy Carroll

On The Wrong Foot

The thick iron gates of City Prime shut with a clang. Heavily armed guards barred the entrance. On either side stood massive scanners, some of the only “real” technology in the city. Val’s mechanical foot twitched as if sensing the scanner’s attention.

Cyborgs like Val were illegal in City Prime. In fact, most technology was. Ever since the Blackout and the AI War, the civil leaders mandated a “back to basics” way of life and the citizens were officially “unplugged.”

To save his sister, Val had to go in. He looked down. He would have to leave his foot behind.


It’s Friday again, dear Readers, and you know what that means. Friday Fictioneers! Special thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our host, and to Fatima Fakier for today’s photo.


Copyright: Fatima Fakier


“Pascha, if your Papa catches us he will flay you like a fish, and my Mama will lock me up until my wedding day.”

“Maria, Maria, you are always worrying. Papa will never know. We will have the boat back well before the sun thinks about rising, and we shall be safe in our beds – or yours,” he added with a wink.

I ducked my head, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

A sharp voice cut the air. “Dove stai andando, bambini cattivi?

We froze. It wasn’t Mama or Pascha’s Papa. It was worse.

Pascha’s nonna.

Merde,” said Pascha.



Forgive me, any Italian speakers or readers. I was at the mercy of Google Translate.

Dove stai andando, bambini cattivi? – Where are you going, naughty children?

nonna – grandmother

Merde – shit

Grandma’s Cellar

Happy Friday, my dear, patient Readers! It’s a hot one here in Columbus.

I’m trying again to get back in the habit of Friday Fictioneers, the writing prompt hosted weekly by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. She challenges us to write a story in 100 words, and bloggers all over the world give it a shot. Here’s mine. Enjoy!

Photo Prompt copyright by Jean L. Hays

Grandma’s Cellar

When I was six, there were monsters in Grandma’s cellar.

When I was ten, there was sweet strawberry jam. My sister and I ate a whole jar with a loaf of Grandma’s homemade bread, and Mama whipped us for it later.

When I was sixteen, I kissed Abe Wyatt in the cellar. It was my first kiss. Two weeks later, I cried in the cellar when he ended it.

Grandma’s cellar was special, a place for memories. Now I sit here silently remembering, because Grandma is gone and it feels like this cellar is all I’ve got left of her.


When Winter Comes

Happy Friday, Readers! And Happy May! I thought now was as good a time as any to resume some Friday Fictioneers. Many thanks (as always) to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our FF host, and to Karen Rawson, who submitted this week’s photo. Enjoy! (Even if it is a sad story.)

Copyright by Karen Rawson

When Winter Comes

“Do you remember the first summer we came here?”

He looked encouragingly at his wife, the wind curling escaped wisps of her gray hair around her face. Wrinkles lined her eyes from years of smiling and laughing. His own wrinkles crinkled as he smiled at the woods before them. His wife was silent.

“We walked barefoot all the way down the creek,” he said. He squeezed his wife’s hand. “Do you remember?”

She looked at him. Her smile was bright, but her eyes held no light of remembrance. “I like you,” she said.

His heart crumpled. “I like you, too.”

Flowers of the Fairest

Happy belated Friday, Readers! Another week, come and gone. Now it’s time for Friday Fictioneers! Thanks to Rochelle as always, for hosting, and this week to Marie Gail Stratford for our photo. Enjoy this 100 word story! Today’s title and story was inspired by this hymn (Bring Flowers of the Rarest).

Copyright: Marie Gail Statford

Flowers of the Fairest

“Mom! Mom!”

“Yes, Sweetheart?” her mother answered, not pausing in washing the dishes.


She dutifully turned, hands still in the soapy water. A grinning, curly-haired five-year old girl held up a fistful of fresh roses for her mother to see. “I even used the scissors like you do, Mommy!”

The mother turned back to peer out of the kitchen window. Sure enough, her diligently cared for roses were picked clean. She lifted her eyes to heaven, took a deep breath, then turned back around with a smile. She grabbed a towel. “They’re beautiful, honey. Let’s get a vase.”

Continue reading “Flowers of the Fairest”