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”

Silent Night

Friday again! They just keep coming. Time for another Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo is courtesy of Dale Rogerson. Enjoy!

Copyright: Dale Rogerson

Silent Night

Their bed was cold when he woke, blearily looking at the clock. 4:08 A.M.

His wife was sitting bundled in a blanket in front of the patio door, gazing out at the snow. A mug of tea sat on the floor beside her, still faintly steaming. He came up and sat behind her. She leaned back so she was nestled between his legs and against his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured.

“I just wanted to watch the snow,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She smiled softly and nestled further into him, and they stayed that way until dawn.

Stormy Upset

Friday again already? Time is flying!

Thank you, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers so faithfully every week, even if some us (*cough* me *cough*) are not as diligent in responding to the prompts.


Copyright: JS Brand

Stormy Upset

He helped her carefully onto the dock, holding her waist to steady her as she stepped out of the canoe. The look on her face was like a storm cloud, dark and ready to burst. The corners of his mouth twitched.

She took a few steps and deliberately wrung out her shirt and hair, not saying a word. He took that opportunity to appreciate the glimpse of her bare stomach and the way her clothes clung to all her curves.

“Well, you did say you would probably tip us over.”

She glared and stomped her foot. “You pushed me in!”