Friday Fictioneers – Debts Paid

Photo supplied by Douglas M MacIlroy

Happy Friday Fictioneers day, AKA Wednesday! Hope you are all surviving lockdown, If you want to submit your own 100 word story based on the photograph, or see others, just follow this link

“A little something to wet your beak on.”

Crack.

“Glad to see you survived your meeting with Sparrowhawk,” said Tawny Owl, placing Finch’s drink on the bar. “He doesn’t forgive debtors easily.”

Finch didn’t reply, memories of last night circulating like a jerky film reel.

Crack.

“I have the perfect job for a little birdie like you,” Sparrowhawk had said. “A message to deliver.”

At the described tree, Finch heaved to dislodge and topple the stranger’s nest. Only then did he hear.

Crack.

Glimpses of broken shell, scattered.

Minutes later, Finch trembled under Sparrowhawk’s gaze, “Message delivered.”

Friday Fictioneers – Slippery Dish

Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Good evening everyone. This is an entry for Friday Fictioneers, where we write a 100 word story based on the photo prompt. The challenge is hosted here by Rochelle Wisoff Fields, who also kindly supplied the photo this week. The frog below will take you to other entries. 

Pink Froggie

A lacquered bowl was gently placed in front of him.

Octopus – his favourite dish. He plucked a tentacle with some chopsticks, admiring the delicate fleshy circles.

Of course, the biggest suckers at this particular restaurant table were definitely his prospective clients.

He smiled at them, but not too much. Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen. That way, they’d never question if the deal was too good to be true.

An honest deal wouldn’t keep him in pricey sushi, would it?

“Well, I might have a solution to your problems, but it’s a bit different to what you had in mind…”

 

Friday Fictioneers – The Means of Production

Photo by C E Ayrs

Decided to give Friday Fictioneers a go this week, run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  I’m honestly not a huge political history buff, but decided to try and go in that direction anyway. I also would like to leave a disclaimer that even though I do work in manufacturing, this is definitely not something I am planning! 

No missed calls. No new emails.

After two cups of espresso and reading 30 pages the latest Simon Sinek book, he picked up his eerily silent company phone, perplexed.

As he drove to the office, he decided that great leadership was creating a self-sufficient workforce which did not bombard him with communications every minute.

He pulled up to the gate. Reversed. Pulled up again. This automatic number plate recognition system was beyond ridiculous. He owned the building, for God’s sake!

He jabbed at the intercom.

“I’m sorry,” a voice came through the static. “You’re no longer permitted in this factory…”

Friday Fictioneers -The Consolation Prize

Photo Credit – Dale Rogerson

This is a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers. Please follow the link to find the rules and to look at other 100 word stories. 

Candy pink sky fades to indigo. You knock on my door at exactly six.

I can’t help but see us, shadow backlit by fairground lights, reflected in the abundant chrome, in the eyes of the vendor who implores you to take one more chance to win me a prize.

No luck for you, and no stuffed creature for me. Consolation comes from following the scent of onions and doughnuts to purveyors of deep-fried delights.

You offer to share.

Lips coated in oily cinnamon-sugar, we kiss for the first time.

At home, I blame red cheeks on chill October air.

Friday Fictioneers – In Hiding

This image belongs to Anshu Bhojnagarwala.

 

This is a submission for Friday Fictioneers, a challenge to write a 100 word story based on the photo prompt. It’s a lot harder than I remembered, but I got there eventually.

“May? Are you in here?”

After a pause, the music classroom door closed.

Nestled under the piano, she tucked her costume skirt over her feet. The show would go on without her. She didn’t care if they were angry. The last exam was finished, and she wouldn’t see her fellow students again.

There was no mum or dad waiting in the audience to watch her.

A folded flyer for A Midsummer’s Night Dream propped up a stool leg.

She thought of Alice, proudly waving the flyer, proclaiming her big sister was a fairy.

May reluctantly left her hiding place.

Friday Fictioneers – Light for the Lost

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Image belongs to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Just about managed to write a story for the CORRECT picture prompt for this week. This 100 word story is for the Friday Fictioneers challenge. Please follow link to view other stories and see rules for entering. 

The back of the sofa yielded 21p, enough to buy some reduced bread from Asda. The whole time, I was hoping to God that nobody from school would spot me and ask if I was okay, that nobody would notice I was paying in coppers.

At home, my heart jumped when I saw lights in the kitchen, and mum at the table. After nine days in bed, she was finally up. Just as I dared hope she was ready to be mum again, I saw her vacant expression, staring at the flame of a candle.   

“She loved candles,” mum murmured.

 

C: Friday Fictioneers – Tradition & Rebellion

Kitchen Window

Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

An entry for this week’s Friday Fictioneers challenge. Please click the link if you would like to participate or read other stories. I’d like to thank everyone who left feedback last week, it was very helpful and I am extremely grateful that you took the time to give your opinion. 🙂

After drying my hands on the pink towel, I catch the fragrance of rose-scented soap. I inhale deeply, letting the odour transport me back to the old days, when I was a young perfumer.

Florals had returned to popularity back then, with people rejecting the musky orientals in favour of delicate, blooming smells that reminded them of their mothers. When I retired, smoky Opium was back in fashion thanks to that notorious Sophie Dahl advert. Confident, powerful women wore dirty, sexy perfume. Clean scents were for your grandmother and her hand soap.

I get gift sets for Christmas every year.

C: Friday Fictioneers – Run Away With Me

PHOTO PROMPT © Luther Siler

Picture Copyright – Luther Siler

For this week’s Friday Fictioneers entry, I’ll be joining the ConCrit sub group for the first time. I’ve definitely been struggling lately, so some hints and tips would be much appreciated.

In a back room, I pull the ridiculous costume over my head, and I’m enveloped in the sweaty, cigarette-tinged odour of the last person who wore it.

There’s a knock on the fire exit. I turn and see her behind the glass. There’s something regretful in her mischievous grin.

“Forget what I said! Forget this! Come with me!” she shouts. She sees my hesitation. “Are you a chicken or aren’t you?”

I grin. I rip the suit off, damaging the zip, snapping the wings, and violently kick it to the other end of the room.

Breathless, I barrel through the exit.

Friday Fictioneers – A Stranger Calling

Copyright – Roger Bultot

A 100 word entry for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the super-patient and very talented Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

They told me to go to London and do the job I had been trained to do.

On the flight, I could barely keep still in my seat. My veins seemed to crackle with the energy I’d amassed over the past four years through supplementations, incantations, rituals, and prayers to mysterious Gods who imparted their power to me.

On a neglected rooftop garden, I called for him, master to master.

I made him bow like rushes in the wind, and then I cut him down. I never hesitated, never asked why.

Years later, my power fades. A stranger calls me.

Friday Fictioneers – The Bishop’s Apprentice

The piece I’ve written for Friday Fictioneers is a little different this week. It’s related to the novel I’m working on. I’m struggling with the plot, mainly that the plot doesn’t really exist yet… Anyway, if you’d like to see some really great flash fiction, and maybe write a little yourself, click on this link.

For the first time, Aist is alone in Bishop Karl’s office. As instructed, she lifts the lid of the laptop, and opens the database. She scrolls down the list of Karl’s 200 wards, her throat tightening when familiar names roll by. When Arlie’s name appears, Aist stops.

With one click, Aist would know her aunt’s medical history, her shopping habits, and her private messages. She’d know more about Arlie than Arlie knew herself.

She’d know what Arlie had prayed for.

Karl had asked her a question before she started training.

“Are you ready to make decisions you can’t live with?”