warmth and heat

       

Anita set the automatic coffee maker and changed the flowers in the vase. Her palms 

hugged the body of the mug sending warmth through her body. Her mouth enjoyed the 

taste and aroma of her morning drink.

The wrinkled hands poured tea from the kettle and stirred with the old spoon. She had to 

finish the ironing chore.

Anita stared at her mom and the old eyes met her gaze. The unspoken communication 

said a lot.

Two coffee mugs lay on the table basking in the sunshine with laughter wafting, the next 

morning.

                              It’s time to leave the past behind.

                                   Written for : Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle W.


                               



click HERE to read all the FF stories.

Property

                                                                 PHOTO PROMPT © Ceayr

“Sir, this beautiful property is owned ….

“….by a landlady who suffers from OCD. Blue being her most loved color she wears her 

heart on her sleeve and prefers to keep pesky intruders at bay.”

“But Sir, how do….”

“She is in the blooming range of 25-35 years and prefers to charge the rent as per the 

tenant’s tastes and intellectual standard. She is a stickler for punctuality and hates to be 

kept waiting.”

The estate agent’s pupils bulge with a farrago of admiration and curiosity.

“Tricks of the trade”. The detective winks climbing the stairs while the agent scampers.

                            Written for : Friday Fictioneers . Thanks Rochelle

                                    

Word Count  : 100

The cellphone

                                                                           PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Eames

His cell phone would ring and he would hold it tighter to clamber onto to a coconut tree.

This ritual was sacrosanct and quotidian affair. She tried her best to hear the one side of 

the conversation. However, the height and his low tone would not reveal anything.

Suzy had heard that he was engaged to a beautiful girl prior to their 10-month-old 

marriage.

People whispered that Suzy possessed strange powers.

She glared at the sagging branch of the tree. Thud. His spine cracked under the weight of 

the tree.

The day after, Suzy answered the call and smiled.

                                           Written for : Friday Fictioneers

                              

Click HERE to read all the wonderful entries.

the dark horse.

                                   

                                      PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Suzy was blindfolded playing ‘tail the horse’. She missed the mark. His daughter’s play 

reflected his state of mind. Charlie had to choose the right candidate to succeed him 

from the promising lot. However, one bloke stood out from the rest. The dark brooding 

eyes, the creased brow and tight lips were a picture of concentration. This young man 

could be a dark horse and Charlie was ready to bet his money on his chosen horse. 

Charlie could see his former glorious self in these eyes. Now wheelchair was his 

companion. Being an assassin requires more than nerves of steel.
    

                               Written for Friday Fictioneers

                                 

barbed fence

                                                                 PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

She stood on the other side of the thin barbed fence, with one of her twins and skeletal 

belongings, meekly partitioning the land with hatred and religious divide. The authorities 

had stamped her papers and thrust it on her face to face a life in another land.

She stood to gaze at the last time, which she had called home. The soil, clouds and 

vegetation on either side of the partition were the same. The border drawn on the land 

was bleeding her heart.

Did her husband and son make it to this side? She knew not. Will time heal? 

    FRIDAY FICTIONEERS. Thanks you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


                

                                                                                  
             


     

Fear

                                                            Photo prompt by CEAyr

The two-wheeler stood in the verandah  with the peepal tree giving it company. A black 

cat stared. I refused to mount on it. He explained to me that the public transportation in 

the villages are skeletal. I understood but refused to bow to his diktat.

“Akka, the lady is in pain”. The farmer came in panting.

I grabbed my white coat and paraphernalia and made a dash.

The road was undulating, muddy and difficult to navigate.

I reached my destination.

The delivery was quick and uncomplicated.

“Congratulations, a healthy boy is born”, said I, smiling.

I had overcome my Vehophobia.

                       


          Written for : Friday Fictioneers

Note : Akka means elder sister. A respectful way of addressing ladies.

Word count  : 100

The bonfire

PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala

The bonfire did nothing to keep me warm. I shivered. Two decades ago, the scene was 

different. We held hands, sang songs, danced to our own tunes. Life was good.

We did not realize that we were making memories for life. For me they were not always 

pleasant.

The frozen frames were dull with passage of time but the effect was vivid. I tossed the 

photos into the bonfire as they scattered with the wind to be engulfed by the tongues of 

raging fire.

Only ashes remained as residue. Tonight I will sleep soundly. My heart is light.

              written for : Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle Wisoff.


                                       

The Wigwam

                                                                         PHOTO PROMPT © Renee Heath

Six curious eyeballs stared at the painting.  The harsh landscape with stunted shrubs 

scattered did not evoke an appreciation from young minds. The urbane locale presented 

a sharp contrast to the picture hung on the wall.

“Grandpa, was this your land?”

“Yes, the land of our ancestors”

“And then?”

“They came to usurp our land through one-sided treaties”.

“We lost everything?”

“Everything. The land, our culture and identity”, wiping the weary tears.

“Didn’t our ancestors resist?”

“They did. We were tricked and defeated in warfare.  If the three wooden chairs could 

speak, you could hear tales of deceit and defeat”.

                 written for  :  Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle Wisoff


                                            

a Car named desire.

                                                      PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

I had looked at it from far,

Gleaming, sturdy, excellence par,

On threshold of adolescence,

I stood, with ambitions and innocence,

Desire I had named that car,

Often I had watched it from far.

Seasons waxed and waned,

My flames of Desire brightly burned,

Some satiated, some un-satisfied,

A few achieved, a few pacified.

With salt n pepper beard,

No competition feared,

Cruising in the lane of content,

Inhaling the cool scent,

The Desire is left behind.

Hobbling with a walking stick,

An ascetic, I turn away, quick.

                                   Written for  : Friday Fictioneers


                    

Door

                                                            Picture prompt :Dale Rogerson.

 “Öhh! Should I open the door or not?”

“If I push it, it will be hurt. The glass is splintered and the tapes are trying to heal it 

faster. I better not open the door.”

The monologue continues as Alice refuses to move forward. She stands still twitching her 

pinafore.

A hand gingerly taps Alice’s little shoulders. On an impulse, she turns behind. A stern 

Teacher Rose bends down to Alice and glares into the Kindergarten pupil’s eyes.

“What new ploy is being hatched to stay away from class?”

The reluctant student pushes open the door and enters the class. 

                                   written for : Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle. 


                                 
                   
Word count : 100

Fence

                                                                                       PHOTO PROMPT © Russell Gayer

“Mom, what is this?”

“This is a barricade. The enemy lives on the other side”.

“Mom, I can’t see the enemy”.

“They too cannot see us. The land in-between is called ‘No Man’s Land?”

“If we cannot see them then why are they our enemies?”

“Shush! You ask many questions”.

“Mom Can I go to the other side and shake hands with the enemy? This way I be friends 

with them”.

“You cannot cross this boundary, child”.

“Look there, mom” points to the open skies. “If the bird is free to fly from here to there, why can’t I be?”

                                         written for  : Friday Fictioneers

                                            

better late than never.

                                                         


                                                                                       Copyright –Douglas M. MacIlroy

Nikhil had never bothered to learn the 3 R’s. He felt he could make a success without 

their crutch.

He joined Neeta’s Hobby class as a cleaner and he proved himself wrong.

The kids enrolled in schools came to learn extracurricular activities and were deft with 

their fingers and brain. His inferiority complex multiplied and ego took a beating.

The papier machie ball balanced on the red bucket beckoned him. It was rough but would 

be smoothened, painted and decorated to take a fancy shape. Its market value trebled.  

             Sensing his predicament, Neeta advised him to join a night-school.

                                                  Friday Fictioneers.Thanks Rochelle W.
             

                                               

word count : 100

Journey

                                                       Photo Prompt :Dawn M Miller

Grandpa tried to hide the salt in his eyes.

Little Nikhil loved the clang of the sonorous tracks and the speed transported him to 

another world. Both of them were travelling but in different eras.

The wrinkled eyes saw a hard track with clouds of dust rising and the adrenaline rush of 

the pounding of the hooves. “It is Shivaji Maharaj and his mavlas galloping. They were 

expert in guerrilla warfare”.

The little mind confused of the bygone era, which he studied only in his History 

textbooks, kept mum.

“One may not see but one can experience the feeling, Nikhil”.

                                         Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle

                                     

word count  : 100

low spirits

                             

                                                       photo credit : Dale Rogerson

She objected to him frequenting ‘Thambi’s Bar’. He loved the ambience, his 

friends and lastly the drinks.

Now he enters and leaves at will, no botheration of knocking on her door 

at night.

One late night, then, everything changed and that was what she always had 

feared.

Now he escorts the sloshed men to the safety of their homes.

He wished he were not very drunk that fateful night so as not to see the 

approaching truck.

He sits in the bar looking at the familiar coloured parasols, each soul of his 

friends hanging down.

         written for  Friday Fictioneers. Thank you Rochelle .


                                                       

word count : 98

Uncertain

                                     

                                             Thanks for the prompt J Hardy Carroll


The ornate teak wood piece fascinatingly intrigued me. I matched the position 

of the needles to my digital wristwatch. The matching was precise. How would I 

lug this piece home? Better, contact Christie’s or Sotheby’s. I could pay all my 

mortgage bills and have enough for the rainy day. The possibilities were 

innumerable.The legacy left behind by a dead relative weighed down on my 

shoulders. Were the small windows concealing a clue or a nudge to find my 

roots hitherto unknown to me?  Or am I sucked into the epicenter of danger? 

Only time will tell….

                                            

                                Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle Wisoff.

Word Count : 97

Click HERE to read all the FF stories. 

Hostage

                                                 Thanks for the prompt Gah Learner.

The sheer curtain fluttered with the slight draught. The streetlights were lit. Her 

labored breathing and a constant eye outside the window narrowed the bushy eyebrows 

of the masked character with suspicion.

She pressed the teddy closer to her body. It sent warm shivers down her each pore as 

the cold metal pressed against the temples.

“Sit upright”, barked the intruder as her frame started to slip down.

“Wait till the moon-rise”, she consoled herself. It did rise. Energy burst from its fur. The 

hunter became the hunted. “Well done Teddy”, as she dials the Police over his limp body.

                                                     



                         Written for : Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle-Wisoff.

Word count : 100

who is being watched?

                                          

                                              Thanks Nathan Sowers for the lovely photo prompt

My eyes never left the villa. Her auburn hair and lacy back intrigued me about the beauty of her unseen enigmatic face. Sunshine didn’t touch her face, I concluded. 

Was she a wordsmith assimilating every word and plot of the novel? Or was her brush illuminating the face of the canvas? I had no chance of knowing.

Guilt made inroads into my heart. Was she aware that she was being watched?

The winsome lass smiled. The eyes watching her were oblivious of being watched.

She tilted the mirror and it reflected the dilapidated wooden structure and the man being observed.

                                                         Written for : Friday Fictioneers


                                                        

The Villa

                                                        Photo Prompt by Sandra Crook.

The Villa that had weathered a century of rain and sunshine, stood upright 

sheltering anyone who set their eyes on its facade.

Her mother held her little finger and the other hand held the featherweight 

duffel bag but the emotional baggage weighed down her young shoulders.

“Has papa bought this big house for us, mother?” questioned little Mary with 

pride in her heart.

“Your papa has gone away to greener pastures”, grinding her teeth with 

bitterness.

“I start work as a laundry maid and you keep out of trouble”. 

Mary leaned forward and looked up to see the wet cheeks.

                   Friday Fictioneers. Thank you Rochelle

                                                          

word count  : 100

StarDust

                                                                         PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

The ferry lazily drifts on the silent waters patronizing the people with deep pockets and 

a penchant for the uncommon.

“Shouldn’t Nikhil’s feet be firmly on the ground while he reaches for the moon?” concern 

dripped from Priyanka’s throat.

“Many moons ago, you aimed for the stars, isn’t it? Let him find his way”, reasoned 

Aniket, puffing smoke from his Havana cigar.

She turns her head to avert her husband’s gaze, trying to stop the fusillade of moisture 

from her eyes. 

“The leap to stardom is full of compromises, deceit and of course hard work”. She stifles 

her sobs.


                                Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

                                             

Walk

                           Thank you Sarah Potter for the wonderful picture prompt.

“You need not have remained single to bring me up. I could have managed by myself”.

The old man’s proclivity for silence irks James.

“Dad, are you listening?”

The senior citizen draws an old battered suitcase and beckons his son to open it.

A pair of old shoes lay reposed wrapped in faded newspaper sheets.

He surveys the white canvas soles with a farrago of sadness and fondness and 

communicates with his eyes.

“These are old worn-out shoes and not my size. I cannot walk in your shoes”, blurts out 

the young son without realising the wisdom of the words. 

                  Written for :  Friday Fictioneers. Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.