The Heiress’s Birthday Party

  • copyright - DLovering

I hear the heiress had a wonderful 21st birthday party.  Apparently she asked for a Spain themed party.  She always gets what she wants.  The party was complete with margaritas and even a  piñata… although both of those are Mexican and not Spanish.  I’m sure the heiress didn’t care…probably didn’t even notice the discrepancy.  I’m betting they ate food loaded with jalapeños too…idiots.  At least they got the flag right!  By the looks of it, though, they knew how to party!

I’m only telling you this second-hand, though.  I don’t get invited to their parties.  I’m just the guy who cleans up the mess.




Written for Friday Fictioneers.  Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for providing us, each week, with a wonderful picture to inspire bits of flash fiction!

Alticane – A Sonnet for Friday Fictioneers

Copyright-John Nixon

image: Copyright-John Nixon


I stand stock still among the crooked trees
and wonder why they don’t grow straight and true
could their strange growth be blamed upon the breeze
or will a careful search reveal a clue?

The theories range from mundane to bizarre
poor soil perhaps is all that is to blame
although some think ’twas spacemen from afar
that caused these trees to grow looking so lame

The theory that I like perhaps the best
is that a lawyer’s corpse was buried there
and as his crooked soul lies there at rest
these trees to his likeness began to bear

But whether reason’s normal or insane
I love these weird old trees of Alticane


Written for Friday Fictioneers, where our hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields gives us a weekly photo prompt and then invites us to let our imaginations run free.  The goal is to write 100 words.  I have gone over that quota by a bit, but it’s a challenge to write form poetry and stick to a set word count (my apologies).

although the name Friday Fictioneers denotes fiction, the twisted trees of Alticane do actually exist.  There are numerous theories about why they grow the way that they do, and my poem only highlights a few of them.  I have not yet been to see these aspens, but I plan to soon, as they are not much more than a one hour drive from where I live.  The picture reminded me strongly of pictures that I have seen of the Alticane trees, and I wonder if the picture was, in fact, taken there.


The Old Lift

Margaret always thought that the old lift seemed incongruous with the the modern sky-scraper.  Like all the other people who worked in the building, she avoided it at all costs, presuming it to be unsafe.  Besides, the glass elevator on the building’s exterior gave a much more thrilling view!

She arrived to work late on Thursday, just in time to miss the departure of the elevator and hear the guard say that the elevator was being closed for maintenance.  She’d have to use the old one.

Reluctantly, she stepped in, pressed “36” for her floor, and found herself there…in nineteen-thirty-six.

image: Copyright -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


Written for Friday Fictioneers.  Each week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields gives us a picture as a prompt, and then we get to write a story of approximately 100 words on any topic we can come up with, as long as it’s inspired by the picture.


The following is a piece written for Friday Fictioneers, where our host, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields provides us with a new photograph each week, and we get to excercise our creative muscles and write a story of approximately 100 words.

Hope you enjoy!


“Mom, I’ve got a pimple!” she wailed to her mother.

The dreaded adolescent years had begun…dreaded not so much by the child as by the mother who would have to deal with all the drama and trauma that those years entailed.  Acne…perhaps not the biggest thing her daughter would face, but she remembered when she had had issues with those pesky eruptions.

“I know that it seems like the worst thing, but really, give it a few thousand years, and it will erode away, all by itself!”

“I hate being a hill.  These geological time periods really suck!”

Copyright - Danny Bowman

Copyright – Danny Bowman

[98 words]

Genre: Geological Fiction


Copyright -Sandra Crook

Copyright -Sandra Crook

Everywhere he went, he was greeted with kind words, friendly waves, warm smiles.  Charles loved this town!  He smiled and waved in return as his tractor put-putted down the road away from the chalet.

The rack that he pulled was mostly filled with round hay-bales  – a valuable commodity during this year of drought, so it was no wonder that the people of this agricultural area welcomed him so readily.

Three police cruisers sped the other way, lights flashing…towards the chalet.  Charles smiled and waved at them as well.

Charles knew that nobody ever suspects the guy driving the tractor.


Written for Friday Fictioneers, where Rochelle Wisoff-Fields provides us with a weekly photo to get our creative juices flowing.

The Earth is Doomed (or is it?)

Copyright - David Stewart

Copyright – David Stewart

Quarrog was always surprised how easy it was to infiltrate the homes of his victims.  In fact, he didn’t have to do anything at all…they just picked him up and carried him in.  Once he sent word back to his home planet, he was confident the invasion of “Thee-yurth” (as the inhabitants called it) would be quite successful.

What he didn’t realize was that the only reason he was getting in so easily was that he looked exactly like a lamp, and the only homes that his people would infiltrate were the ones where the owners were shopping for lamps.


for Friday Fictioneers


Copyright - Janet Webb

It was if the face in the portrait was staring with cold disapproval at the drink I had just made.

For the briefest of moments I was tempted to feel guilt at this little indulgence of mine.  I managed to shrug of that feeling, however.  I laughed at the portrait, said “Cheers!” and picked up the glass.  The cool red wine warmed my throat pleasantly on the way down, and the fresh-cut fruit was delicious.  I wondered for a while how anyone could disapprove of a Sangria.  Then I remembered, the model for the portrait had been allergic to strawberries.


Written for Friday Fictioneers

Lamps For Sale


Copyright – Dawn M. Miller

David had always hated his mom’s lamp collection.  Since he’d been a child, every time he had done something bad, she’d turned on a lamp and made him stare at it.  The worse he behaved, the more lamps he was made to stare at.  She always removed the shade, so he was looking at the bare bulb.

Now, at 15 years of age, mom “trusted” him enough that she was going away for a week.  “If anything’s amiss when I get back, you’ll sit in a room full of my lamps for 2 days,” she’d warned.  No problem.  By the time she returned, there wouldn’t be a single one left.


written for Friday Fictioneers


Bad For Your Health


Image Copyright -Claire Fuller

The sign said, “NO SMOKING IN WORKSHOP”.

Oscar always thought that sign was ironic.  After all, they were making cigarettes for export!

He looked around.  His co-workers were still on break, so in defiance, he lit-up and took a deep breath of smoke.  It felt so wonderful to rebel!

It took a few months before his vision became blurry.  A few months later, he lost control of his muscles.  Within a year, he was quite dead.

How was Oscar to know that the cigarettes were the Government’s secret weapon against the nation soon to be invaded?


for Friday Fictioneers where once a week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields gives us a photograph, and we get to let our imaginations run wild and write a 100 word (or there-abouts) story.



“When building your house, son, make sure you’re higher up on the hill than your neighbours.”

Grah reflected on what his dad had said so many years before.  With no plumbing in their village, it meant added labour in bringing water up to his hut, but he also knew that crap flows downhill.

For three decades now, Grah had been the king of the hill.  When others came down with dysentry, he remained immune.  He knew little of hygiene, but his dad had theorized that, “human waste causes much disease.”

Apparently, his new neighbour had received the same advice.


Written for Friday Fictioneers