Funeral Gloves

It’s time once again for Friday Fictioneers! Each week about 100 writers compose 100-word stories in response to a photo prompt. This week, the prompt comes to us courtesy of Roger Butolt.

2016 05 06

Copyright Roger Butolt

Funeral Gloves

Boston, 1770

“Rev. Eliot!” Andrew’s wife stamped a dainty foot.

“Yes, Mrs. Eliot?” The reverend looked up from his sermon preparation.

“These gloves! You must have over 2,000 of them here.”

“Memories of the fallen, Mrs. Eliot. It would seem a traitorous act to rid myself of a single one.”

“Messengers of ill fate as I see them,” his wife insisted. “You may as well keep 2,000 dark-winged ravens in your bureau.”

“Ravens would make considerably more noise, don’t you think, dear?”

“And mess,” she conceded. “Honestly, Andrew!”

When the bell rang, the couple knew the collection was about to grow.

***

Actually, Rev. Andrew Eliot collected over 3,000 funeral gloves during a 32-year period. You can read more about death and funerals in the Colonies here and more about Andrew Eliot here.

Witness Protection

It’s time once again for Friday Fictioneers! Each week about 100 writers compose 100-word stories in response to a photo prompt. This week, the prompt comes to us courtesy of Mary Shipman.

2016 04 29 Mary Shipman

Copyright Mary Shipman

Witness Protection

“Guten Morgen.” The shopkeeper eyed Jules and her offspring with suspicion.

“Don’t stare!” Jules whispered the command to Meg and Austin.

“He’s staring at us,” Meg whined loudly.

Jules reddened. Meg was right, and ignoring the awkwardness of the situation wouldn’t make things any better.

“I’m not wearing those!” Austin announced, eyeing the long underwear hanging on racks above his head.

“I’ll be making your clothes, Silly.” Jules pointed at bolts of fabric along the wall. “A blue shirt to bring out your eyes, and a green dress for Meg. You can’t wear skinny jeans and plaid in Amish country.”

Up a Creek

Once again, it’s time for Friday Fictioneers. (Yes, I’m posting a day later than usual, but at least I’m posting again.) For those unfamiliar with this challenge, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our intrepid leader, posts a photo prompt each Wednesday. You can play along or read the 100-word stories by other writers here. This week’s photo is a rerun courtesy of Madison Woods, Rochelle’s predecessor.

2016 04 22 Madison Woods

Copyright Madison Woods

Up a Creek

“Last one to the crick is a rotten egg.”

The three girls ran like miniature cyclones down the embankment.

Sharon took the lead. Linda and Millie sprinted behind.

“Owww! Help!” Sharon tripped, falling into a barbed-wire fence.

Millie started to laugh. Linda joined in.

Little Ralphie appeared at the top of the hill, hollering as loudly as Sharon. “Hush up! You goin’ to scare the cows.”

Millie laughed harder.

Sharon pulled free from the fence, ripping her jeans.

Linda blanched. “We got worse problems than scared cows.”

Silence fell as the others looked up to see Grandpa’s bull charging toward them.

***

Author’s note: This week’s story is a partially true retelling of an incident that happened on my great grandparents farm. Names of the four children (who happen to be my mom and three of her cousins) have not been changed to protect the innocent or the guilty.

Ghosts of Old Chicago

It’s that time of week again–time for Friday Fictioneers on Wednesday. (The prompt shows up early Wednesday morning, and we have the rest of the week to respond with our 100-word stories.) This week’s prompt is courtesy of yours truly, a photo taken from the sky deck of the historic Inn of Chicago. My accompanying story weighs in at exactly 100 words.

2016 04 01 Marie Gail

Copyright Marie Gail Stratford

Ghosts of Old Chicago

“Haunted by mobsters or ghosts from my high school days—pick one.”

“I’d rather attend the symphony in peace.”

“We have to spend the night somewhere. The Congress or the Marriott?”

“Tell me about these high school friends of yours haunting the Marriott.”

“Stereotypes from the early ‘90s mostly. Cheerleaders with cute names. Wannabe football players from rival high schools threatening one another in the lobby.”

“Anyone you had sex with?”

“Well, I was 17—but no. None of them were that lucky.”

“Then I vote for the Congress. The ghost of Al Capone could use a good ass kicking.”

***

Apparently, Al Capone has a full staff of spectres working alongside him at the Congress Plaza Hotel. You can read more here.

Farm-Fresh Fragrances

It’s that time of week again–time for Friday Fictioneers on a Wednesday morning! This week our photo prompt is courtesy of Ted Strutz (who’s a pretty cool guy that you should get to know), and by the week’s end it will inspire scores of original 100-word stories. My story this week weighs in at exactly 100 words.

2016 03 25 Ted T

Copyright Ted Strutz

Farm-Fresh Fragrances

“You tellin’ me your shit don’t stink?”

Dana knew better than to roll her eyes.

“Only person ‘round here who can get away with that is your mother. That’s why I married her. Now, go back and do it right.”

Dana went back to weeding the garden, grumbling. Then she caught sight of an old commode behind the tool shed.

Early in the morning on Mother’s Day, Dana wrangled the commode into position in the front yard. Petunias cascaded from the tank and bowl. “Stinky shit makes darn good fertilizer.”

Seeing her gift, Mom laughed. “Well, the flowers are beautiful.”

Old Muddy’s Revenge

It’s that time of week again–time for Friday Fictioneers on a Wednesday morning! This week our photo prompt is courtesy of our fearless leader Rochelle Wisoff Fields, and by the week’s end it will inspire scores of original 100-word stories. My story this week is slightly under weight at 98 words.

2016 03 18 Rochelle

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff Fields

Old Muddy’s Revenge

Tres gazed out the shop window. “Dad—water’s risin’. Best get on while the gettin’s good.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Nary a flood e’er reached us here afore.”

Across the river from the shop, Tres could see water lapping at the foundation of Pierre’s bait shop. “Mr. Pierre’s already left, Dad. Good thing too. The Old Man’s knocking at his door.”

“Ain’t nuttin’ ta fear, Son. We sit a fair sight higher than him.”

“I’m not leavin’ you here.”

“Don’t then. Take a load off.”

Three hours later, the pair clung to the roof and prayed for rescue.

Getting off the Merry-Go-Round

Over the past six months, I’ve done a poor job keeping up with regular posts, but I’m working on some creative projects and trying to do a better job posting here as well. So today I’m revisiting a Friday Fictioneers post from this fall. I can’t post to the Linkup at this late date, but you can visit the original stories here. The photo is courtesy of Ted Strutz, whom you should also visit as he’s a decent guy with whom I like hanging out on the interwebs occasionally.

2015 10 09 Ted Strutz

Copyright Ted Strutz

Getting off the Merry-Go-Round

“It’s not my idea of a good time.”

“Why go every year then?”

“Tom likes it—says he needs a break from the routine.”

“So go on a vacation.”

“We should. I need a break—from routine and the state fair.”

“Does he know the reason?”

Lindsay shrugged. “He knows what happened. I don’t think he knows where.”

“You should skip the fair this year. Book a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast instead.”

“You think he’ll understand?”

“He’s a good guy. If you tell him why, he won’t keep dragging you back to the place where you were raped.”