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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

Murder in Her Headspace

Welcome to my contribution to Friday Fictioneers. Each week, about 100 writers from around the globe respond to a photo prompt with their 100-word stories. You are welcome to play along.

My story this week weighs in at exactly 100 words.

This week’s photo prompt is courtesy of Emily L. Gant.

Copyright Emily L. Gant

Murder in Her Headspace

Shelly plopped into a plastic chair on the roof of her Chicago apartment building and began to write. Online photos of this “greenspace” omitted the dumpsters and blacktop. Instead of feeding urban tranquility, the space provided fantastic inspiration for the thriller she was writing.

As the sun sank, Shelly began to shiver despite the late-summer heat. Her sense of foreboding grew. Time to return to reality. She closed her notebook and entered the stairwell.

The attacker came from behind as Shelly passed the second landing. She didn’t have a chance to scream before a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.

El Camino De Los Reyes

Once again, it’s time for Friday Fictioneers. Every week, about 100 writers from around the world compose original, 100-word stories based on a photo prompt. This week’s photo comes from Melanie Greenwood.

Author’s Note: This week’s prompt brought a seasonal story to mind. For those who thought Christmas ended on December 25, I’d like to remind you that Christmas only began that day and actually ends today with what Catholics and Orthodox Christians call Epiphany and children in several parts of the world look forward to as Three Kings Day. The rest, I think, will be self-explanatory, as you read this story about the pains of modern travel. For further reading, Wikipedia seems a good a place to start as any. You can use the bibliography there to learn even more.

El Camino De Los Reyes

“I don’t think he’s just meditating this time.” Melchior nodded at Balthasar, whose body was sprawled across two chairs in the airport waiting area.

Gaspar rolled his eyes. “I’ve always said he could fall asleep anywhere.”

“Some kind of luck we have. You don’t hear of St. Nicholas getting stuck for hours at Chicago O’Hare.”

“Well, he has those flying reindeer.”

“Don’t forget the one with the magical red nose.”

“True. More useful than camels for traveling in North America.”

“It was so much simpler when all we had to do was fill wooden shoes for a few Dutch kids.”

In Someone Else’s Shoes

Although I’ve been rather absence of late, several other fine writers from around the globe continue to participate every week by writing 100-word stories based on a photo prompt. You can join the Friday Fictioneers too by writing your own story or simply reading along.

Copyright CE Ayr

In Someone Else’s Shoes

Agent Lauren Schrecklich turned onto Pershing Road as she waited for her Bluetooth to connect. She took a deep breath and prayed Senior Agent Morales would pick up.

“Schrecklich. Talk to me.”

“Ben’s checking out the locker at Union Station. I’m headed to Missy B’s. Too many people there might recognize him.”

“Good call. But you’re on your own. No heroics tonight.”

“Yes, sir. But . . . “

“I mean it, agent.”

“No heroics. So I can ditch the high heels?”

“Not a chance. You have to fit in.”

“Yes, sir. Operation Tomboy to Drag Queen commencing immediately.”

***

Want to read more? Follow links in the word salad to your right to read more about Agent Lauren Shrecklich.

Resurrection in Turquoise

It’s been several weeks since I’ve had time to participate in Friday Fictioneers, but Rochelle knows the best way to get me back again–by using one of my photos as the prompt. If you’re new to this weekly challenge, the rules are simple: Writers from all over the globe are invited to compose a 100-word story based on the week’s photo prompt. Click here to read and play along.

My story this week is almost entirely autobiographical, but that’s all I’ll say on the topic for now.

Copyright Marie Gail Stratford

Resurrection in Turquoise

Thirty years later, she remembers the pale green of hospital walls and her own small legs encased in plaster. Her dreams are haunted. Too often, she wakes with a start.

Thirty-five years later she takes a deep breath, submerges her face in the pale green water of an indoor pool. Three measured strokes, another breath. Three more strokes. A breath. The panic fades.

Forty years later, she sits in her office, glances at the blue-green logo on her business card. In her favorite color, she recognizes a bluer version of hospital green. She’s lived to see the resurrection of the turquoise butterfly.