Category Archives: Flash Fiction

Huntress in Suburbia

Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields

Huntress in Suburbia

It always happens to me. Melissa kicked a bucket.
Ouch, it was full of sand. Had she broken her toe?
More rain to come, so the welcome BBQ was off. What will they think?
She had escaped squatting in a squalid basement flat, and after they took her baby, Ellen, away, inside she died. Her pimp, a weak drug dealing scum, had a fortune stashed beneath the floorboards. She put a mickey in his vein and left him to rot.
She bought into suburbia – clean and with a teaching job –an ambitious single woman out to trap a rich husband.

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Love from Lizard Island

Friday Fictioneers.

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Lizard Island

From the jetty, I watch the plane skip and skim over the lake. Its engine roaring as it lifts high into the Autumn sky, and like a migrating swan it glides southward towards a warmer horizon.
I suppressed my tears and wave a frantic farewell as pride fills my lungs.  Mary promised to return as she is free from our genetic abnormality.
She will confront the ignorant multitude to overcome the prejudice that holds our people quarantined on this island.
Other teenagers have tried, they never come home.
I stroke the scales on my claws and wonder; will she succeed?

Independence Day Parade

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Independence Day Parade

‘Marcel are you coming.’
‘No, not until I get nuggets.’
‘Get out from under the table. Do you want to see the parade?’
‘Yes, but I want nuggets.’
‘Don’t spoil the holiday, son. We’re going now. Bye.’
‘Wait! I want turkey nuggets.’
‘Mom’s already gone to watch the parade. Now come or stay.’
‘Can you buy me nuggets?’
‘Sorry son, Mom’s taken her purse.’
‘Dad, why do we always have to do what Mom’s says?’
‘Let’s go watch the bands.’
‘Okay. Will Mom buy the nuggets afterwards?’
‘Maybe. Just remember independence and freedom works better, if you’re nice to Mom.’

Infatuation

 

Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Infatuation

The draft wafted a fragrance of jasmine across the counter: I looked up.
‘Carmen!’
‘Hello Joe, can I have one for the matinee?’ She fumbled in her handbag. ‘Usual seat, please.’
‘One? What’s happened to John?’
‘Please, I am in a hurry.’ She passed over the ten-dollar bill and grabbed the ticket. A silver ring rolled from her purse and fell behind the counter.
‘I’ll get that.’ I held it up as she walked away. ‘Carmen, your ring.’
‘Keep it, throw it. I don’t care.’
She slammed the door as she rushed out.
Yes! Tomorrow, I’ll ask her to dinner.

 

______________________________

This week I prepared a basic book trailer for my novel MISSING. It is on my author page, if you would like to watch it..

Author Page- James McEwan

 

Grandma’s Home

Friday Fictioneers – ttps://rochellewisoff.com/2019/06/12/14-june-2019/#like-8927

PHOTO PROMPT © Valerie J. Barrett

Grandma’s Home

My Grandma’s cottage is a museum now; clean and full of curiosities that visitors point at. Her blackened kettle and the old iron shine as if new.

She was a small woman, but resilient, strong and religiously devout. Like my grandfather and father, I would shake in terror when she called us for dinner.

She rapped our knuckles with the spoon if any hands, faces or finger nails showed traces of lead dust. We prayed, thankful for our cleanliness and our daily bread.

Grandma believed that personal pride was above poverty, and every home in our community washed their steps.

***

This week’s photograph remined me of my visits to Wanlockhead – now a tourist/museum site.

https://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/wanlockhead/wanlockhead/index.html

 

Blind Faith

 

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Friday Fictioneers

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll 

Chantal was five today, and we played her favourite game.
When she was three someone asked why she didn’t wear a blindfold like everyone else.
‘If the other children wear blindfolds, then I want one too,’ she declared.
I smiled, she needed to be like everyone else, inclusive, and fair.
It was as if she had a sixth sense and pinned the tail on the rear rump of the donkey accurately. How does she do it?
‘I just imagine what you describe. Am I right?’ she said.
Next week her Labrador arrives, and we’ll watch them walk in the park.

 

 

Lady in the Bauble – Literally Stories Re-runs

Literally Stories select a piece from their enormous archive and show case it on their Sunday “Literally Reruns”.

I was surprised this afternoon to find the team had published my story today. Thank you guys and a great thank you to Sharon Frame Gay for selecting it. Have a look at Sharon’s work, click on her name.

Find the story on the link below.

Literally Stories – Lady in the Bauble.

 

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A scene from Sainsbury’s slick Christmas advert recreating the truce

 

Inheritance

Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff -Fields

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

Inheritance

The corporation said out. They said no.
An accident? Their charred bodies lay for weeks.
It’s not much. There never was gold in the mine.
It was everything, a chance, just their dream.
What now? It’s impossible to sell.
Then, I’ll evoke their spirits and seek revenge.
I see a lake, hotels, casinos, dance halls, I see roads and an airstrip.
People will come for entertainment and play the games of chance.
I’ll sell them opportunity and aspirations of wealth.
They will come to chase the glitter of fool’s gold.
I will reap the goldmine of hopes and dreams.

Psychic Consultant

Friday Fictioneers.

 

trees-ronda-del-boccio

PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio

 

Psychic Consultant

Dorothy pulled her coat collar over her neck and shivered.
Why are they taking so long?
The body of Jeffrey MacDonald, missing for ten days, lay in the fox lair as she predicted.
She pointed into the thicket. ‘You can see his feet.’ She covered her nose with her scarf.
Dorothy was a police Psychic Consultant, who had found the burial locations of fifteen murdered victims.
‘Another Lawyer?’ said the Chief. ‘How many more before we stop this serial killer.’
‘There will be one more,’ said Dorothy.
Her husband, John, had suspected the killer’s name, and motive.
He was next.

 

The Lonely Musician

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers

piano-anshu

PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala

The Lonely Musician

When he stopped playing her tune, she threw him out.
‘And take your Steinway,’ she yelled. ‘It clutters up the place.’
For forty years he played on the street corner.
To the delight of commuters who dropped coins into his hat.
He never asked for a penny.
He lived and dreamed for music and to charm happy smiles from weary faces.
The lonely musician crawled under the lid one day, and citizens kept his piano as a memorial.
The passing shoppers can still hear Debussy being played.
Every day, when his wife waters the flowers on the musician’s grave.