Newsreader Lost for Words

With so much high profile news this week, I think Rochelle’s prompt contribution is fortuitous.

Read the other Friday Fictioneers contributions here.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Newsreader Lost for Words

John gripped the barrier. Will he jumble the words like last time?
He wished he wore a clean shirt as sweat was gathering under his armpits.
Oh, no! He wasn’t wearing his favourite blue dotted tie, his lucky charm.
Yesterday, he spilled coffee over it as he reported the terrorist attack in Spain.
Concentrate. He can do this, he has to be professional. 

The train blast kept replaying in his mind.
The image of those poor, poor children and his distraught sister screaming had kept him awake throughout the night.
Traumatised, he clung onto the cold barrier.
Lost for words.

The Disappearance of Lady Jane

This week’s photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers is devoid of distraction
and leaves a lot to the imagination.

Read more contributions here.https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/291a2425200f45e395115119d9f64fd8

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr

The Disappearance of Lady Jane

‘It’s a message, Watson.’ He blew a cloud of hashish smoke.
‘Lord Carmichael will refuse the ransom.’ Watson spluttered. ‘Do you have to?’
‘Oh, there’ll be no demands.’ Holmes shrugged. ‘The infusion enhances concentration; try it.’

‘Surely the kidnappers know of his Lordship’s wealth.’
‘My dear Watson.’ He grinned. ‘Look, what do you see?’
‘They dropped a cord.’

‘Lady Jane is an eccentric intellectual and a fanciful romantic.’
‘Holmes! She is in mortal danger.’

‘The symbol eight; love and infinite wealth.’ Holmes smiled.
‘A Pearl of the East and a paper boat.’ He laughed. ‘Lady Jane has run off to Hong-Kong.’

Marriage Requires Trust

Another week of Friday fictioneers. Here is my 100 words on the photo-prompt. I hope the lady in the picture has recovered.

Read the other contributions here.https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/baac8196d00f411bbfadcfe2b1329a6c

PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Eames

Marriage Requires Trust

I enjoyed the view from the hotel balcony; people watching.
A glorious evening, and I watched lovers strolling.
Hell!
I rushed down the stairs two at a time. Sprinted across the promenade.‘John,’ I screamed. ‘John.’ I leapt onto the beach. ‘Debra!’
I tripped in a castle moat. The pain shot through my ankle.
My mouth filled with sand, and I spat and cried.
A poodle licked my ears until the owner came to help.

Three hours later, John gasped, looking at my bandages. 
‘Let’s enjoy our honeymoon,’ he said and opened the Champagne.

‘Where’s Debra?’
He dropped the bottle.

What Are You Afraid Of?

The Friday Fictioneers photo prompt this week reminds me of Christmas. I wonder what Christmas will be like this year?

https://rochellewisoff.com/2020/11/11/11988/

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What Are You Afraid Of?

Everyone is in hiding, that is what we are told to do. Hide.
At night it is worse than ever.
It’s an unseen enemy, but I can sense them; watching, waiting, wanting to invade my body.
I must fight back, as I did in Korea, for my country.
Well, I am watching them too; the specks of lights hovering, menacing, grouping, slowly surrounding me.
Wear masks, that is what we are told. I don’t recognise myself anymore, or anyone. Who is who?
I can’t stand this confinement, I need fresh air and freedom.
I am going out, I’ll show them.

Ice Cream in Tel Aviv-Yafo

Flash Fiction for Friday Fictioneers, https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/5caf3cef9d814e28babc281a38c8590d

Photo from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Ice Cream in Tel Aviv-Yafo

‘Let’s have an ice cream,’ Carolyn said, ‘and stop talking politics.’
We were here to visit her grandmother and not to solve the Middle East’s problems.
Having refused my money, she sold her Breitling to pay for our flights, but I insisted on booking the best hotel.
She wasn’t pleased and mumbled something about expenses.

Next morning, she disappeared for the day. Where?
That evening she burst into the hotel room.
‘Get packing, we are leaving. Now!’
‘What?’
Her clothes were dirty with a smell of gun oil; a fresh gash on her head. 
‘Now!’
We dashed to the airport.

Dreaming of Hollywood

This week I have posted a piece of poetry, a villanelle.

It reminds me of sitting in a hot, dark bar in San Salvador wondering why was I there. At the time, the country was in turmoil with rumours of a civil war.

Cottonbro – Pexel.com

Dreaming of Hollywood

When we met in September’s heat one lonely night.
They were playing soft Jazz in the Bertolt Brecht bar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She licked her sulky red lips, her dress smooth and white
She asked me to drive her somewhere, anywhere not far
When we met in September’s heat one lonely night.

The jazz switched to Latin and couples were holding tight
I said let’s Salsa and away from drinking at the bar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She uncrossed her legs, her bare thighs flashing in the light
What happened here? And she caressed my facial scar
When we met in the September’s heat one lonely night

I said, it’s a reminder over a woman I lost in a fight
We could go to a room, she smiled and I lit up my cigar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She purred, and asked me politely to pay for her flight
As she spoke of her dreams of being a Hollywood star
When we met in September’s heat one lonely night
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

The Curse of a She Wolf

Friday Fictioneers – hosted by Rochelle Wisoff Fields

Read all the stories  HERE

The wonderful Dale has given us a picture of a garlic string to stir our imagination and taste buds. I understand that the greatest benefit from garlic is to eat it raw in salads. Does anyone really eat the cloves raw?

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The Curse of a She Wolf

Radiant with the beauty of eternal youth, Silvia enchanted a fluttering of men like lavender surrounded by buzzing bees.  Four of her husbands died of broken hearts and the fifth during a moment of rampant ecstasy, and she howled pitiless that night. It was her curse to devour the passion from the souls of men.
In Vulcan, the women called her ‘She Wolf’ and fortified their homes with strings of garlic.
Late afternoons, wearing fine leather and furs, she would ride her sleek stallion to lure a lusting youth.
By midnight, her mourning and howling would haunt the mountain villages.

Every Child Deserves a Mother

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers

This week’s picture reminds me of Ernest Hemingway’s six-word story;

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Every Child Deserves a Mother

Damn, how Malcolm preferred the office than coming home. He kicked a box out of his way. The City garbage strike was a health hazard.
Then he saw it. Hell! Mary has flipped. Another of her tantrums since the IVF failed, and for the last time. Dr Nolan said it was pointless.
Malcolm suggested adopting a baby girl. No, she wouldn’t listen to him.
In the flat, the aroma of baking eased his tension as Mary pecked his cheek in a gregarious mood.
‘Oh, Malcolm. I’ve decided to adopt.’
‘Then, why throw out the chair?’
‘Because Charlie is three already.’

Gateway to Adventure

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Friday Fictioneers

Click here for more story contributions.

I always admire the skill and patience it takes to handcraft art that produces aesthetic pleasure and brightens up our lives. Even more so when the item is an antique with a checkered history. This week’s picture reminds me of wandering through street flea markets and searching in curiosity shops for nothing in particular.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Gateway to Adventure

Carla, me and Joey loved Old Hickory’s shop. We spent Saturday afternoons enchanted by the curiosities. To us, every item oozed a magical secret.
Old Hickory frightened us with murderous tales of the polished pirate’s chest. Full of gold. He grinned. Inside is a world of dangerous dreams, and he laughed like Bluebeard himself.
One day, lifting the creaking lid, we took a peek, and heard Hickory cough and spit in the backroom.
No, we said, but Carla climbed inside looking for adventure. Don’t tell, she giggled.
For years now, Joey and me, we have stood outside praying for Carla.

The Night Game by Jennie Boyes

The Night Game by Jennie Boyes.

This morning, I enjoyed reading this story, by Jennie Boyes.

The POV is that of a child, Fridel, who try’s to make sense of the events taking place in her village.

Fridel’s mother is suffering from depression from the loss of her son Bert and blames The Mare and other mystical spirits.

Fridel starts to suspect that witches are to blame and in her own way (you decide) takes action to rid the village of them and the Mare.

The narrative gripped me from the beginning and drew me into the naive thoughts of Fridel. It was clear to me, the reader, what was going on. However, the adults were unaware how their explanations of spirits and evil witches influenced Fridel.

You can read the story here: The Night Game