“What is that plant doing in my crystal bowl?” Joanna screamed. “Remove it from that bowl immediately!”
“Jeez, Joanna, relax,” Frank said. “I need something to put the plant in for a few days until the planter I ordered from Amazon arrives.”
“That crystal bowl has been in my family for three generation,” Joanna said. “It’s not for plants.”
“Well, what’s it for, then?” Frank asked. “I’ve never seen anything in this bowl other than an accumulation of dust.”
“It’s for show,” Joanna said.
“Great,” Frank said. “Then let it show my plant some love for a few days.”
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Herman saw the pair of old boots left on a ledge by a stone wall. He looked around, but saw nobody near to whom the boots might belong. A white sock was sticking over the top of one of the boots. He walked closer and found another sock stuffed inside the other boot. Herman removed his ragged shoes from his sockless feet, put on the clean socks he found in the abandon boots, put on the boots themselves, and walked away. They were slightly big for his feet, but we’re better than his crappy old shoes and no socks.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo provided by Courtney Wright.
When she first learned that she had terminal cancer, Francine told Henry that she wanted to see New York City before she died. Having lived all of her life in rural Nebraska, she longed to see what she had always called the giant skyscrapers. So he arranged for a trip to the Big Apple.
Henry looked up at the Empire State Building, his vision blurring over by tears. One year ago today, they were standing at this exact spot. Francine had been particularly taken by that iconic skyscraper.
A month later she was gone, except for his memories of her.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Jill Wisoff.
Beaten, robbed, left for dead. Naked body deep in the woods. Cold, hungry, bleeding, tired. Yet still alive. If only just barely.
How long had he been walking? How far had he come? The trees’ shadows told him he was heading west. But from where? And towards what?
A structure. A cabin perhaps. At the top of a steep hill. Maybe fifty log steps leading up to it. Could there be food? And shelter from the cold?
One step at a time. One cut and bloody foot after the other. Had to get up there.
Or death likely.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Karen Rawson.
Bob opened his car’s trunk and pulled out two Frisbees. “Are you ready!” he asked Andy.
“Ready for what?” Andy asked. “Did we drive all the way out here to toss Frisbees?”
“We are at the city’s only official disc golf course,” Bob said.
“What is disc golf?” Andy asked.
“It’s like regular golf, except with Frisbees rather than clubs and balls,” Bob explained. “Follow me,” he said.
They walked to a pole with chains hanging from a ring on top. “This contraption is the hole. The object is to get the disc into this basket with the fewest tosses.”
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rachel Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Douglas M. MacIlroy.