More than a Fender-Bender

Friday Fictioneers:  The photo prompt, by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields:

The police called a tow truck for my crippled car.

They took me to the hospital. The impact damaged my pride more than it damaged my body, but they wanted to check me over.  I had a concussion and a bloody nose.  Nothing else.

The real injury, I feared, would be my husband’s wrath when he saw the damage to my brand new car.

He never let me see that, though. Instead, he just wrapped me up in his arms. I was pretty sure I felt him sobbing.

He denied it.

DISCLAIMER:  Because so many of you assumed this was a true story, or asked if it really happened, I hereby declare and proclaim that this is FICTION.  I promise.  It didn’t really happen.  At least, not to me 🙂

Old Yvette

Will you forgive me if post another one?  I have a better idea, and I really wanted to write it. I may take down my first effort, which I really don’t like very much 🙂


PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Every day,  in rusty black, Yvette hobbled to the square that held  her family’s old home.

Every day, she lowered her body to sit on a bench, folding her gnarled hands over the head of her cane. Every day,  she visualized the gardens and the birds that had lived there in such joy.

Every day,  she hated war and loss.

Every day.



The ghost on the bench sighed.  Of course, no one heard. She gazed at her tombstone, where the chiseled words had worn off and the stone tipped to one side.

Her eyes wandered to her beloved garden, and in memory she saw it as it had been two hundred years before. Clean, full of color and joy, scenting the air three seasons of the year and resting in the winter.

No one tended it now. All that remained were brittle branches and weed-choked walkways.

Rising from the bench, she floated above her tombstone, dissolving into nothing.

The Shoes

PHOTO PROMPT © Magaly Guerrero

She wanted, more than anything, to study art. She coveted the title Art Historian,  She loved beauty, mystery, romance, the vistas of a world she would never see for herself.  Art would take her away from her invalid chair and her dreams of dancing.

The only reminder of her lost gift was the pair of high-heeled dance shoes she refused to throw away.  How she had whirled, twirled, romped and stomped  through her routines, feeling as if nothing could stop her from flying away from earth’s gravity and into the vast universe.

If only. If only.


PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Cold pizza. Rich with cheese and herbs, the grease spotted the delivery box  and stained the granite counter underneath.

The wine bottle, left uncorked, was half full. Only one goblet, which indicated the person had been alone.

Bits and pieces, the flotsam and jetsam of life, littered the dresser top around the pizza. There weren’t, however, any real clues as to what had happened.  No indication of a fight in the hotel room.  A couple of shopping bags were still full. A brief case was unmolested.

Nothing explained the crumpled body on the sidewalk far below.


PHOTO PROMPT © Jellico’s Stationhouse

The bicycle had  been left unsecured and unguarded. “People should know better,”  thought Pete.

He leaned against the light pole that propped  the bike, looked at his watch, glanced around. He just looked like a guy waiting for someone.

Finally, he mounted the bike.  Again, he glanced around as if making sure the person he waited for wasn’t coming.  Checking traffic, he pedaled off with confidence.

“Home free!”  he thought, a smirk twisting his lips. “People are so stupid!”

The whoop-whoop of the siren gave him a jolt.

“Gotcha, Sneaky Pete!” The cop smirked, too.

Yesterday and Today

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria

Yesterday, the calm of a busy harbor marina. Smooth, blue water. Small boats, big ships, Industry, pleasure, business and play all unaware that a change was coming.

Today:  The air, still calm, doesn’t give fair warning.  In fact, there was very little warning of any kind. Only those who happened to be looking out to sea noticed a strange new line of darker blue on the horizon, growing higher and moving faster as it rolled toward their peaceful bay.

So terrifying,  so relentless.  So careless of anything in its path.

And afterward? Calm, and sorrow.

“Fraidy Cat!”

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

photo@J.Hardy Carroll

The children sped by on the roller skates clamped to their sneakers. Some grabbed at the bars of the iron fence, building their speed. They all craned their necks at the estate that took up a whole city block. None of them had ever dared to venture inside, and parents warned their children to stay away.

They never saw people. No one was ever in the vast yard, mowing or trimming; yet it always appeared to have been freshly groomed each morning.

“I’m going in there someday,” whispered Johnny.

“Then why’re  you whispering?” taunted Susie. “Fraidy cat!”

A Sad Story

(photo credit: Pegman)

The battle raged as Molly looked on from her window. It was a hearbreakingly blue sky  that watched with her as the armies fought each other to the death.

Molly’s window, atop the brothel below, was three stories above the street.As she watched, her glorious Irish hair shone like polished brass, textured by the sun’s golden rays. More than one soldier,glancing upward, lost his focus for a moment and went to his death with that brazen head fixed in his vision.

And then, the BOOM of a cannon sounded, and Molly was no more.

A pub was named after her

She would have laughed.

Ready! Set! Charge!


PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma

“Hopalong One to Command.  Come in, please.”

“This is Command, Hopalong One. What is your status?”

“Command, status is GO! I have a clear visual of Target. Permission to proceed?”

“Permission granted.”

“Ready, Sir.  All is in order. Signaling field officers. The way is clear. Target does not seem to suspect anything. This should go without a hitch.”

“Copy that, Hopalong One. Leave your transmitting device open.”

“Calling all field officers!  Prepare to attack!  The way is clear, target does not suspect. Check in, please.”



“Check. . . “

“Wings up! Ready to roll! Aaaaaaannnnd. . . . CHARGE!”