Photo Copyright: Ted Strutz

Here we are this week sitting near a ferry loading cars. We’ve gathered to discuss our original stories for the week. This is the Friday Fictioneers group. Our hostess for the gathering is the talented and gracious author and artist, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The challenge for each of us this week and every week is to write a story with no more than 100 words, not counting the title. It’s supposed to have a beginning, middle, end, and follow the picture prompt for the week. This week’s prompt was provided by Ted Strutz. Thanks, Ted.

To read the other stories by group members, just click on the link given below, then on the little blue frog in the blue box.

The link for this week’s stories is as follows:


Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100 Words


Myra’s mind wasn’t on the rain as the wipers whisked the windshield of the dark blue Honda. The line for the ferry crept forward and her hands clutched the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were bloodless.

I have to reach the deck before it’s full. I have to.

A horn sounded and she jumped then eased the car forward.

They’d find Greg’s body bludgeoned in self-defense and she’d be found guilty. In panic, she ran. The ferry meant escape.

There was a forceful rap on the window.

“Ma’am please stop the motor, unlock the door, and get out.”



















Photo Copyright: Al Forbes

This story was written for Sunday Photo Fiction–November 27th, 2016. Each week the host, Al Forbes, provides a picture prompt. The challenge for each member of the group is to write an original story or poem with no more than 200 words, not counting the title and inspired by the prompt.

To read the other stories written by group members, just click on the link below, then on the little blue frog in the blue box.

The link to the other stories this week is as follows:


Genre: Crime Fiction

Word Count: 200 Words


Jack stood at the window and gazed out at the city almost hidden by the dusk. Any moment now the police would arrive to arrest him.

He was guilty and knew it even if the dead man was the one who did the damage. He wrecked Jack’s marriage.

Margaret wasn’t to blame. She was lonely because he was gone so much. He thought his job was keeping them together not building  a wall between them.

When he’d walked in and found them together in bed he went wild. He’d grabbed the Glock from the dresser drawer, clicked off the safety, and started shooting. He was a practiced shot spending hours at the indoor firing range. It should have been a thief he’d shoot one day.

It a way, the dirty stinker was a thief.

Now he was waiting for the police to find him. He had plenty of time to think. He had nothing else–no wife, no job, no future, no hope. He was his own worst enemy.

What do you do to an enemy? He heard a knock at the door and pictured death or life imprisonment.

The maid holding clean towels heard a shot in the room.




Written Act of Kindness Award