Will had built robots and explored AI since he was a boy. This new project presented new challenges but Will was ready to tackle them.
This one looked just like Sheila. Sometimes Will had to remind himself S2 was different. As she stood, unblinking, in the garage Will didn’t need reminding.
Her arm fell to the floor with a soft thud. Will stared at the fleshy decomposing mass.
“Well, the robotic one is almost ready.”
S2 pulled her crumbling lips back like a scared dog baring teeth.
“We’ll work on that smile next. Sheila had the most beautiful smile.”
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
Frankenstein was first published in 1818. Word Count: 99 Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers as always.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
He ran his fingers through the raging water. The boss was right, the rapids were tumultuous enough. The rabid water ripped gentle leaves below the surface, corrupting them beyond recognition.
“We’re all absorbed into chaos eventually.”
His walkie buzzed to life, “Tomas, are you ready?”
The boss said nothing would change without the influence of old words …
“Ready.” His voice was steady but only now did Tomas feel the sun beating down on his neck.
The first strings of red rushed through the rapids towards the town water supply.
They would pay for their dependence on old words today.
Word Count: 100 Many thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers!
Is it the same moon we see?
Do you watch it roll slowly above the horizon, arcing gracefully?
I trace its path with an uncertain finger, lingering on the point where I dream our palms should meet.
A perfect intersection, a crossing of the souls. A perfect arcing destiny, straight into the heart from Cupid’s bow.
I wonder which plane you left on and if you’ll ever return. If you ever do, I wonder should our hearts meet again, perhaps under glistening Sun?
Dreams come true, if only for a night, a moment. If only under the perfect arcing moon.
PHOTO PROMPT © Gah Learner
And thank you to
Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneer’s every week.
Word count: 100
Lanky and odd with gentle features, Johnny’s pa called him “sissy boy”. He served bloody noses and fat lips in hopes of toughening the boy up.
Johnny collected forgotten dresses from his older sister’s closet and hid them in the old shed. When he thought no one was peeking he slid their silken fabrics over his skin.
One night nosy Mary-Ann wouldn’t leave him alone.
He tried to escape his older sisters prying eyes but found himself cornered when she threw open the creaky shed door.
“You really should ask before borrowing clothes, that zipper is tricky, let me help.”
PHOTO PROMPT © Nathan Sowers grandson of our own Dawn M. Miller
Thank you to
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers
This here’s a true story.
The moment I realized what rock bottom looked like as I barreled from above.
And tried to hit the brakes but just wasn’t strong enough.
I wasted drunken moments counting lighters scattered around, at least ten collected in my dead flower jar.
Then the music stopped and that moment of eerie silence …
Right before girls screaming and wild stampeding.
“There’s a boy on the bedroom floor. There’s a boy dying through that door.”
In my apartment.
High on my drugs.
Drunk on my liquor.
I wasted moments counting lighters … I spent seconds wishing on stars.
PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette Prior
Word Count: 100
Many thanks as always to
I honestly do not know if this will work in 100 words, I like it but I also know it seems kind of abstract.
“Do you think it’s fake?” Shanna focused on the neon green moving in the breeze.
Dena’s eyes focused beyond the grass on one Ms. Leroy. She was tall, blonde and, as their mom said, “100% plastic”.
“Like a barbie.” Dena whispered.
Shanna tilted her head while staring at the stiff blades. No matter how she turned, tilted or squinted the grass looked nothing like a barbie.
“I don’t see it.”
Dena grabbed at her non-existent chest.
“But don’t you see? One day I’ll have some just like that.”
“Are you sure?” Shanna never thought her sister liked plants all that much.
PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio
Friday Fictioneers courtesy of
Word Count: 100
Freddy lost his leg again.
The town drunk hops down the street. His backpack, wearing thin from years of service and homelessness, flops ungracefully with each wavering leap and land.
“Fred, where’s your leg?” The shopkeeper is a kind man with fluid soul in his eyes.
I imagine Freddy has soul in his eyes but through overgrown, matted hair there’s no telling.
He hops past the shopkeep, visibly shaking as he lands.
“Fred, your leg?”
Freddy freezes, we all know he’s a stubborn man. His mouth works silently, formulating words he doesn’t quite have.
“That’s Dad to you.” Freddy mumbles.
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
Word Count: 100
Thank you as always to
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for putting together Friday Fictioneers.
“I will not marry him.”
Destiny did not prepare the gardener for the sight which greeted him in the morning sun. The noble daughter, sweetly sipping tea while admiring roses, and her gentleman courter writhing in dewy grass. Life did not prepare him to grab the unwitting belle and drag her to a horse.
“You have to go.”
“I will not.” Thin arms surrounded his neck.
Romeo ushered his Juliet onto the nearest mare with a promise he would not be far behind.
I wish I could say the story is only similar in name.
Alas, it ends the same.
PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria
And thank you to
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for rounding Friday Fictioneers up.
I saw the sign. I heard her small voice say, “we should turn back.”
Jermaine, I chastised, always too sure of yourself.
The sky sure is blue from here. Small clouds, formed into puffs of slight dog fur, float by casting their shadows among the scattered glass.
If I could speak … a thousand things I know I should say.
An impromptu apology to my momma, for what I don’t know.
Maybe all the years of grief … maybe all the years to come.
Beside me her eyes stare like glass, reflecting rolling hills and jagged cliffs.
Her lips are so blue.
PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg
Many thanks to the wonderful
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for rounding up Friday Fictioneers
When I was a little girl I pressed my nose against the glass of my dad’s old Volkswagen as we passed under bridges in the city. I puffed great smokey blasts of fog to draw little hearts and “hellos” in as the sleeping men tossed in their bags.
“Dad, why don’t we help them?”
“They have to help themselves first.”
There was a woman beneath the bridge today snapping pictures of our homeless communities. Preserving our tents and bags in rough black and white photos for exhibit.
“Don’t you want to help yourself?”
I hear they feed you in jail.
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
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