Friday Fictioneers – 6/6/14 — ‘Home’


Friday Fictioneers, here I come again. Now, the rest of you can sit around with Doug with your feet propped up if you want to, but I’m going exploring for an ancient city. Anybody else who would like to try your hand at creating a 100-word story based on the unique picture below – Douglas M. MacIlroy’s picture, by the way – hop over to the FF home place and check out the details of how and why.  (Also, hop over to Doug’s site and check out his header: amazing — mesmerizing — see for yourself!)  

My story’s below the photo.




The aged archaeologist sat gazing into the fire, owning contentment for the first time in his 85 years.

He journaled these words: “At age 15, I sat in a classroom gazing at a tablet. Suddenly, it disappeared, and in its place, as through a window, I saw a mountain.  I knew it, yet I didn’t.  But I knew I’d find the ancient city – this city — carved inside.

I was born here, but can’t remember how or why I left. I only know it’s beckoned me in my dreams all my life, and I’ve searched the world for 70 years.

Finally – today – I am home.”







Story Challenge: ‘For Love of Bernadette’


COW & MILKHere’s my own response to the story challenge I posted yesterday. (Write a story of 500 words or less that includes a cow, a barber, and a child.) Hope a lot of you take part as well. Find all the details about participating here.




Herbie was a barber. And he was good at his job. He had customers from all over the county. But Herbie didn’t like his job. He’d inherited the business from his father, but he’d never enjoyed it.

What he really wanted to do was own a dairy farm. Every evening when he finished work, he drove out of town and cruised by Old Man Swagle’s farm, looking at the fields of cows and the neat homestead – and dreaming.

Sometimes he’d stop, walk to the fence, and pet the cows. They knew him by now and came to him, but there was one particular brown and white lady who made sure she got the most of his attention. It made him feel loved.

If only he could manage to buy the farm. Old Man Swagle had put it on the market last year, but so far no one had met his price. Herbie had some money saved, and he’d talked to the bank about a mortgage, but Isabelle, his betrothed, said he’d be a fool to leave a secure business and go into debt for a cow farm. He used to love to talk about his dream, but lately, he’d just stopped mentioning it to Isabelle. He didn’t like the quarrels it led to. Sometimes he wondered …. But … they’d been engaged a whole year. It wouldn’t be right to back out now.

One evening, as Herbie sat on the fence and petted his favorite cow, Swagle’s 11-year-old grandaughter came running across the field. He knew she visited often, and today she hailed him. “Hi,” she said. “Grandpa sent me to fetch Bernadette.”

“Oh, is that her name?”

“Yep. Grandpa let me name her.” She gave him a speculative look. “ My Grandpa said you want to buy this farm.”

“He did, huh? Well he’s right, but I don’t think I can.”

“Oh,” she said, hanging her head in disappointment. “I sure wish you could buy it.” She looked up. “My Grandpa is getting really tired and wants to come into town and live at my house with me and Mommy and Daddy. I stayed all night last night, and I heard Grandpa praying a long time that God would send someone today to buy the farm and take care of the cows the way he does.”

Herbie felt tears rush to his eyes.

“Why can’t you buy it?”

He cleared his throat. “Well … the lady I’m going to marry doesn’t want to live on a farm.”

“But you love cows. I can tell. I’ve watched you petting them and talking to them.”

Herbie nodded.

“And you’d keep them and take care of them just like Grandpa does.”

Herbie nodded again. “If I could buy the farm.”

“You know what I think?” she said.


“I think you should tell that dumb lady to marry someone else, and you should come and live here with Bernadette.”

And Herbie did.








Public domain image from

I want to be a wild thing,
But I don’t think I know how.
I want to be a wild thing,
But maybe just not right now.

I want to be a wild thing,
And my reputation blow;
I want to be a wild thing,
But I’m such a timid soul.

I want to be a wild thing,
To throw caution to the wind;
I want to be a wild thing,
Want to shock all of my friends.

I want to be a wild thing,
In wild living take my part,
But I can’t fly like wild things
‘Cause I’m chicken in my heart.

I want to be a wild thing,
But this longing’s bound so tight
The wildest thing I’ll do is
Claim this poem’s copyright.






Friday Fictioneers – July 5, 2013 — ‘Merry-Go-Round’

Copyright - David Stewart
Copyright – David Stewart


All my life I wanted a merry-go-round. Little more than a big wheel tipped sideways and mounted high enough off the ground to turn freely when pushed. I often passed playgrounds and looked longingly at other children riding – squealing with delight – each taking a turn at pushing.

But Mom never let me ride. And I swore that, when I grew up, I’d build myself a great big merry-go-round of my very own. But, alas, I’ve lived in apartments.

Well, last month, I bought an apartment building. And my first “improvement” project was constructing my dream ride. No yard to work with, I went right to the top.

 It’s almost finished! Yay Me!


Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for all the scoop on how to take part in this 100-word story challenge.

100 Word Challenge for Grown-ups – Week 89 — ‘Identity’

Julia’s 100-word story challenge this week is a beautiful picture from Marianne Whooley at Maris World.  My story is below the picture.



Sandy and Mandy were identical twins: blond, green-eyed beauties with a smattering of freckles and charming dispositions. Mom dressed them in identical outfits, bought them identical backpacks, and pulled their hair into identical pony tails.

She bragged to everyone about how “exactly alike” they were and insisted they do identical chores and play identical games at the same time. She sent them to Gramma’s farm together every year.

And every year, pony tails riding at exactly the same height, matching green eyes gazing into the peaceful pond, they stood on the old bridge and dreamed – utterly separate, sublimely independent dreams. 


Come on: you can write a 100-word story too. Join us by visiting Julia’s site and getting all the information about how to take part.


Friday Fictioneers – 4/19/13 — ‘The Gift’

Friday Fictioneers, that 100-word story challenge, has rolled around again. This week the prompt comes from a lovely photo by Janet Webb. To join the fun visit Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ site here:

Wasp nest

The Gift

Each morning 8-year-old Aran, his mahogany skin warmed by the sun, trekked to the shore to play with his stash of sea-polished rocks. Eagerly, he collected new ones, always anticipating some special treasure deposited on this tiny island by his best friend, the ocean.

Today he’d found that gift. Coral? It didn’t feel like coral. Scores of tiny hollows inside formed a pattern and offered a mystery.

“What is it, Poppy?” he’d asked Grandfather, who’d traveled to distant lands.

“A wasps’ nest,” was the reply, and then, because the island had no wasps, Grandfather explained.

Aran held the delicate structure close. Here it was! His anticipated treasure from another world! His connection with people and adventures that were beyond his ocean! He would treasure this gift … keep it safe … and some day ….