Sorchia's Universe

Specializing in Bewitchment and Single Malt Scotch

The Last One?

Friday Fictioneers offering for March 19. You can play, too, at http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/.

 

Last One

Copyright -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The building was empty, abandoned.

“This must be the last one in the city we haven’t done.” She unbuttoned his coat.

“You’re joking!” He knew she wasn’t.

“You always say that, but you enjoy yourself despite all. Remember the apartment building downtown?” She pulled him into the elevator by his coat lapel.

“Very slow. Lots of bumps.” He smiled at the memory.

“And city hall?”

“Distracting music, but we got to the top.” He remembered it well.

“Twice.” She giggled.

“All that walnut veneer inspired me.”

“Going up?” Her breath was warm on his neck. She smelled of coconut.

“Definitely.”

Self Defense

Friday Fictioneers contribution for March 14. Join the fun at http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/.

copyright-Adam Ickes

copyright-Adam Ickes

Self Defense

“My leg’s broke.” He clinched his teeth. The barrel rumbled over the planked pier as they pushed it to the boathouse in the lake’s center. Each step brought grinding pain.

“Don’t be a baby.” She didn’t spare a glance.

A cool, fish-scented breeze wafted across the water.  Not another soul around. How long would their luck last?

“Help me get it over the rail.”

A gut-wrenching pull, a splash, and a burble. The barrel sank.

“Bad editors,” she said as the bubbles stopped, “deserve drowning.”

He had to agree. He rubbed his aching leg. At least he could still type.

I admit I was stumped for a topic as I looked at this picture.  When I described it to hubby, he said, “Hmm. Sounds like a good place to dump a body.” And that, as they say, was that.

Woopsy

This is my Friday Fictioneers contribution for this week.  The challenge is to write a 100-word story using the photo as a prompt. Join the fun at http://rochellewisofffields.Imagewordpress.com/.

Woopsy

“Magic isn’t a toy, you know.” The wizard eyed the boy sternly as they scrambled up the rocky hillside.  “You can’t cast spells willy-nilly without consequences.”

“Sorry,” said the boy, his eyes teary.

“Well,” The wizard took pity on his forlorn student. The boy was just learning, after all. “It’s probably nothing. You probably just evaporated a puddle or knocked a bird silly for a day. I’m sure it will be fine.”

They topped the hill. Salt wastes extended beyond the horizon. The thriving village was gone. Not one living thing moved on the desolate plain.

“Dammit!” said the wizard.

War Story

This is my Friday Fictioneers contribution for this week.  The challenge is to write a 100-word story using the photo as a prompt. Join the fun at http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/.

Image

“The hay was wet with my blood. Your face in the moonlight is all I remember. I thought I was dead.” He sat his wine glass on the balcony railing and gazed at the street below.

“Many American pilots died. You were lucky.”

“The Resistance smuggled me to England, but I came back to France.  To find you.”

“Thank God for hay wagons.” She smiled, leaning on his arm.

“How could we manage it now?” He nodded toward the tightly wrapped hay bales behind the grumbling tractor.

Her hand closed tightly over his. “We would find a way.”