As a boy, Claude had planted two rows of the fentil sprouts in an open meadow beside a stream where he assumed they would be safe.
One hundred years later Claude returned and discovered his sprouts had grown and were now surrounded by strange stone structures.
In his anger, he stepped into a rectangular pool the size of his foot and fell sideways crushing the rock buildings.
He sat wearily up, brushed mangled cars from his face, and took a bite of a fentil sprout, savoring the taste. Beneath him, people scattered in all directions, covered in wet sprout leaves.
Prompt from Friday Fictioneers. PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
The young man Brian was filled with rage born in early childhood having been beaten and left to die by uncaring parents.
He outlasted death and grew to a giant size. Boxing became his savior, but he refused to compete in the ring. This angered his coach.
One day, the young man Brian bent his eyes on the heavy boulder in front of the gym. He stepped outside and brought his sledgehammer hand down on the rock.
It split in half.
The boxers inside prayed even harder that the young man Brian would never decide to fight in the ring.
Prompt from Friday Fictioneers. PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
The tiny weaver spun its silk scaffolding under the dying petals. The morning sun would bring gnats, flies, and with luck, a fat caterpillar, its favorite. Days since its last feast, it burned with hunger.
It watched and waited from under the tangle of snake stems above the withered petals. Time cycled on, its life neared the end.
A fly buzzed straight into the netting, trapped.
Eight ferocious legs flashed up, instinct unleashed.
A sudden wind sucked the weaver into a hovering ship. Light years away, the observers fed its hunger.
The fly struggled, a solitary witness to first contact.
Prompt from Friday Fictioneers. PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford
He was in his mid thirties, single, worked at night, and slept during the day. I know because I spent the winter with a broken limb watching him through my window.
One snowy morning, he parked his SUV in the driveway and trudged around to his front door.
Why park outside when its thirty below? A hoarders den? Additional room?
Curious, I limped across the street, broke into his car, and clicked open the garage door. Inside was a large empty space with a chair sitting silent in the middle.
Plagued by thoughts, I stopped stalking him and moved away.
Prompt from Friday Fictioneers. PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
The newlywed Joneses began with just two,
A husband and wife.
Then came a third, a baby named Bryce.
Soon there were four.
Then five, six and seven.
Before they knew it, they were up to eleven!
Additions were added and their home grew and grew,
It rose up from the ground as the builders they flew.
Next came adoptions and more mouths to feed,
The house started bursting right out at the seams.
Then something evil crept out of the lake
And their numbers
down to just
Prompt from Friday Fictioneers. Photo prompt © JS Brand
The young inventor sat with the device in his lap, lost in deep contemplation. A single burst and the tree had disintegrated. He stared at the dirt, then up at the scattered wooden innards that flashed against the dark ground. His mind raced with visions of scaled versions of the device. Large mobile units operating together as a mechanized army capable of clearing an entire forest in seconds.
He turned the barrel towards himself. Save the world from his ideas?
History filled his mind. He could see the giant cloud billowing up into the atmosphere.
An Oppenheimer moment.
Prompt from Friday Fictioneers. Photo prompt © Rochellewisoff.com
As I rounded the hill top and started for the other side, I could see a small pond shimmering in the icy wind and her easel standing quietly alone beside it. Panic gripped my body as I bounded down the slope.
At the easel, all I found were her black leather shoes.
I looked at the painting. It was incomplete, smudges of brown beginning the trees and a deep blue-black mass representing the pond. The water seemed strange. I leaned in closer. Floating in middle of the painted pond, swirled in blue-white-yellow was the word that stopped my heart. Help!
Prompt from Friday Fictioneers. Photo Prompt @ Magaly Guerrero