How to be rid of trash

(100-word flash fictions)

Andrea sat in front of a roaring fire. It was husband-burning day. Or rather the memories of them.

From the open photo album, she pulled out a bunch of faded photos. She had never known that tearing photos to bits could be so pleasurable. “Trash!” she yelled as they flew into the flames, all past associations, consumed and reduced to ash.

By the time she finished with husband no.3, the album was bare and her spirit full.

Tears fell like first-rain on parched soil, cleansing and invigorating. Finally, unbroken again, ready to hope and trust, she danced, like a child.


This didn’t come out as eloquently as I had imagined it, but it will do for a midnight attempt since sleep is trying to flatten me 🙂  Interesting photo you found this week, Rochelle 🙂

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

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(100-word flash fiction)

Her diplomat husband was asleep when Sarah climbed into their bed, his smug smile in place, his body turned away from her.  Sometimes he whispered “Lily” in his sleep.

Every night, the bed became a vast ocean and she a bobbing little boat, lost in the immensity of loneliness.

To save herself from drowning, she conjured up the same image.

A tiny seaside shop called HOPE. And behind the glass door, a bearded man with unkempt hair, but soft brown eyes, selling trinkets. Who she had given up for the diplomat because she had wanted to “travel around the world”.


Made it to another round of Friday Fictioneers (I almost didn’t 🙂 ) Things have been hectic and my brain a bit fried so couldn’t read many of last week’s stories. Thanks Rochelle for this brief interlude of simple, creative fun. 🙂 And congratulations on finishing your novel. How exciting!

Photo prompt-

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


Wake up! Wake up!

(100-word flash fiction x 2)

“Wake up! Wake up!” heard William. It sounded like the cuckoo clock back home he had engineered, just to tease Mary. It was machine-gun fire.

When a bomb had exploded in their trench, they had scattered like disturbed, scurrying ants. Wounded, bloodied and dizzy, he had tumbled into another trench.

Something nebulous seemed eager to claim him. Was it Sleep? Or Memories? Floating in was the London bus he had met Mary on. Followed by the beat-up jalopy proclaiming ‘Just Married’.

A shadow fell across the Memories and a gun barrel took its place.

“Wake up! Wake up!” it said.


“Wake up! Wake up!” chimed the cuckoo clock.

Mary was startled awake from her afternoon nap.  She stood up suddenly and moved towards the clock that William, the appliance-tinkerer, had engineered.

Inside her, the baby kicked in protest.

“Settle down, ‘lil one.” She cooed, patting her bump. “The war will be over any day and Daddy should soon be home.” She picked up the telegram, which proclaimed, bold with hope, “COMING HOME FOR THE BIRTH”

“I’m home!” announced the doorbell.

She ran to the door, but it was just the postman with another telegram. It said, “WILLIAM, KILLED IN ACTION”


I wrote the second story first but felt William’s story had to be told too. Hope everyone’s well and keeping safe and away from the Virus. Thanks Rochelle for bringing us together every week 😊

Photo prompt –