I really like Grandpa’s study, but it is a bit creepy.  You see, he has a porthole to another world, a world that is strange and distorted.

My older brother tells me that I am full of beans, that I’m just seeing a mirror.  But why does it look so funny?  He said it’s “con-hexed” or something.  I knew there was magic involved!

When I asked Mom, she said, “Go ask Alice.  I think she’ll know.”

Who’s Alice?

And why did Uncle Bill laugh and call Mom “Grace”?

Grandpa is no longer here.

He must have gone through the porthole.

***

word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by  Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo by @ Roger Bultot . If you want to join or see other stories, go to the inlinkz linkup.

We entered town on the old state highway, following the railroad tracks past boarded up businesses and huge, empty warehouses.  In my mind I saw the other side of town, the garden that grew parking lots, strip malls and fast food on approach to the interstate.

Those flowers of the 2020s wouldn’t do.

This plot of the 1930s, though, was perfect.

We stopped in front of an empty warehouse and I got out.

We could set up and nobody would know.

But then I saw the CCTV cameras.

Glancing at the boss’ casket, I left town. 

We’d find a place.

***

word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © J Hardy Carroll . Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “Linky“.

Waves of shimmering heat rose off of the broken asphalt.

I mopped my brow.

“Fields gone to weeds.”

“Yep.” Meg had said little beyond single syllables since we had crossed the fence.

We paused in shade where the Smith’s place once was.

Except that the lawn was now a hayfield, it looked fine, until we left.  The back half of the barn had collapsed.

That next oasis of trees beckoned.

A quick inspection relieved the worst of our fears.

Looking deeper, I could feel every year since we were evacuated after the accident.

“Home.” Meg had tears in her eyes.

***

word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Russell Gayer. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “Linky“.

***

I may not get to many stories this week as I will be journeying home after (Covid enforced) years away and so will be off line.

“They’re sleeping,” the waiter said.  He bent down to Jimmy’s height.  “Have you ever seen a tree sleep?”

Jimmy, staring wide-eyed at the four large downed trees, shook his head.

Looking at the emergency tape and remembering the nasty storm the night before, I asked, “When will these ‘sleeping trees’ stand back up?”

“They missed their alarm this morning, so we aren’t sure.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll be up real soon,” Jimmy said.

It was when we came by a few hours later to find all four trees standing and healthy that I realized that Jimmy had inherited my great-grandfather’s magic.

***

word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Brenda Cox. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “Linky“.