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“.

We were lost and tired. 

The cockpit crew died when our transport was shot down over the empty jungle. They were the only ones who knew where we were and which way we needed to go.

But we had to move.

Have you ever walked for days in a sticky oven with no food?  How about knowing a sniper could be in any tree, a boobytrap on any path?

We approached the ratty house, arms drawn. 

No luck.

It had been empty for decades.  Not a scrap to eat.

But we found a sign – Ashtabula.  

Port Cleveland wasn’t too far!

***

word count = 100

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

**

Ashtabula is a town in Ohio, a bit east of Cleveland. I wanted to say “Akron”, but the punchline would have been softened. I like the sound of “Ashtabula” better – it was used in A Bob Dylan song, “You’ll Make Me Lonely When You Go”. With the title and jungle warfare, I wanted people to think Vietnam, not Ohio ;)

**

I was super busy last week and didn’t read many FF posts. Hopefully I’ll get to more this week.

“Well, there was this family of giants, see, and they loved to go to the beach and this is the old beachball, ya know, and…”

“Last time you said it was a dog’s ball.”

Harry was flustered for only a second before he started a new yarn combining the stories.

Truth be told, he loved the old novelty building, the giant red ball in the parking lot, and did a great business with his souvenir shop with its burger stand.

Harry stopped, his eyes huge.  “The dog wants his ball…”

We started to laugh until we heard the loud bark.

***

word count = 100

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

**

Note on the title, just in case you didn’t get it Phythaux – Ph (F) – y (i) – th (d) – aux (o) – (Fido) ;) I got this from a cousin when I was about 10 and he said he got it from Bill Cosby, but I never heard that skit.

Hey Dad, I took my driver’s license test today.

Oh no.

I told Mom that I needed to drive the BMW because of the shorter turning radius…

Oh no!

…and better control.

Oh no.

It has great breaking!

Oh no.

And let me tell you about acceleration…

Oh no!!!

Man, there is nothing with better acceleration than the Beemer!

What happened?

Let me tell you, 0 to 60 in, just wow!

WHAT HAPPENED?!?!

I missed the break and hit the gas…

Oh no…

I went through a brick wall…

Oh no……..

But at least I didn’t fall off the edge!

***

word count = 100

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

The last few days of the journey were the hardest.

It had started with the towers Jorg had known through his life, day after day of walking amongst those giants sprouting from the tarmac.

But they had shrunk.  Space was seen, as was that terrible grey turmoil called the sky.

Eventually the buildings ceased to exist at all.

Asphalt stretched forever, an occasional concrete pillar breaking the monotony.

Then he reached the fabled edge of the world. 

It existed!

The pavement came to an end, and with only a cable blocking his way, green and blue stretched to the horizon.

***

word count = 100

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

“Commerce. The smell of salt and oil as I watch the mighty ships unload their cargoes from around the world.  The grease of Capitalism.  Those cranes, as big as midtown skyscrapers, that is what the harbor is about, that’s what it means to me.”

She waited for the unasked question

Watching the statue, giant, but dwarfed by the towering cranes, she remembered her grandparents and their stories of the old country, the village bombed out of existence by forces too large to comprehend and the story of their escape.

She sniffed the breeze.

A gull, riding the wind, cried.

“Freedom,” she whispered.

***

word count = 100

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