When the Looking-Glass is No Longer a Friend

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As Alice exited Wonderland for the last time she scooped up some of the pills that made her taller and some pills that made her small.  They were mementoes, nothing more.

But when her husband used his fists against her she swallowed a “taller” pill and stomped his bones to powder.  When police arrived at the scene a “smaller” pill let her creep behind the walls, and escape.

Making contact with the white rabbit she found him lost in a fog of fornication.  Reality made her furiouser and furiouser.  So, gobbling up her store of “smaller” pills, she vanished in a blink.

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This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday.  Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is at the top of this post, copyright Marie Gail Stratford.  Also, taking a leaf out of Jen’s book and her wonderful posts at Blog It Or Lose It, here’s a groovy soundtrack for the story.

Bugs Across the Pond

I have a pet pond skater who relies on the exploitation of extreme tension to get by.  Negotiating the borderline legalities between this world and that, between the fluidity of thought and solid little pincers, she hones her antennae and takes aim.  Nothing across the pond’s dim surface escapes her notice, as she races and skims passed objections, passed doubts.  Wiry limbs paddling, she focuses on the frantic rippling of soaked prey.  The trial of strength is swift, business-like and wrapped in silence; her suction-feeding mouth only pausing to peddle the sole, secret motto of the pond – “never secure anywhere.”

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This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is below, copyright Dawn Landau.

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Scrying

Silent, shape-shifting cats standing by, the haggard old woman peers deeply and scries.  The sealed secret chamber rustles with soft sounds of folded and refolded velvet sleeves, as the woebegone princess hands over coins.

The future makes it better.

The smoky mirror clears and starts its slow reveal.  The witch’s arthritic claws wave in the air, while she mumbles indecipherable chants for ghostly ears.  “Now, child,” she smiles, with a lop-sided leer, “watch closely, listen hard, and I will show what tomorrow yields.”

But the princess already sees more than she wants, resents the cruel manifestation; wants the witch drowned.

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This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is below, copyright Janet Webb.

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Résumé, circa 800 BC

Vulcan, master of fire, celestial artist, lame and outcast – that’s your résumé, all of it?”

“It is.”

“It’s… fairly niche.”

“I suppose.”

“And why exactly are you seeking a new role?”

“The wife.”

“High maintenance?”

“And then some.”

“Ah… happens to the best of us.”

“So, do you think you have anything suitable?”

“It’s tricky in today’s climate, but… fire mastery – that’s a definite asset.  There’s a call for that.”

“Really?”

“Mmm.  Any allergies?”

“Me?  No.”

“You’re ok with sulphur, for instance?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, there’s a fanatical bunch seeking someone to blame.  Bit downmarket for you, I’m afraid.  Though you might get to star in a decent poem or two.”

“Fine, let’s give it a whirl!”

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This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is below, copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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Realpolitik and Paint

Amidst the backstage politicking of a mediaeval state Machiavelli sat for an official portrait.  He was poised, serious.  “How do I appear?” he asked the painter, who craned around the easel.

“Austere, astute,” the painter remarked.

“Very good,” whispered Machiavelli, barely moving his lips.

“Although… sometimes I long to stop painting surfaces,” the painter moaned.  “Imagine the art I could create if I captured the inner workings of a man for all to see – his beliefs, his conscience!”

“Pah!” Machiavelli almost cracked a smile.  “Then your canvases wouldn’t sell.  A conscience looks like vomit.  So, paint lies and get paid.”

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This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is below, copyright Madison Woods.

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