New World Order

Today, I want to acknowledge





and AliciaJamtaas:

There is no greater encouragement than honest critique.  Thanks for your help last week!


FF one world order

Photo Credit: Randy Mazie

At a glance, it would be impossible to ascertain the anxiety and overwhelming concern the silver bike felt for its fallen man. No human eye would ever detect the hint of a tear never-falling from its one golden eye or, note the silver arms aching once more to feel the man’s calloused grip and confident guidance.

How the trembling bike wished the wiry hands would rise to bugle an alert and summon assistance. But, no tin horn sounded, no good citizen came and no one witnessed the man’s expiration.

Though helpless today the bike vowed, the world would one day feel machine’s vengeance.

Hard Times

My response to the Weekly Friday Fictioneers challenge.  Write a story in 100 words based on the weekly photo prompt. To learn more of this madness seek our leader Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields here: or find us on FaceBook at Friday Fictioneers.

FF hard times

Photo Credit:  Claire Fuller

“Don’t fuss so child, times will be better one day.”

Tears threatened Olivia as she strode through the brilliant sunshine where birds caroused and gentle breezes played catch with her homespun skirt. Tears cascaded as she entered the mob ravaged Middleham grocer and dug through the overturned racks and dusty bones to find the pepper flakes 15 years expired. Tears dried as she trudged back through the garden she loved, past her fragrant pepper plants and into the house where her mother waited; always waited no longer daring to leave.

“Bless you so, Olivia! I will use them sparingly, I know how to make do in these hard times.”

Curtain Call

FF curtain call

Photo credit:  Rochelle Wisoff-fields

She’d anticipated known screen star Bill Steele would open doors for her.  But the only door he opened was the room of his newly constructed Steele Motel.  Unknown to her, he opened that door for his twin brother too.

Her revenge?  Expose them.  She called the press never thinking the cowboy actors might have real guns.

The press watched as she screamed terror from the balcony.  Each anticipating her arrival, the twins burst forth from separate rooms.  Each seeing a flash of gun metal in the gloom, fired at exactly the moment she stepped forward for the anticipated photo.

No charges were filed in her apparent staged suicide.


100 words was not enough!  I hope the intent stayed as the editing progressed.

Bob Steele was indeed a twin and screen star.  He built the Steele Motel and his neon sign, now famous, is installed in the Neon Museum of Hollywood California.  The rest is simple fantasy from a restless mind.

To join Rochelle’s band of Friday Fictioneers look up us on Facebook.  To read more, see the links at the bottom of Rochelle’s story this week:


(Short story in 1200 words)

One single tear raced a drop of sweat past runny nose and chattering teeth only to shatter on the dirty concrete floor. Pressed tight against the wall, breath ragged, she braved the last corner and dove for safety beneath the dark recessed shelves.

She held back a sob as she attacked the wall before her, fingers greedily seeking some small flaw, some chink in the armor of her prison. She knew this was the right place, she prayed it was the right time.

And time was passing fast; too fast. She knew they would miss her soon. Thin slippers struggled for purchase as she fought for leverage against the cold cement floor. The pungent fragrance of dirt, blood and chemicals choked her. Dig! Dig faster! Dig better….better dig. She choked back a hysterical laugh at her own bad joke, or was it a scream? Her nails cracked and peeled against the masonry as she fought to dig deeper, find a crack, and her way freedom; freedom and the path to Helaphino.

Her shredded nails caught and finally ripped away and she welcomed the pain. Welcomed and celebrated it as a victory over the nothingness of her life. Pain meant life, life meant hope. She smiled even as small cries escaped her lips and blood flowed freely down her hands. Flowed and dripped into the lap of faded flowers on her threadbare gown.

Far too soon she heard the staccato triumph of an alarm quickly silenced, and now the sobs came. With her whole being she threw herself at her task

“Helaphino.… Helaphino.,” every breath panted out her one and only secret; her private mantra, “Helaphino.” She glanced back furtively, she could almost feel them coming. “Shhh…”, she had to be careful, they couldn’t know she had overheard them; that she now had hope in that one glorious word. A hope just as glorious and just as thin as the days of the gold rush: “Helaphino or Bust !  Helaphino or Die.”

Pouring out heart and soul she fought the barrier, begging for mercy, pleading for the wall to give way. But fate was short on mercy this day and sooner than even she thought possible they found her.


“So,” fingers continued to rattle across the typewriter as the middle-aged nurse absently addressed the young man at her station, “you’re the new Doctor?” She made sure they both knew it wasn’t really a question. She glanced briefly up at him over her readers. Lord a mighty he couldn’t be any older than her youngest son and calling himself a Doctor.

“You’ll be calling me Nurse Louise, we’re a bit less formal on account of the patients, Doctor…”she searched her notes, “Doctor Elders? Elders…humph.” She raised an eyebrow at the obvious pun but the Doctor Boy as she had now forever named him in her mind, didn’t seem to share the humor.

“I’ve been overseeing the night shift for over 17 years. You’ll have 32 cases to start but you’ll need to know them all. Here, I’ll walk you through…,” suddenly the alarm clamored loudly, startling them out of the conversation. Nurse Louise hit the interrupt switch, “Can’t have that thing waking up the whole ward.”

“Is that appropriate? I believe we supposed to wait for assistance with any alarms.”

Nurse Louise took a deep breath, slapped both hands down on the counter between him and stood up slowly closing the distance between them. She didn’t have time to be gracious and the Doctor Boy needed some fast schoolin’.

“Puppy, we have one-hundred forty-seven patients here. Night shift has five nurses and a desk guard who is probably out back right now, smokin’ the weed.  I served the 8029 MASH; Korea. That is Mobile. Army. Surgical. Hospital. ‘round here, I am the assistance.

She looked so hard at him, he flushed scarlet. It would have to do for now.

“C’mon, you bes’ follow me, gonna have our hands full.” Without another word she strode down the hall. He caught up with her as she paused to fill a syringe which she quickly tucked into her white coat pocket. He started to object again but stammered to a stop at her pointed stare.

“Will you at least tell me what’s going on?”

“What’s going on is you need to fetch us a gurney, Doctor Elders, you’ll see soon enough”.

At least he had enough sense to follow orders she thought as he grabbed a nearby gurney and quickly caught up with her again.

Without hesitating she led him down multiple halls; through the deserted cafeteria pausing only to flip on the switch as she threw open the pantry door. There, exposed in the sudden light was the skinniest woman she’d ever seen. Cringing, sobbing and covered in blood, the poor thing seemed to be trying to disappear into the wall behind at her back.

“No, Mama, no…I’ll be good, Mama, please!” the woman’s voice rose to a wail as she ran a bloody hand through her straggly hair, staring at Nurse Louise in terror. “I didn’t mean it, Mama. I didn’t want to let him… to …” her pleas trailed off into tendrils of whimpers, whispers and tears.

“She’s done this before?” Doctor Boy looked a little shaky, but she guessed he had good reason. She watched him struggle to recover his calm demeanor as she leaned over the poor girl.


“Post Traumatic Psychosis. She got herself a right religious mama and a hard-drinking daddy to boot. State found her in a root cellar must be a dozen years ago, trying to dig herself out, just like this.” Carefully, Nurse Louise knelt by the woman, waving the doctor down beside her. She continued her synopsis but now she was crooning the words as she held the woman, rocking her in her arms, gently pulling back her gown to insert the needle, “Oh, you were a smart little girl, now weren’t you, Helen? Sharp as a whip. Probably all of 9 years old when mama put you in that cellar, hmm?”

Nurse Louise continued to croon as she handed Doctor Boy the now empty hypodermic. “Seems our girl had a question ‘bout the Bible being the absolute truth and all. Mama didn’t take it well, thought the girl was demon possessed.”

Gently, they raised her to her feet and onto the gurney. “How long?”

“In the root cellar?” She continued to check the woman’s vitals. “Five, six year’s maybe. Won’t anyone say for sure.”

“Years! Alone?”

“Not completely. Mama brought a meal every day ‘cept Sunday. Seems daddy visited too. She’s had a baby.” They started moving the gurney down the hall.

“Dear God, what happened to the baby?”

Helpless tears fell as the sedative stole the last remnants of the Helen’s resolve and strength. Yes…tell him, tell him where they took my baby… say it so I know it’s true, please, just say it again….

And miraculously, Nurse Louise did, in that same echoing way words sound when the sedative kicks in, “Hell-if-I-know.”

“Helaphino.,” she whispered the name, savoring every syllable as she drifted away, content in the knowledge that her baby was alive; alive and waiting in Helaphino..


I wrote this about 3 years ago with the help of my friend Mary Lou Todd.  Time do fly, ML, time do fly…

Last Ride

last ride

Belated Photo credit: Jean L. Hays

Dad found the “Edsel-dozer” at auction.  He’d take that trumped up Edsel made bulldozer monstrosity up and down I-40 dripping hydraulic fluid the whole way.  Always looking for a crowd, he’d offer rides for a buck and the kids would come running.  And, he’d stay; he’d stay until the last kid rode, even if they didn’t have the money.

Childhood memories shattered like glass when I found Dad’s journal and polaroids hidden in the trunk and learned how that bucket-car and those poor kids were really used.

I left that journal, wet with tears, at the Oklahoma Sheriff’s office.


If you’re still reading, thanks.  Every word and comment that you make, have made, are considering making is valuable to me and I appreciate them all.  Especially the corrections!

The challenge, write a 100 word story based on a weekly picture.

Friday Fictioneers can be found on Facebook if you want to join.

Read more: and be sure to start with our fearless leader:

The Negotiator

This is my fourth attempt at Friday Fictioneers and I want to thank everyone for their encouragement and gentle corrections to my precocious grammar and punctuation.


Phot Credit:  Melanie Greenwood

The Negotiator

He met the Commander in a bare room with a small table, plastic chairs and a video up-link.

“Today you negotiate the end of the war.” began the Commander,  “A Drexyn authority is prepared to meet with you now.”

Reluctantly the Commander handed him two pills, “Son, you’ll want these.  Drexyn treaties must be sanctioned by a life sacrifice from each side to be binding. The pills are fast and gentle.”

“You want me… but, I…”

“Millions of  lives have been lost. You are my only negotiator without a family.”

The Commander left after admitting the Drexyn and locked the door behind him. The negotiations had begun.


With complete candor, I confess today’s story was inspired by something I read years ago whose author I can no longer ascertain.

Special thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-feilds who has organized this merry band for the last two years.

There’s Always Tomorrow


He’d noticed her, but being of a certain age, he’d merely tipped his hat and finished lunch.  It seemed whenever he might talk, she had to hurry back to work.  Today, she was finishing her meal when he sat down on the park bench next to hers. Unexpectedly, she offered him her last cookie.

“Oatmeal?  My favorite.”  She smiled as he accepted and took a bite.

“Tommorrow?” she asked.

“Tommorrow. ” He affirmed.

Walking away, Emilia Thrumsford threw away the grey wig and bag of tell-tale crumbs, thrilled that he hadn’t recognized her. Tomorrow, he would be dead and Thrumsford industries would be hers!


Photo Credit:  The Reclining Gentleman

Written for Friday Fictioneers.  The weekly challenge to write a story in 100 words inspired by the photo prompt. Find Friday Fictioneers on Facebook to join the challenge or follow the talented Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields at:

Moment of Truth

Special thanks to Friday’s Fictioneers for the weekly photo prompt and inspiration. The challenge? Write a story in 100 words or less inspired by the picture.

Find Friday Fictioneers on Facebook or visit

FF oceanWaves crashed about her ankles.

She was late.

Waves tugged at her thighs.

He didn’t want her.

Waves pulled her into the sea.

But, in a moment of perfect darkness, she found a tiny spark of light and life.

Fighting for breath, she broke free of the current; the crushing waves and freezing black with only that flicker of light to lead her.  She thrust herself from the water, saltwater tears baptizing her face as she staggered back to the car, protectively cradling her stomach and the unborn life within.

The Music Room

In a room made for sound, the dust said it all.   Dust caressed the keyboard he couldn’t touch, the cymbals that no longer chimed and the eclectic mix of 80’s vinyl still waiting to be recorded to CD.

His mother moaned her apologies to the night for all the times she had begged him to “be quiet”, “play another time”, “wait” until she was gone.

Except he was the one who was gone.  With one last glance at the urn bearing his name, he faded into the darkened corner and left her to the silence.


(Written for Friday Fictioneers challenge of 10/14/2014.  Write a story based on the posted picture in 100 words.)