Discount Day At The Towers




Thank you very much to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for picking my photograph this week and thanks also to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers so patiently, diligently and efficiently every week, along with allowing us the welcome opportunity to read her own fabulous stories. Hats off, Rochelle, you are the Princess in the Tower of Storytelling. My story for this week follows here:

Discount Day At The Towers

100 words for Friday Fictioneers – Photo copyright Jilly Funnell

Embarrassed about “Senior” on her ticket, she hadn’t made eye contact with him.

The attendant gently pressed his entry stamp on her hand. She looked at the inky dark print that gave her access to Mid and Top Towers. As if he could read minds, the attendant said “I’m in your club too. See you in the disco at eight”.

She laughed. “My mum won’t let me go to discos,” she said, still looking at her hand.

Later he served her in the ground-floor gift shop.

“How about the pizza place then?” he asked.

This time she made eye contact.


Carrying the Crown

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Carrying the Crown

I am here alone and I would not be. I see rough walls of stone, grey-drab with unfamiliar light. I am a prisoner of duty, a bride-in-waiting for her marriage to a stranger. What if I forget the taste of boudin noir aux pommes, the scent of juniper, a fresh fig’s sweetness? I reach up and trace the narrow window with my finger. I ache for my mother, my dolls, the purring warmth of Felix on my bed.

I see the English servant on the terrace, a velvet cushion held aloft and upon that blood-red plush, ready for the ceremony, my crown.

Explanation of an Installation

Jonathan's Installation

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Sandra Crook

When my brother’s not talking in riddles or pulling labels off bean cans, he devises what he calls installations.
Today’s motley is, according to him, Tate Modern with a splash of wry humour.
“But what is it?” I ask.
He minutely adjusts the position of a dirty spiky bone.
“It’s a nature table,” he replies. “Says so on the label. Can’t you read?”
“But it isn’t, is it? I want to know what it really is.”
“I’m telling you. It’s a nature table. Look at it. Rough. Coarse. Spiteful.”
I kick his shin. “So?” I say.
“It’s your nature, bitch.”

Death Has No Imagination

Death Has No Imagination

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Priorhouse

When Death comes I may not be there
I like to think I am not the best patron
at the dark restaurant of cholesterol

Death has no imagination, so he will sigh,
and search for me in the wrong places
He’ll hang around a mountain. Perch atop a tall building

He’ll kayak, cave-dive, and hairpin at Le Mans
He’ll merge with bawling boneheads on a bull run
He’ll manifest, scythe inside his cloak, on a really unwise off-piste slope

But I’ll surprise him

I’ll grab his bony hand and whisper,
you found me on the dance floor, Reaperman
Last waltz?

Waiting For This Moment


100 words for Friday Fictioneers

Photo copyright Dale Rogerson

Liverpool 1962. Great group playing in Cavern Club but Susan says cellar cramped so we leave.

Liverpool 2000. Help a woman called Juliana find her car.

Leeds 2013. Feel ill at work.

Leeds 2014. Specialist gives me all clear. Susan tells me she needs space. Nothing happens.

Liverpool 2015. Susan doesn’t like Beatles statues. Someone’s suspended coloured umbrellas nearby. She doesn’t like those either. I go on to Facebook.

Leeds 2016. I dream I find Juliana at the statues. John Lennon winks and says “C’mon.” We all stride away from the Pier Head and I kiss Juliana, under the umbrellas.

The Sweet Success of the Single-Minded

Wedding Tower

The Sweet Success of the Single-Minded

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt copyright J Hardy Carroll

Candy was never going to put so much as a toe in matrimonial waters for herself. She even wrote a book “The Joy of Celibacy.” It didn’t sell well.

So she placed a miniature wedding tower on her office shelf, opened the business and hit her direct route to ease and opulence. Observing that kisses by candlelight often got composted soon after vows were exchanged, she remembered what dear mama said.      “Honey, there’s more than one way to skin a sucker.”

The office phone rang. One of Candy’s army of call handlers picked up.

“Lasting Love Marriage Bureau, good morning!”

Diagnosed By Dr Psycho

Dr Psycho

Diagnosed By Dr Psycho

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Gah Learner

I spend too much time alone in my plain little rented room, planning and plotting. Tonight, however, I go out, to my last appointment in Dr Psycho’s fine leather and silk office.

I lie on the couch. He balances on his deep-buttoned wing chair with his legs crossed, pen poised, notepad ready.

I itch to grab that notepad and pen.

“I have diagnosed your condition,” he says. “You are an addict. Textbook case.”

“But it’s under control. I only do one line a day.”

Dr Psycho sighs. “You are in denial. Beyond help, my dear. Addiction to writing is incurable.”