The DaDa Vinci Code

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

It was the first meeting of the Dadaist Society of New York’s Upper Downside. Mistrel McGarte chewed her lower lip mechanically. Rrrose IV had yet to show with the coveted clue to the Mona Lisa’s jilted lover’s true descendant: none other than Danette Brown, capitalist author of the DaDa Vinci Code. Mistrel sighed. There was a time for absurdity but not now. The capitalist clock was ticking alongside the urinal in the art gallery. A postman handed her an envelope. Mistrel tore it open. Fine particles of detritus, paint, bone floated free. A note inside read, “DNA here final clue.”

The Mitchell and May (Pre-)Show

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“You’re looking at the wrong camera.”

“No, you are, May. I’m looking at camera B.”

“Camera A’s on first. Get a grip, Mitchell!”

“Camera B, May. Why are you wearing brown? I told you I was wearing brown today.”

“This? It’s more maroon than brown! Do I have to get you a color wheel? And go easy on the makeup. Good grief! Is that blush, Mitchell?”

So? What’s wrong with a little color?”

“Just feels like you’re auditioning for the Moulin Rouge, that’s all.”

The producer sighed. “More like the Punch and Judy show,” he mumbled in the control booth.

100 words; Fiction
For Rochelle Wisooff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers
Click on the frog and join in!

When Dreams Come True

Genre: Fiction/ Word Count: 100

When Dreams Come True

     Holding tightly to her mother’s hand, the little girl looked upon the figure in the casket.
     “Did Appappan* really die preaching?” she whispered.
     Her mother nodded. “He always said he would.”
     Behind them hundreds had gathered to pay their respects.
     Later, the girl sat in her granddad’s study, thumbing through his notes, tracing the leather cracks on his Bible.
     A favorite hymn bubbled up from within her. She started to sing, feeling as if a choir of angels were joining her.
     That night she announced, “I want to die singing, Mummy, like Appappan died preaching!”
     Many years later, she did.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

*”Appappan” is southern Indian for grandfather

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers
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Power Ritual

The senex stared at the garlic, the little cast-iron pot. Should she summon the Old One? What would it demand this time? But half her staff had been taken, the other half, turned. The chorus-women deserted. Once again the child zealots had led them astray.

She removed the pot, chanting:

The Outsider’s here, siddle-siddle, hiss
Lay the garlic in the pan, make yourself a wish
Round about it go, dance in despair
I’m the one who betrays with a siddle-siddle, kiss.

If only there were some other way to be re-elected.

But at what cost? At what cost??

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
word count: 100  
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers  
click on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields's hand-drawing of the frog  
for more tales of a hundred words or less. And join the fun!

Inspiration

 

https://rochellewisoff.com/2020/08/19/21-august-2020/
18 September 2020, Rochelle Wissoff-Fields, Friday Fictioneers

img_20200801_121107

 



Inspiration

“You can’t be serious, Maude!”
“And just why can’t I, Fred? Twenty baby showers I’ve been to this August and I’m fed up!”
“But it’s your own niece’s, Maude!”
“Fred, we’ve spent a fortune on her already! Graduation from art school, and did you see the garbage that passed for modern art?! Then her birthday, bridal shower, now . . . .”
“Okay, okay! But a baby chair somebody threw out with the garbage, that’s going too far!”
(pause) “Is it garbage though? Or an art exhibit? Fred! Take a picture! Let’s take it all! Just the way it is!”

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
word count: 100 
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers 
click on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields's hand-drawing of the frog for more 
tales of a hundred words or less. 
And join the fun!hand-drawing-animal-frog-wearing-face-medical-mask-covid-protection-methods-coronavirus-quarantine-warning-vector-178410566

Captain’s Log, Stardate 2020.8

Captain’s Log, Stardate 2020.8, USS Enterprise (NCC-1701)

On the surface of Planet IX, Trapexoid Syztem 939, our landing party was surprised by Trapexoidians into a Death Match with the Grand Champion Trapeze Trio in the Mirror Arena.

Bones and I conferred on how to get Spock into a spangled costume: an artful injection of FloraSpora21 from Omicron Ceti III did the trick. As for Bones, he didn’t suspect opiate in his Sweet Tea Mint Julep. Naturally athletic, I remained in full possession of my faculties.

Triumph! Eyes glowing, the Trapexoidians graciously endowed us with diplomatic immunity.

The appended photograph demonstrates their unique visual capabilities.

We. Were. HOT.

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers 28 August 2020
word count: 100 
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
click on the frog for more tales of a hundred words or less.Screen Shot 2020-08-19 at 4.11.29 PM

Never Goodbye

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Here’s the thing: I never wanted to leave.

It’s never goodbye, I said.

The priest kept packing. The cross. The pyx with arabesques containing his sacraments. An unrepentant heart.

He had betrayed his calling. He knew. His superiors knew. They were transferring him to another parish.

Didn’t they know? He was mine.

It’s never goodbye, I said again.

The blinding light the neighbors saw out of that corner window: someone took a picture.

When he left screaming, clinging to the bedposts, his flaming hands left scars on the wood.

I had warned him, hadn’t I? It’s never goodbye.


word count: 100 
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
click on the frog for more tales of a hundred words or less.Screen Shot 2020-08-19 at 4.11.29 PM