Oh man, threw it too far.

No Labrador—with or without a flying disc in its jaws—lumbered out of the tall weeds, so Felix sighed and dove in.

“Albie! Where are you?”

Difficult to wade through, the weeds pressed against Felix as if wanting him to leave. Finally, the jingle of Albie’s tags, and then Albie sniffing crazy at something in the ground. Felix leaned down to look closer at the black metal peeking out the thick greenery.

A red light popped on and whirring began.

Friday Fictioneers prompt given by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. For other stories inspired by this photo, click here.
Photo copyright Sarah Ann Hall
Story copyright Dave Williams

“It’s still nice, though,” Kate says. “So much to see. Like a Grandma Moses painting. Every time you look at it, you see something new.”

She would have to go familial. Grandma means children, grandchildren. Bill imagines them running around the booths of chattering eaters. Outside, on the painting’s street, is a flurry of activity: townsfolk, dogs, horses doing a thousand various things. Somehow, it’s now a small town out there, and everyone knows everyone, each day a predictable routine.

He frowns. “It’s just so cluttered.”

Friday Fictioneers prompt given by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. For other stories inspired by this photo, click here.
Photo copyright Ted Strutz
Story copyright Dave Williams

Passersby were startled as the skinny, wavering, old-looking man suddenly halted and dropped to his knees, his torn pants on the sidewalk across from the wavy building. His face—ravaged by sun and wind—slacked in awe, as if seeing a whale leap, and his gray beard parted to allow words out: “Thirty-four years on the seas. Island to island. Port to port. Forever in between. Now this. The curves like waves. The sun dances on the windows like on the quivering, never-ending water.”

A pause as the crowd stared.

“This,” the kneeling man said, “this is now home.”

Friday Fictioneers prompt given by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. For other stories inspired by this photo, click here.
Photo copyright Kent Bonham
Story copyright Dave Williams

A bird with a long twig in its beak
flies over the highway,
off to add to its family’s nest.

Then, off the highway,
driving in miles
of stores and restaurants,
I see a Canada goose couple
on a date as they
peck at grass in a narrow
strip next to the road.

Also a big burgundy Cadillac
sits in the parking lot at Hooters.
Are they even open
at nine thirty
in the morning?

The sting jolts in a tiny lightning bolt searing through you, throwing open your eyelid shutters, internal organs shuddering with the desirefire of the idea that zips from the brain’s pollencloud in various directions of possibilities, each in turn zipping to curious other possibilities, and details around you become sharper, more vibrant, more connected, and you rush to paper to write, draw, paint it down, as fast as the fingers can capture it, agonizingly slow compared with the soaring possibilities and connections—but still the creation grows and takes shape, unfolding atfirst uncertain and doubtful wings, then launching into wondrous flight.

Friday Fictioneers prompt given by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. For other stories inspired by this photo, click here.
Photo copyright Janet Webb
Story copyright Dave Williams

And when you arrive after the peak, you can see what happens after the blossoms fall off the trees:

“One of my early pieces,” Linda said, her voice years of cigarettes.

“Beautiful,” Ken said. “You sure found your calling.”

“Yep. Made me finally settle down. Feels good to work with all that scrap. Something new from the old.”

“But you still get out on the road now and then, right?” Sharon asked.

A glint in Linda’s eye like a welding torch firing up. Bright against her deep Saint Augustine, Florida, tan. “Can’t help it.”

“You sure can’t, babe,” James laughed. “Here’s to still ridin’ toward the sun.”

The group of friends raised their beers with rumbles of agreement.

Friday Fictioneers prompt given by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. For other stories inspired by this photo, click here.
Photo copyright Sandra Crook
Story copyright Dave Williams