A Field of White

Welcome to Friday Fictioneers!  Rochelle Wisoff-Fields leads our international band of fictioneers by providing a photo prompt to inspire us each week. Writers from around the world post 100-word stories, based on the prompt. You can see them all here, and you can post your own story, too!

Many thanks to Sandra Crook for this week’s photo.

Photo Copyright: Sandra Crook

Photo Copyright: Sandra Crook

A Field of White

by Jan Brown

Michael woke to the sound of men’s voices out back. He looked out the window, only to watch in horror as his daughter’s frail form swung from the old cottonwood tree. He rushed to her, but she was already gone. He hefted her naked, bloody body from the noose and sent his son to fetch the undertaker.

After the funeral, Michael cut down the tree as it shed its soft white buds in the spring breeze. The field was as white as the Klansmen’s robes. But the blanket of cottonwood could not cover the precious blood that was spilled there.


Fifty Years Later

Welcome to Friday Fictioneers!

On Wednesday, the nation celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom that took place on August 28, 1963. As we take steps toward the future that Dr. King envisioned, we struggle with our troubled history in the hope that we will not reverse the progress that has been made.

I was overjoyed on Wednesday to see that our Friday Fictioneers facilitator (say that three times really fast!) gave us a photo prompt of Union Station. Our colleague, Dawn M. Miller, took a photo that shows the timeless beauty of the architecture as well as its modernized setting. Thank you, Dawn, for this thought provoking photo!

I imagined the foot traffic that this station experienced on August 28th, 1963–and August 28th, 2013. I imagined a very specific pair of feet amongst the crowd.

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Union Station, Washington, D.C. – Photo Copyright: Dawn M. Miller

Fifty Years Later

by Jan Brown

I’ve walked so far in these shoes.

I bought them for the March on Washington in 1963. I stood in front of the Lincoln Memorial in them, listening to Dr. King’s vision of the future.

I wore them all through the next year of college. Wore them down south that summer, walking and driving dusty, unpaved roads to small churches. Wore them when I wept over the burnt-out shell of the Mt. Zion church.

Five days later, I died in these same shoes.

I will wear them until all those responsible have been called to account. By man or God.


James Chaney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwermer – Civil rights activists murdered by the KKK in June, 1964


The Ghost of St. George

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers, when writers from around the world post 100-word stories based on a photo prompt provided on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.  This week’s photo is by Kent Bonham.

You can read other Friday Fictioneers’ work by clicking the link that appears below my story.

Photo by Kent Bonham

The Ghost of St. George

by Jan Brown

I love the architecture of Spain: organic shapes like the curves of females, flowers and the earth itself.

In Barcelona, I met Señor Battlo. He showed me his old house, remodeled by the famed modernist, Gaudi, later turned into a public space. He reminisced about the undulating façade, the leafy columns, the roof, arched like a dragon’s back, the tiles its scales. To his wife’s dismay, he had played there with his young son, like St. George slaying the dragon.

After our tour, Señor Battlo disappeared.  Eventually, I found him on the staircase, in a 1906 portrait of the homeowner.