Friday Fictioneers: Digging For Water

I was reading some of the entries for Friday Fictioneers this week as I am often wont to do and then on my way in to work this story came to mind.

photo by Connie Gayer

Unblocking the Wells

by JE Lillie

“Oh Lord my back hurts.”

“You must master your body to make it your slave.”

“But why do I have to do this alone?”

“The harvest is great but the laborers are few.”

“I wish I had never even heard that missionary speak. Whatever possessed me to leave the comfort of my home to come to this God-forsaken place to dig a well?”

“I am here. I sent you, and I tell you anyone who offers one of these little ones a cup of cold water in my name will in no-wise lose their reward.”


Three Line Tales: Down Is Down

Sonya at ONLY 100 WORDS has challenged us to write a three line tale from this photo prompt.

My story is below. To find other stories you can follow the underlined link.


by JE Lillie

Some say, “It doesn’t matter where you’re going as long as you have the right attitude.”

Other say, “As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else where you end up doesn’t matter.”

I say, “Down is down and no amount of pretending will ever make it up.”

Friday Fictioneers: Behind These Gates

It is time once again for FRIDAY FICTIONEERS ,  the challenge where 100 authors gather to share 100 word stories all from 1 photo prompt. To see all the stories click the underlined link and follow the blue frog. Here is our prompt and my 100 word story.

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Photo Prompt by J Hardy Carrol

Behind These Gates

by JE Lillie

I stand on the porch just beyond their reach.

They can sense me. I can sense them.

Another step closer and they could mindswipe me.

Father has trembled the gates. They know one touch would shake them to pieces.

Daddy’s power is highly coveted. So is mine.

Since the Mutant Wars everyone can read minds. Many can mindswipe. A few like Dad have the power to tremble,turning inanimate objects into sonic killing weapons. One in a hundred million can necrotame.

I go back inside. Behind these gates I am safe from becoming their greatest weapon.

Friday Fictioneers: Giant’s Watch

I haven’t been able to come out and play with authors of Friday Fictioneers for the last few months. Today though I find myself with a wee bit of spare time so I thought I would share 100 words or so on Rochelle’s weekly photo prompt post.


Here is the photo and my story follows.

PHOTO PROMPT © Jennifer Pendergast

photo by Jennifer Pendergast

Giant’s Watch

by Je Lillie

I am six.

Daddy says I am the man of the house now.

“He is off to war.” Mommy says.

Grammy says, Mommy shouldn’t say things like that.

“Little ears don’t need to hear too much truth.” Grammy says.

I watch as Daddy’s car drives away. They always send a big black car for him.

I stand in the place behind what Mommy calls the Giant’s Watch.

No one can see me there and that is good. Daddy says men don’t cry but I think sometimes they do.

I cry because Grammy is right. Truth is bigger than giants.

Friday Fictioneers: 1-13-17

I have been able to write for Fictioneers three weeks in a row. To many of you that might seem like a small thing but to me it means I am making major progress in my goals towards changing around how I schedule my life. I like it!

Well anyway it is time once again to join about 100 authors to create a 100 word story from 1 photo prompt. To see all 100-ish stories go to ROCHELLE’S PAGE HERE.

Here is our Photo Prompt and my story





By JE Lillie

Standing here above these tracks, I see it all so clearly now.

The day I joined up Mom called me by my pet name.

“Chin up Spot.” She said.

“The time has come and the wide world calls. Little boys grow up and leave their Mamas. That’s that. Besides it’s not forever and home will always be here.”

That was four years ago.

She must have known she had cancer when I left. She always had a reason I couldn’t come home.

Now I am a man with lots of roads to choose from and none of them leads home.

Mama lied.



Friday Fictioneers 1-6-17

It is time once again to add a story to the FRIDAY FICTIONEERS 100 WORD STORY CHALLENGE.

To join in the fun or to read the other authors who wrote stories just click the underlined link.

Here is our photographic prompt and my story follows:

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook


by JE Lillie

Jason loved the windmills.

“Imagine the ingenuity!” He would exclaim to me.

“Hundreds of years ago, the Dutch drove back the seas and used the wind to do it! And they wasted nothing! The same pumps that would push back the water made their paint and their chocolate!” He marveled.

Every week he would go and watch the last of those old engines operate. He particularly loved the one that made the paint.

They were making yellow the day he fell in and was crushed by the gears. To this day My kitchen is painted butternut in his memory.

Friday Fictioneers 12-30-16: Serenade

It has been a while since I had an opportunity to just sit down and write extra posts. This week my goal is to participate in all the challenges I once took part in weekly. I am having just so much fun!

It is time to take up Rochelle’s weekly photo fiction prompt. If you would like to join in just click on the photo below and you will be whisked over to Rochelle’s place and there you can discover the rules of play.

PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma

PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma


By JE Lillie

She had little to show for the last two years, just what was in her duffel. He owned the rest. When he told her about the new woman it had taken her only fifteen minutes to clear out.

Standing on the lift platform she realized it had all been a dream. Reality couldn’t be rolled up in under a half hour. She promised herself it would never happen again.

The street player arrived then and opened up his guitar case. As he began to play she smiled. He smiled back, and the dream began again.

Ready Pt. 1

A few weeks ago God gave me a devotion for one of our prayer meetings which He later had me develop into the sermon I presented this Sunday morning to our people at Cornerstone.

Here is part 1 which begins with the opening Scripture reference and a piece of flash fiction.


But in your hearts revere Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect,  I Peter 3:15

Tom sat on the white marble bench rocking himself gently back and forth. He clutched his hands tight under his armpits and mumbled incoherently to himself. He thought he should stand and offer his seat to the elderly lady behind him, but he was concerned if he did he might start pacing again and bring down the ire of the guards arrayed in shining white stationed all over the halls. None of them bore weapons but they were so big Tom thought weapons would hardly be required to bring down the sad gathering of prisoners standing in line for the judge.


So, Tom sat and rocked wondering how he had gotten here. He looked at the old lady  and wondered what she had done to earn her place in line, then he gazed at the teenager standing behind her. He thought once again about giving up his seat, but cast the thought quickly away. He had stood long enough in the line to get to the judge. It had taken hours to get to the door of the courtroom and this one seat of cold white marble, that matched the stark surroundings of the judgment hall. Besides she didn’t speak English. Tom knew this because he had tried to engage her in conversation in the first hours of standing in the long line of people called into the forced march toward the judgment hall.

Tom was still dismayed at the turns his life had taken. In December of 2016 life had been normal. Well, as normal as those days could have been. He remembered the election. He remembered voting. He remembered the riots afterwards. He remembered the earthquake. He remembered the moments of pain as he lay pinned under the rubble of his Boston brownstone. Then he remembered waking up and being strangely pain free. He remembered being brought up out from the rubble by a burly men dressed in white. His rescuer had plucked Tom from where he lay as if Tom were but a feather.

The first question Tom asked as he was carried from his tomb was, “how long was I trapped?”

“A thousand and seven years.” Was the sad reply.

Tom chuckled, “Thanks bud…. No really.”

The man would say no more. Tom had learned more, though. As he was placed in the line of what seemed to be millions of souls and forced to march slowly, inexorably up a hill that receded high into the clouds, Tom understood he was  nowhere in Massachusetts. The air felt like the sweetest spring. The trees leading up the hill were in blossom and the song of birds filled the air  along with something else, something deeper, richer. A sound like he had never heard came from every rock and tree and even from the guards. It was as if their lives themselves sang and rejoiced in this place. Light streamed from everything while all around the line of marchers the air swelled with exuberance and joy. Yet all the marchers were cast down. None lifted their heads and not one sound came from their lives or their mouths. Tom and his million-billion companions were like a blight of darkness on the surface of this world of light.

At length Tom asked the question to no one in particular, “Why are we all so sad?”

The man in front of him answered, “Because we are sinners and we have come to the time of our judgment.”

Tom almost laughed out loud at that. He was no sinner. He didn’t even believe in sin. He didn’t really believe in God. Well, he believed in the Universe, that power existed in higher forms, but God like: Jesus or Allah or Odin or ultimate power …well gods like that… no, he didn’t believe in them. He also didn’t believe men were really evil but that everyone was basically good. At least he was basically good. After all he was a productive member of society. He did what he thought was right. He tried. He voted. He gave some money to good causes. He didn’t discriminate. He was nice to everyone, mostly. What was there to judge?

Those thoughts  had been hours or days before the white marble bench. During his time in line Tom had thought long and hard about his life. He realized it really was the year 3023. He realized the world he had fallen asleep in was not the world he had awoken in. He realized there was a God, and that His real sin had been in never acknowledging that fact. He realized that he had missed something in his life. He had missed God. Somewhere along the line he had failed to seek God out. More than that, he couldn’t remember ever hearing about God or that what he was living through now was a part of God’s plan. He realized, though, that all this was true. All of this was real; And as he realized these things Tom slipped deeper and deeper into a depression from which he knew he would never recover, because as he sat on the white marble bench awaiting his turn before the judge he realized it was too late to change anything.


The Door Of Hope: Friday Fictioneers 7-8-16

I haven’t been able to participate here at Friday Fictioneers for a while but I am glad to be back! This is the space hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This is the space where 100 authors (or so) share 100 words (or so)  and 100 stories (or so) all concerning one photo.

Here is this week’s photo:

Here is my story:

The Door Of Hope (100 words)

By Joseph E. Lillie


The chain burned her ankle. Niri knew it would leave a scar. 

She ran sending her senses forth. She could feel the door, had felt it since she entered the city with her masters.

Her keen ears could hear the men behind her.

She caught sight of the blue door to the Summer Lands. She was at the threshold. One push and the door gave. She fell in.

Her foot lay outside the door, stuck. The iron could not pass.

“Owen of Noy, help me!” Niri cried.

A crystal blade materialized at her side.

Niri grasped the hilt and sliced.


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Friday Fictioneers: Flicker

It is time once again for Friday Fictioneers. This is the challenge where about 100 authors share 100 stories in 100 words all concerning 1 picture chosen by our hostess Rochelle.

Please click the underlined link above to find all the stories written  from this picture.

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

I am writing this story off of my first reaction to the picture. At first I saw the swatches of fabric to the right of the lights as fresh dipped candles hanging and drying.


by JE Lillie

We walked hand in hand down to the boat house. I could see the candles flickering in the windows.

I reminisced about my father lighting candles in a blackout, telling ghost stories until midnight.

Grampa’s lantern with it’s little candle shone into the dark joy of many a family camping trip.

My father had proposed to my mother by candle light.

As I opened the door to the boathouse I thought how perfect it all was.

Then she said, “It’s so dark in here. Can’t we turn on the lights?”

I let go of the little black box in my pocket, “Sure.”

The lights clicked on.