His family once visited an old castle. He was unimpressed at the time, never suspecting he might one day long for the softness of moss under his feet.

There are certain things one expects of prison: lumpy cots, unpredictable tempers. Others have to be experienced firsthand: the stench of body odor mixed with bleach, the boredom, and the sore feet. Virtually every step taken since the verdict had been on concrete, and damn, those feet hurt like hell. He massaged them at night while dreaming of the castle, and could almost feel the blades of grass scratching his bare ankles.


Photo prompt @ Roger Bultot

Written for the Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by the wonderful Rochelle. Disclaimer: I have never been to prison, so forgive me if the descriptors are inaccurate.


There’s this book that says get rid of things that don’t make you happy, which was damn near everything in my house. Except for these hiking boots that are nearly as old as me. Gran and I used to camp all the time when we were young, but then just sort of stopped. Life got too busy, I guess. Makes more sense to hike now, anyway; the way I see it, when Death comes, I’ll be ready to go the hell to sleep.

My daughter looked up from the letter and snorted. “He isn’t missing, Mama. He’s taking a hike.”

jan wayne fields
@jan wayne fields

 Friday Fictioneers! (Although it is Wednesday. Forgive me!) Thank you, Rochelle, for the prompt, and the fun opportunity to tell a story in 100 words!

[NOTE: Ending was slightly altered to incorporate helpful feedback from a reader.]