Posts Tagged ‘Friday Fictioneers’

What you see in a photo is not always what others see.  In fact, if you’re a Friday Fictioneers author, odds are high that there will be no story like your story, that what you see is not what others see.  We like that, strive for that.  Some stories flow directly from the photo, others take devious routes through the author’s thoughts and experiences before being born.  That’s the fun of it:  100 words creating a bit of flash fiction all your own.

If you’d like to read, write, or both, a click on the blue creature at the end of the post will take you into Wonderland, a place where often you pray that the stories are truly fiction.  But you never know!

copyright Sandra Crook

copyright Sandra Crook

Buried Alive

Cold. Damp. Smells of earth. I can barely move.
Stretch tentatively from my curled position.
Soil coffin, oppressive darkness.

I’m impelled to try to move.
I push upward…

but which way is up?
What if I’m wrong?

Harsh, cold, packed ground.

Push.
Push.
Don’t stop.
Don’t think.
Attack!

Finally a bit more warmth.
Some give.

I strain, thrust in the tiny space. More give. Friable earth.
One final effort. One last blow.

I’m out! Grey sky overhead.
I rest, exhausted.

I have arrived in spring. Not yet time to bloom, but I can wait. I have more growth to accomplish.

If you love to write, but are at a loss for words, Friday Fictioneers is for you.  You only have to find 100 of those words, craft them into a story roughly based on a picture prompt (or maybe barely related), go to Rochelle’s site (she hosts the whole shebang), link your story, then read as many of the other stories as you can or like, preferably commenting on the ones you read.  If that sounds like fun, please feel free to join us every Wednesday for the new prompt (although you may post a story up until the following Tuesday night.)  If the prompt comes out on Wednesday, why is it called “Friday Fictioneers?”  Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story and I only have time to tell one this morning.

This week’s prompt is from Erin Leary.  If you’d enjoy reading other stories, please click on the blue linky critter at the end of my story.  But be sure to check back, as writers will be posting for many days.

Erin Leary

Copyright Erin Leary

The Assignation

It was just before dawn when I slipped from the house, checking to be sure no one saw me. She was waiting at our usual spot, half hidden behind a tree. No demonstrative greetings; only time to briefly cup one ample curve. We had to move quickly and quietly.

About fifteen minutes later, we reached a place we’d often used before. Underneath “our” tree, the leaves were soft, with other trees and vegetation nearby for cover. She ran ahead, eager to find just the right spot. I followed, anticipating how many pungent black truffles her snout would unearth this year.

 

Friday Fictioneers: One photo. One hundred words. One story. Any one author.

copyright Dawn Landau

copyright Dawn Landau

Rescue

Shiiit, I don wanna go to no juvie, so I figure this volunteer thing be what I have to do. Dog rescue be good. Maybe I find me one a them Rottie dawgs or them pit bulls. Then nobody be messin’ wit me!

Trouble is, dat dawg I find be hurtin’ from bein’ made ta fight. She all skinny and stuff and lick ma face ‘n all. All she be wantin’ is some luv. Shiiit! Make me wanna cry ‘n I cain’t be doin’ that! They help me keep her. Now she follow me everywhere. I guess we a lot alike.

****************************

This story is dedicated to Janie and Annabelle, the two rescue pit bulls we fostered and would have adopted had we been able to do so at the time.  You can find more posts and photos of them by clicking on “Animals” in the Categories part of my blog.  And a big shoutout to For the Love of Pits, the amazing organization near Cleveland, Ohio that does such stellar work!  They and their dogs are changing the hearts and minds of people and dogs every day!   You guys rock!!

Want to read more stories? Click below.

Hurrah!  It’s good to be back with Friday Fictioneers. I’ve missed you and your fine stories.  I’m enjoying my new part-time job at the tea shop, although I still have a lot to learn.  If any of you ever make it to the Chicago area, we can have a Fictioneers meeting there (on a day when I’m not working.)  But enough with the compliments.  On to the story…and then work.

(For anyone new to Friday Fictioneers, a photo provides the prompt for the week and each person responds by writing a 100 word story.  To access all the stories written, please click on the blue link creature at the end of my story.  Enjoy.)

 Wetting the Bed

They wouldn’t carry the bed upstairs. “Sorry. We’re only paid to deliver inside the door, ma’am” and off they’d gone, leaving everything in the lobby. I bribed some neighbors with cookies and coffee to help me to carry it to the fourth floor apartment: mattress, box springs, heavy, wooden, custom-made frame. I assembled it all myself and made it with my new sheets.

I sat, watching the rain-blurred colors of the changing street and car lights, wetting my new bed with tears shed for the the man I’d hoped to curl up with all the rainy days of my life.

The weekly gathering of the Fictioneers has commenced. Bring out the halt, the lame, the blind, the murderers and aliens, vampires and vamps. Look carefully and you might see a human or two. Take them all, stir thoroughly, add a dollop of disbelief, a soupçon of silliness. Dip a spoon into the resulting slumgullion: each 100-word recipe meticulously prepared, marvelously rendered, tasty to the tongue. Your personal recipe is solicited or feel free to simply feast and go away replete; perhaps not always uplifted, but with your brain stimulated.

table

copyright Jan Wayne Fields

(To avoid any more confusion, please ignore the fact that the person in the photo is male and just read the story.  Thanks.)

Holidays

Holidays were the hardest.

“Daddy, can we go along?”
“OK, you come with me. We’ll let Mom stay home and relax for a bit.”

One drunk driver was all it took…a driver who walked away.

The doorbell rang. Marty, spiraling slowly into dementia, and his daughter (his caretaker), would fill John’s and Emily’s places. On their heels came Annalisa, her ninety-five year old body still obeying her indomitable will, sitting where Gregory’s high chair used to be. Deshuan and his IED-bequeathed artificial legs sat in Jenny’s chair. George’s Down Syndrome face beamed from “Daddy’s” spot.

I sat.

Holidays.
Holy days.

It’s the start of a new year, a year filled with opportunities, including the opportunity to write flash fiction once a week.  If interested, join the authors at Friday Fictioneers.  The photo prompt is posted in the wee hours (if you’re in the U.S.) of each Wednesday morning and you may post your story until the end of the following Tuesday.  Of course, you’re free to simply read, if you prefer not to write.

This week’s photo prompt is from Jean Hays and copyrighted to her.  My story follows. Other stories are linked by clicking on the little link critter at the end of the story.  Like the snowflakes driven by the winds that have pushed our windchills into the too-much-below-zero range this week, my story is light, something to hopefully bring a smile to your face to start the new year.

Begin the Route

Get Your Kicks (a romance in 100 words)

The heady aroma of dark roast tickled her nose, her thoughts floating up with the scent. She was tired of being alone, of only finding losers. She stared out the window…

and there he was, standing on the sidewalk, looking lost. Drop-dead gorgeous, not too tall, built, but with gentle eyes, just what she’d been looking for all her life.

Go for it, girl! Abandoning her brew, she rushed out, approaching slowly, not wanting to be pushy, but not wanting to lose him, either.

“Hey there, good-looking. Are you lost? May I help?”

Tail wagging, his nose nudged her hand.

I really had to struggle to get down to 100 words this week.  I hope the story didn’t suffer as a result.  But it was a story I wanted to tell and I did the best I could.  If you’d like to read more stories, click on the blue frog to access the current links to other stories.

Tirescopyright Claire Fuller

The Necklace

Police interview
18 September, 1985
_______, South Africa
Peter S.

I was taking pictures for __________ magazine when I heard shouting and screaming. Everyone ran to where a gang of men had shoved a tyre around a woman. People yelled that she was a police informant. A man, her husband, I suppose, was trying to save her, shouting it wasn’t true. Two men dragged him away. Then someone dumped gasoline over her and somebody else tossed a lighted match.

No, I didn’t get any photos. I was bloody well afraid for my own life. Don’t think I could identify anyone.

 ***********

Necklacing” was a practice that came into prominence in South Africa during the mid-1980’s.  As Wikipedia reports:

Author Lynda Schuster writes,

‘Necklacing’ represented the worst of the excesses committed in the name of the uprising. This was a particularly gruesome form of mob justice, reserved for those thought to be government collaborators, informers and black policemen. The executioners would force a car tire over the head and around the arms of the suspect, drench it in petrol, and set it alight. Immobilized, the victim burned to death.

One hundred words aren’t many to tell a story.  Yet every week, a large group of authors gather to try to do just that, then share their stories with other authors and readers.  We call ourselves Friday Fictioneers, as the photo prompt used to be posted on Friday.  Now it’s posted early Wednesday morning (at least in the US) and the stories come fast and furious, continuing throughout the week.  If you’d like to read more stories, click on the blue critter at the end of my story.  If you want to participate, go to the site of Rochelle, our hostess, read the “rules”, write and post your story.

Hollywood crowdcopyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Black Friday

“Fran, let’s go to the fitting room.”

No answer.

I turned around. No little blonde-headed girl. Trying not to panic, I scanned the store.

“Francesca?”

Nothing.

Mouth dry, I hurried to the front of the store, perusing the crowds clogging the street. No chance of spotting one five-year-old. Frantic, I pulled out my cell, started punching 9-1-1.

“Mommy.”

I whirled.
Nothing.

“Fran?”

“Mommy, can you find me?”
“No, honey. Where are you?”

Her blonde head popped out from under the circular clothes rack. “You couldn’t find me!”
“No, honey, I couldn’t.”

Torn between relief and anger, I simply hugged her.

Bill suggested re-posting this poem which was my first entry for Friday Fictioneers, where each week authors post a 100-word story based on a photo prompt.  This prompt showed a ruined house in the middle of nowhere.  This was what I wrote over two years ago.

 Perspective

He looks out…
sees space,
sees opportunity;
feels freedom.

She looks out…
sees space,
sees emptiness;
feels loneliness.

He looks down…
sees crops,
sees growth;
feels anticipation.

She looks down…
sees dryness,
sees obstacles;
feels discouragement.

He looks inward…
sees challenge,
sees work;
feels tall.

She looks inward…
sees questions,
sees work;
feels uncertain.

He looks toward her…
sees beauty
sees courage;
feels tenderness.

She looks toward him…
sees caring,
sees fortitude;
feels  resolution.

They look outward…
see opportunity,
see hardship;
feel purpose.

They look together…
see the sunrise,
see each other;
feel love.

 

 


Vacation hiatus over, it’s time to get back to Friday Fictioneers, writing for small people.  Whoops!  I mean small writing for people.  🙂  Tight, with well-chosen words to get the most bang for the buck (or the hundred or so words);  based on a photo, at least to some degree, often only in the mind of the author. Designed to, what?  Comfort? Surprise? Horrify? Amuse?  Shock?  Create recognition? All depends on what the author decide and what the reader brings to the story…and takes away from it.

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”
~Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

 

In the Early Morning Rain

A chilly winter morning; cold, grey light reflecting from the lake. He stood motionless on the shore, staring into the distance. She wanted to call to him, speak his name, have him turn, see his face light up when he saw her; run to him, then sit quietly by his side.  Of course, she couldn’t. It was no longer her right or privilege.

It began to rain, the freezing drops like diamond tears cried for the lost. He sprinkled the ashes on the water. She touched him then, the lightest touch of warm breeze, then moved on through the morning.

.

(From the days when songs were the focus, not the show.)