Archive for the ‘Friday Fictioneers’ Category

It’s Wednesday/Friday and Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has posted a thought-provoking photo taken by J Hardy Carroll to prompt our Friday Fictioneers gang to write a 100-word story.

My Aisha is talented, she shorely is. The first time that child picked up a crayon I knowed she was something special. Didn’t stay inside the lines, drew purplish cows and green moons.

On tuther hand, her brothers were all dumb as posts. No pappa should say that bout his own children but it’s God’s truth.
They proved it too. They’s all dead now. Drugs. Guns. Vehicular accidents.

But Aisha, she be sellin her paintings for five-hundred dollars a pop.

What? Hell no. I don’t let her keep that money. I’m the clever one in this family.

 

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Today is Wednesday/Friday and Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has provided the Friday Fictioneer’s gang with a picture taken by Jean L. Hays. I’ve always loved the prairie and tried to prove it with my 100-word story. Sorry, my muse went on the dark side.

The spicey smell of sagebrush, prairie grass warmed by the sun, and the scent of earth soaking up rain never grow old.
Howling wolves and yip-yipping coyotes don’t bother me one stitch. Shows things are still alive out on the plains.

My music? Prairie dog barks, the thrum of sage-grouse, and the flute-like whistle of meadowlarks. Don’t even mind the skritch of mice pilfering breadcrumbs.

It’s people I can’t abide. Asking fool questions when they knock on the door.

That’s why I built me a bunker. Sometimes it’s over-crowded but then one dies and the others can spread out a bit.

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I must admit I’m addicted to Friday Fictioneers, so today I put aside an hour of editing my manuscript to add a story to this mix of wonderful flash fiction writers. Thanks to one and all who find time to read my story.

Siegert pulls the picture from his pocket.
He knows exactly how many cobbles create the path
from his old room to the gardens,
the rectory
to, well, anywhere on the grounds.
He’s counted each with his feet.

Excitement welled when Siegert heard adopted.
But soon he hears,
“The boy’s quite stupid. Rarely talks.”
Silence is golden, they told me so
“He stumbles.”
I cannot see out of my left eye
“No one actually likes him.”
Please, all I want is love

The train whistle blows.
Siegert knows it’s but a ten-hour trip back
to the land of cobblestones and priests.

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Today’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt was submitted by J Hardy Carroll and posted by our fairy blog mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I’m deep in the throes of editing my novel so have been absent for a while. But, because we have been snowed in for about a week, I thought I’d poke my head out of a drift and give a stab at a little flash fiction.

In my eyes, your reflection shows nothing more than violence and greed.
What did you say? These are not entities that reflect?
You are wrong. Your violence reflects in the bruise on my cheek, shattered dishes, holes punched in walls.

Stolen hearts prove your greed. Look at your children.
Their sparkling eyes should reflect love given freely, yet, they cower in corners when you walk in the room.

Your heart is colder than stone. Your criss-cross love-hate attitude creates heartache and pain.
Leave us. Leave us now. Before this woman who once loved you, stings you with much more than words.

 

Sometimes Daddy resembled a ghost, slotting in and out the door.
Not wanting to be seen.
Other times he was all noise and hustle, bragging about being a man.
Thumping his chest.
Worst times he was a thick-bladed knife, slicing Momma and me with hateful words
until we were ten different kinds of shredded.
Most times he was more snap and shine than sharpness.

Finally, Momma went all crazy. Drew a blade of her own.
Sold Daddy’s car. Changed the locks
and threw his ratty old shoes out the door.
Set em on fire.

Now we got nothing but peaceful times.

 

 

Paper Dreams

Posted: January 9, 2019 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , , ,

Wednesday/Friday is here again. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting such a pretty picture provided by Priya Bajpal. My stab at writing a 100-word story follows.

photo by Priya Bajpal

They suggested Anya write wishes on paper and put them in a jar
saying this small action would provide hope.
Selecting the color and texture of the paper
was more difficult than knowing her wishes.
Food. Water. Freedom from pain.
Small comforts. Clean sheets. Crisp gowns.

Every day Anya slipped a wish into her crystalline jar
then nestled a polished shell on top
because Father told her shells carried
luck within their curls and swales.

Skeleton thin, and calling
for water, water, water,
Mother died writhing in pain.
Anya dropped a match in the center of her wishes.

 

I figured Bernard had nothing to do in this run-down out-of-sorts neighborhood
but sit on the wall, head down, fingers tapping.
Probably sex messaging.
Ruining his life one blip at a time.
Sad, he was a good-looking boy
but I had no time for a fellow digging his own grave.
I had plans.

2008 Bernard disappeared.
Likely ran away or was stabbed in a fight.
I no longer have the energy to wonder.
Too busy fending off my husband’s fists,
scrapping with my kids.

Still, there’s time to read this morning’s headline.
“Bernard Phillips Named New School Principal”

Well, I’ll be damned.