Archive for the ‘Friday Fictioneers’ Category

Well, isn’t this desk a fine mess? It almost makes me feel like cleaning mine – almost. Instead, I wrote this 100-word story about it. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting yet another picture to make the Friday Fictioneer clan put fingertips to keyboards.

PHOTO PROMPT © Claire Sheldon

Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Timothy ripped the clock from the wall, pulled the plug on the refrigerator, threw his computer out the window just to quiet its hum. No sound should remind him of his old life. Still, his heart pounded so violently, blood rushed in his ears – like the echo of ocean waves caught inside a nautilus shell. That’s what Angie would have said. But Angie, his heart of hearts was gone. Absolutely nothing mattered.
“Daddy?”
Timothy turned from the window. And there, standing with her stuffed penguin clutched in one hand was little Beatrice. He knelt and opened his arms.

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Photo by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The stones rang with laughter, the sound of bells and shouts from women so lonely they felt they would never be whole again. Battles had raged for five years, not a man remained in the village. On nights flush with drunken soldiers from foreign countries chickens and pigs were slaughtered, family quilts used for tents. Now, now, their men were only ten miles out, physically and mentally broken and bent. But these women were prepared, for they adored their men and no-longer-boys. Mattresses had been stuffed with chicken feathers, broth stewed from pig bones, love stitched into every new quilt.

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I’m a bit late to the party, but I needed to have a discussion with a rather large friend in order to get his ideas about the way things are progressing in his pod. We shared mackerel paste and tea. I’ve narrowed down his diatribe to 100-words.Thanks to Ted Strutz and Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for this week’s photo prompt – the ferry to San Juan Island, I believe.

I want nothing from you nor do I need to give you anything.
Let me be and in turn, I will avoid you.
Our kind has plowed these waters for hundreds of years, moving in groups or alone.
Your kind stalks us in boats, turns us into piles of bones and barrels of oil.
You show no mercy.
You slaughter pregnant females and babies.
Our males are scarred by your explosive harpoons.
Now is the time to enjoy our beauty, listen to our songs, learn from us.
Or just leave us alone.
Do it!
Do it now!
Before time runs out.

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The Last of Her Kind

Posted: June 14, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , ,

Tonight in a town square lit by the moon, the Friday Fictioneers gather to write 100-word stories. Thanks, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and Dale Rogerson for this thought provoking photo.

 

The day had been too long, hours creeping by with the slow tock, tock, tock of her heart. Lizbeth owned no watch, nor could she read the shadows of the sun’s passing. Although she had promised, Mother hadn’t taken time to teach the meaning of shifting winds. And after saying, “You’ll learn to read the waters,” Father disappeared. When brother Paul kissed her, saying, “I’ll return for you,” she believed him, too. Six-year-olds trust so easily.

The day had been full of screams. Now, hidden in the shadows, Lizbeth does her best to interpret the silence crawling across the night.

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Good morning! Thanks to Sarah Potter and Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (not only for the picture but a great story line to follow) I have this little tale to tell. Thanks to one and all for reading.

The way things were going this morning, Rochelle wasn’t a bit surprised to find the windows hanging at odd angles. Sleep eluded her last night because of an ear-worm, several actually, and upon rising, she realized she’d forgotten to pay the gas bill. The bedroom was freezing. And perhaps the computer was frozen, too, because over and over a message flashed saying the InLinkz code couldn’t be found. Raking fingers through tangled hair, she scuffed downstairs in her husband’s slippers, mumbling, “Coffee” then shouting “Oy, vey!” when she saw that the plant she hadn’t watered for a month had taken over her desk.

(103-words)

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Today’s picture was taken by Roger Bultot.Thanks, Rochelle, for posting it. I’m sure this scene will inspire many wonderful stories! My 100-word piece about this gorgeous old cafe follows.

Sarah came to the cafe for the sounds
clatter of spoons
rattle of plates
the jingle of laughter and
jangle of that tiny tarnished bell over the door

Sarah made friends here
broke up with boyfriends here
Went away smelling of over-cooked eggs
and burned bacon
and feeling like she’d just left her home.

Home was a mangled car in the yard
home was the sound of the too-loud TV
Mama’s tears
dogs barking
and a faucet drip, drip, dripping

Home smelled of mold and cigarettes
Home was Daddy lying in
her brother’s empty bed
eyes staring at nothing

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Today’s photo prompt was taken by our fearless leader, Rochelle. Thanks for posting it! I’m sure this poor injured car will inspire many interesting stories.

Dearest Rebecca,

I cannot believe you left me hangin. What about through thick and thin? Sure, I done it. So’d you! Right there beside me, whooping, “Go! Go! Go! One more round!” But, darlin’, at some point we should a stopped. No way in hell that big feller deserved what we done. Takin him out in the field in the middle of the night, tyin him to the fence! Usin that ladder. What was we thinkin?

Well, it’s over now. Cept I got three years; you got nothin. Who knew people’d be so strict about takin elephants out for a joy ride?

(101 words)

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