Photo Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields
Cautiously, she peered through the doorway. If he caught her watching again, there’d be repercussions. Last time ended tragically. She was foolish, but her hunger was potent. After his dinner party, she’d pilfer for food, mostly scraps. Three guests meant plentiful leftovers.
She knew she shouldn’t linger any longer, too risky, but the doorbell rang early. Too late for her to hide, he turned, and their eyes locked.
He pounced quickly for such a big man, but she was faster.
As she slipped through the tiny hole in the wall, the man roared, “Filthy mouse! I’ll catch you next time.”
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers 100-word photo prompt, of which I haven’t participated in for a couple of months. I thought I would start my first contribution this year with something quirky from an odd POV, and no murder. Well, I guess there might have been a mouse murder at some point prior to the beginning of my story, but I’m not counting that.
If you would like to read the other stories, you can find them here.
I tried something different for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt this week. My story, Hidden Potential, is on a postcard in the form of a 99-word letter. You can click on the postcard to enlarge it, if needed. I hope I didn’t take too many liberties with the word count. Some of the text was on the original postcard, so it doesn’t technically count, right?
For those of you not familiar with Friday Fictioneers, it’s a weekly writing prompt based on the provided photo, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The catch is the story has to be 100 words or less. This week’s photo took me to Hollywood, as I’m sure it did for many others. If you would like to try your hand at writing or read some of the creative stories, click here.
Mama collected. Everything. She said every object had worth, a history. It was her calling to tell their stories in her art.
She rummaged and searched, brought home strays and leftovers. She lost herself in jagged tales of glass, crumbled fables of stone, and splintered sagas of wood. Beautifully woven rubbish.
She discarded my story, forgot my worth.
Mama died a year ago, but she’s still here watching over me. Jagged glass had more than one use, more than one story to tell. I think she’d be pleased with my cutting-edge memoir of her.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers
; 100 words or less based on the photo. I’ve been gone a while. I almost forgot how to write and blog, but it came back to me. Click on the badge below if you would like to read some of the other stories.
Photo Copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
“Tell me the story again, Mommy,” begged Myrtle.
“Once more, then sleep, sweetheart,” Olive replied.
“There once was a sprout who tried to push out, but she just couldn’t find her way. She looked to the sun, but there was none, blinded by lazy haze. She called to the rain, but it fell in a blaze, so the sprout just withered away.”
“Mommy, will I ever see real plants and rain and sun and a bonfire under the stars?”
“Someday, when it’s safe outside, maybe we’ll discover a sprout up on the surface. Until then, we have our cyber-nature.”
This far-fetched tale brought to you by the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. The challenge is to write a 100-word or less story based on the photo. I heard a rumor that today (9/4) is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ birthday. Happy Birthday to our gracious host.
Click on the badge below to read the other stories and poems:
Photo Copyright-Roger Bulto
I saw you yesterday as you crossed the parking lot, a discreet glance my way. Arrogance compelled you. You still have that charming smile, a smile that possessed me.
The woman by your side had my features, exactly your type. Did she notice your faraway eyes on me?
Before the urban sprawl, we came here together. Tree-lined fields of tall grass and wildflowers provided the perfect cover. You left me, buried in fertile earth, strangled with lovely vines.
You remember my vines, the ones that drive you to return to me with each flower you possess. You never forget your first.
This 100-word story was written for Friday Fictioneers. I haven’t participated in this prompt in quite a while. I’m back for at least this week. If you would like to read the other stories, click the badge.
***It was brought to my attention (by my husband) that my story may be too vague. I asked for his interpretation, and he had nothing. Eventually, I wrenched it from him. He was way off. Perhaps it is too vague. As the writer, I think it’s easy to see the entire story in your words, and we assume it’s obvious to the reader. Of course that is not always the case. Now I’m interested to know how others interpret the story. Please let me know. Should I revise? I feel a bit off my game.
They warned of an approaching storm, “a whopper,” they said. We’d seen our share of whoppers. “We can weather it,” I said.
As if on cue, the rain fell and the river rose.
Still, we could ride it out, withstand the brutality as the rain horizontally pounded our farmhouse and the river hungrily knocked at our door.
After the lifeline dropped to the rooftop, and I was airlifted to safety, I would repeat this story over and over to dampen the agony and guilt that raged within me. The local news would report my wife and daughter were never found.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers; one hundred words based on the photo. If you would like to read the other stories, click on the badge:
Photo Copyright Claire Fuller
Elianora knelt beside her mother’s tombstone and wept.
“Dear Mother. Tragedy has befallen our great empire. A black sickness is spreading throughout the land, leaving death and disfigurement in its wake.”
“Father says it is merely a disease of the uncouth, of the peasants. He is comforted in his belief that the sickness will spare us. Our God would never allow such an atrocity to strike down a noble king and his family. I know it is my place to heed his beliefs; nevertheless, I am confused. Father awoke this morning teeming with skin peculiarities and fraught with madness.”
I guess you get the moral of the story: disease and death has no social bias, nor political or religious affiliation. Never get too comfortable. The Black Death plague killed an estimated 25 million people in Europe and Asia during the 14th century and beyond. If you want to read more about the plague, click here.
This melancholy 99-word story was written for Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. Time hasn’t allowed me to participate much in this writing community lately. If you would like to try your hand at writing a story or read the other stories, click on the link below:
Lousy tourists float in on their tacky boats with their snotty attitudes, treating the locals like their personal hired help. Through my reinforced window, I watch them play out their leisurely lives, indulging excessively, spending more on two-day trysts than I make in a month as town mortician.
I dream of escaping from this miserable place, getting lost at sea, but for now, I must bide my time. I grab my forceps and look into the mouth of another dead tourist. This one’s a gold mine. Her capped teeth won’t be missed. My retirement account just hit the mother lode.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve participated in Friday Fictioneers; in fact, I haven’t been able to blog much lately. My 100-word story isn’t really supposed to be funny, but I laughed at it. It’s kind of ghoulishly ridiculous.
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this gold mine of a challenge, that lures more than a 100 feverish fictioneers each week. We are truly wealthier for being a part of her writing community. Click the badge below to join:
The empty church was stuffy. I squirmed in the pew as my bladder griped. I nervously gnawed on a hangnail.
Father appeared looking flushed. He sat beside me and took my hands. He smelled like Mrs. Newton’s perfume.
“Beulah, has your mother ever shared her feelings about me to church outsiders?”
I hesitated. His grip tightened. A tousled Mrs. Newton appeared and left without a glance.
“I won’t lead you astray.” He held out a candy bar. “Good kids tell me when their parents sin. Do you want to be good like the other kids?”
I guiltily took the bait. “Yes, Father.”
I’m sure most of you know the story of Jim Jones and The People’s Temple. Allegedly, one of the ways Jones controlled his followers was to coerce them to inform on each other. He used the children to inform on their parents and in return rewarded them. It’s said that he also made sexual advances to members. You can read more about it at PBS.org.
My story is a work of fiction and in no way portrays any actual persons, living or dead, or events. I merely used the history of Jim Jones and The People’s Temple as inspiration.
Be sure to read the other stories for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. Thanks to Rochelle for being such a tireless host. (P.S. I’m two words over the 100-word limit. So sorry!)
Photo © – Renee Heath
A year ago, the new edition of me, my sequel, entered the story. She slipped in between the sheets and became his fresh, eager muse. Desperate to thrill him, she was not daunted by his mythical desire to manipulate her character, to mold her with fictitious flattery and romantic, candlelit tales of happily-ever-after.
When she’s no longer able to inspire his imagination, he’ll place her dog-eared volume on his special shelf, next to me and his other silent muses. Each of us bookmarked with a lock of hair, his literary trophies, as our bones gather dust beneath his library floorboards.
Written for Friday Fictioneers 100-word photo prompt. You can find more stories by clicking on the badge.
The morning after, Sharla cracked open her bloodshot eyes. Crusty drool. Polluted breath. Throbbing head. Telltale signs of certain impropriety. Peeking over her shoulder, she cringed at the mystery mass burrowed under the sheets.
She remembered last night’s music and dancing, a celebration of her sister’s marriage. The fifth tequila shot erased the lines of decorum. Continue reading
Some of you were probably expecting a continuation of The Accident serial I started a few weeks ago. I’ve decided to take a break and write something new this week for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt.
While some of you might be disappointed, others are likely relieved that they don’t have to be burdened with multiple story parts. It was getting difficult to effectively write a 100-word story with a beginning, middle and end, while continuing the plot from the previous weeks. Plus, I don’t think I was being fair to my readers. We all have busy lives and limited time to read.
With that, now that I’ve planted the seeds of murder in your minds, I’m going to work on a longer version of the story. Detectives Leale and Archer and the mysterious Copycat will emerge in the future and all will be revealed. Continue reading
I’ve been absent from my blog for a couple of weeks and unfortunately missed last week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. Life does get in the way sometimes. I’m back, at least for this week’s photo prompt.
I would like to thank Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for always being the gracious and diplomatic host to well over 100 creative (and sometimes temperamental) writers. Her job is not easy. I want to say that I appreciate all the effort and time she puts into the prompt, her weekly story, and the many, many comments and “Likes” to all. She is a generous person. Continue reading
This 100-word story is Part 3 of The Accident, written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue the story of Detective Stuart Leale, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. It was difficult to write part three (in 100 words) and make it a stand alone story, yet fit with the other two pieces. If you haven’t read Parts 1 & 2, I will make it easy for you:
He searches his face in the mirror and smirks at his 58 years of hard-earned wrinkles. They are reminders. Stuart often relives his ingenious triumphs, but lately, one in particular feeds his ego; that defining moment his brother Charlie died.
Charlie was their favorite, their golden boy, their reason to live. After he was born, Stuart was forgotten. His resentment festered.
“Charlie’s so smart, much smarter than Stuart,” his mother always said.
“Finally, a perfect child,” his father always replied. Continue reading
This 100-word story is Part 2 of a story I wrote for the VisDare writing prompt. If you haven’t read Part 1 of The Accident, you can read it here:
The Accident, Part 1
Part 2 stands alone, but trust me when I say it’s much better with its counterpart, so please go read it first. When I saw the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt, I knew this had to be a continuation.