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:
We spoiled our planet. The weight of our needs surpassed her generosity. She was tolerant until she was not. She waged a war of unspeakable ferocity and violence, unlike any that we could imagine in our worst nightmares.
She was our true enemy, the one we should have feared and respected, but instead we immersed our hearts and minds in a battle of egos and superiority, a blind and deaf us versus them crusade.
We called our former prosperity civilization, a misnomer in every way. We left behind our dead world, blanketed in ice and the obsolete remnants of our shameless materialism. The few thousand of us that escaped vowed not to be driven by brutality in the name of morality, faith or love. We are resolved to coexist with reverence for nature and humanity with the peaceful inhabitants of our newfound planet known as Earth.
I wrote this bleak tale for the VisDare writing prompt, based on the black and white photo. If you would like to read the other stories or try your hand at writing one, click on the image below.
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.
My odd ball photos for Cee’s Odd Ball Photo Challenge were taken in the comfort of my own home. I guess that makes me an odd ball since all this stuff is mine.
It’s pretty and sparkly and something I haven’t used in a long time. What is it? Blue eye shadow taken with the macro lens on my iPhone. It looks so much better in the packaging than it does on my face.
Is it a strange creature from another world? A gross hair brush? No, it’s a mascara brush. I took this macro photo with my iPhone.
I was relaxing under the red umbrella and decided it was an interesting photo opportunity.
This is a rule when visiting my house. What else is there to do in the heat of a Florida summer?
As an added bonus odd ball photo, this is a strange creature from another world. I think I saw him creep off the mother ship that landed in my yard the other night. Now he lives on my gutter. Kinda snugly, isn’t he?
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:
Here’s my entry for this week’s Cee’s Odd Ball Photo Challenge.
This is a macro shot of the underbelly of a starfish. I ventured into the ominous depths of the sea and used my iPhone to shoot this rather toothy looking creature. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. I actually took it at a little shop in the sponge diving community of Tarpon Springs, Florida.
My mojito was smiling at me, so I took a photo of it. He was delicious, but I was not smiling later in the day, as I’m a bit of a lightweight.
The Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida calls this The Wishing Tree. After you visit the museum, you can write a wish on your wrist band and tie it to the banyan (ficus) tree. My band is the blue one.
Our July 4th party is over for another year. Here’s the discarded remnants of the fireworks in our backyard. They’re really just glorified sparklers, but they’re still fun. Unless you count the firecrackers and bottle rockets. They’re real, and I don’t find them all that fun since I seem to be a target for explosives and fire.
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:
Here’s a little quirkery (yes, I made up that word) for you to enjoy. Of course, it wouldn’t be my usual contribution to Cee’s Odd Ball Photo Challenge without a little creepiness thrown in the mix.
This little gem was the greeter at the entrance to a junk store. He was named “Fry Guy” on the sales tag, so he’s probably the former face of a fast food burger joint. He’s odd and slightly creepy with those vacant eyes and evil smile. I’m certain he’s hiding something. Why do fast food restaurants use such creepy icons?
We could all use an extra outlet, even when standing under a giant tree in a park. This is tree graffiti on the trunk of a Banyan tree.
These Banyan tree roots sort of look like worms snaking toward the ground. A massive gnarled tangle of wickedness, they are quite possibly the root of all evil. I think Fry Guy might live inside the dark crevices of this tree.
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 mirror never lied to her. Through sickness and health, it whispered the truth, even when she no longer wished to heed it.
During the honeymoon years, it told her she was a flawless, natural beauty. Plump lips, creamy skin, bright eyes. The years were kind as the mirror spoke of her graceful maturity; together, they found a comfortable place.
Time dashed carelessly. The mirror began to tease her fine lines and exaggerate her once delicate pores. It gossiped of thinning lips, crow’s feet, and dull skin. It demanded she seek help for her affliction. It told her society dictated it. The honeymoon was over.
In her golden years, more sickness than health, the mirror laughed at her plastic-like skin, inflated lips, and cloudy eyes. She looked away from her reflection, ashamed, as the plastic surgeon prepared the syringe with more poisonous beauty. Until death, they would not part.
I wrote this 150-word flash fiction for the VisDare photo prompt hosted by Angela Goff. I’ve missed quite a few VisDare challenges over the last couple of months. I’m a little late entering this week, but I wanted to write something for this odd photo. If you would like to read the other stories or join the fun, click here.
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