Dear Rochelle and fellow Friday Fictioneers, This is my second stab at writing for this week’s prompt. I guess I must be out of practice: instead of fictioneering I ranted for a hundred words, posted then banished from inlinkz when I realized a piece of fiction it was not.Back to the photo promptand finding my muse again. :>)
Genre: Fiction; Word count: 100
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt and limit our words to 100 or less.
Click on the frog to read more stories.
Andrea gripped her husband’s hand tightly as Grace ripped open the letter. It was from her birth mother. The fifteen-year-old had made them promise to give it to Grace when she too reached fifteen.
You were loved every moment I carried you. Just wanted you to know that. There won’t be a moment when I don’t love you.
Sighing, Grace looked up from the blunt, childish scrawl, a smile on her face.
“I believe her. She could have thrown me away like a piece of garbage. Speaking of which, Dad, can we get back to fixing up my motorcycle?”
The scirocco blew in our second day in Trieste. We sheltered from the blood rain in an old church. How long? Joan asked. ‘The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.’ Not my favorite. Hurrah for May 17th, 1966! ‘Judas!’ a voice yelled from the crowd that day when Bob switched from folk songs to electric guitar. But that year, he wrote my favorite, today anyway. I watched her cradle her sleeping baby. He wrote it when his eldest son was born. It was released on June 22, 1979. A single. “Forever Young.” We looked out. The rain had stopped.
I’ve heard it said that a woman should never be afraid of her own life. Yet I am. Every day the crowd multiplies. I grow old. The room grows smaller. Am I to be buried alive? Not with grave dirt, but with ghosts. The more confined I, the more rampant they. What diabolical art is this, that the dead suck life out of those they abhor? My nights are theirs to engorge upon in hopeless pain, my days spit out remnants of their celebration. For as vines strangle and overgrown briars encroach, my ghosts encircle me. And I am afraid.
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the word prompt (“celebration”).
If one day you are told this was an accident, caused by your increasing crescendo of scorn, my darling,
tracking why? in (what your sort) calls poetry.
Poetry is simply
breaking through walls.
[Addendum for Friday Fictioneers:]
United World Chronicle, 6/5/2100: Missing Woman.
Christina Lightfoot left this note and photograph for her fiancé, Lord Ettlesworth. After multiple crashes, she successfully flew her automobile into outer space. The vehicle reportedly runs on a nuclear-powered, zero-gravity generator. The World Authorities Commission Force (WACF) is requesting information in return for zero lifetime taxes on sales, income, property, and travel.
For Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers (100 words or less; click frog for more)
and Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt, 37 words, "Crescendo."
Nothing in you, nothing in me, Nothing as far as eye can see Nothing to say who made me, Nothing makes itself plain to me Nothing will be my guide and creed No absolutes but what my thoughts decree Ruler of my own destiny Master of sky, land and sea No limit to whatever desires mingle, set free It’s all about me, from A to Z I’m free to decide what’s best for me What’s wrong for you may be right for me Ask Mother Nature, what’s cruelty? Evolution’s progress, look at me! [SPLAT!] – Last sounds of Nobigbug Butméé
Genre: Poetry Word Count: 100
I’ve been rather under the weather lately but roused myself to participate in Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. I’ve read many of the entries already and am inspired. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the top photo or the word prompt (“mingle”). Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (above) and limit our words to 100 or less. Check them out!
The Doldrums of Diku had arrived at the museum Silently they stood as we gazed open-mouthed at them. Gifts from advanced space aliens shouldn’t be met with rebuff So we studied each stony structure with all the right stuff. From blue to pink they’d change and then back again Interstellar modern art of singularly useless distraction. Then came the day the eggs cracked down the middle But excitement had waned and no one cared a fiddle As if the Doldrums of Diku had weighed down our spirits Till what once would have thrilled, now just bored us to pieces.
genre: fantasy; word count: 99; Rochelle Wisoff-Fields very kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less prompted by a photo.Click on the frog and join in!
“You’re in my world now. What do you think of it?” “Like a fish out of water. Like I stand out in an unpleasant way, like I don’t belong.” “Does that offend you? Want out?” “Not really. I mean, it’s not your world I want. It’s you.” “To know me is to know the world I came from. You understand?” “I do. But you’re still missing the point. It’s you that makes my idiotic world and yours worth knowing. I couldn’t care less otherwise.” “So our ‘love covers a multitude of sins’, in both our worlds?” “It’s the only way.”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields very kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less prompted by a photo.