Five lilies

778 words

FiveLilies
© PenNTonic

A lone tear crept down her cheek thinking of having to leave this aging Victorian home. Sure she had to dig deep into the recesses of her mind to find the good times, but it was home. The silence, the loneliness, and the betrayal pulled everyone in different directions and no one talked of it. No one ever spoke of the painful abyss between Mother and Father that widened with every passing year. No one ever talked about what was going on Read more

Advertisements

#FF: Rusted memories

red-apple-rest-jhc
© J. Hardy Carroll

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Sometimes, we just want (or need) to remember, even the painful stuff.


Rain pelted down, as darkness descended over the town.

Derek and Kylie had been searching since Sunday and were not about to give up, even if the police were.

He doesn’t want to be found, the constable said. He’s sick, they insisted.

For five days they’d searched his usual hideouts. Surely he wouldn’t come here. Forty miserable years he’d spent in this factory. The building was a hazard then, and now—rotten floors, falling timbers…. In two days, they were coming to demolish it. Finally.

A raspy voice rose from the back room.
“Dad? What are you doing here?”

~~~ YinYang ~~~

#FF: A dog’s life

1502901343035-3fe33f29498d1b1f-3fdae246fddc9c2a.jpg
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


I hate this shower, Duke thought.

I’m clean. I played for three hours in the lake.

Why are they torturing me this way?

How would they like this foamy white stuff all over them? It’s inhumane.

And that smell. It smells like those little purple flowers in the garden. I can’t stand being near those flowers.

Finally, they’re finished. Three wet towels. Heh. Heh. Bet if I shake hard, they’ll let me out of this jail cell.

“Ahh. Duke. Do you have to do that every time?”

Yep, now open that door. I have a lake to conquer.

~~~

#FF: The star still burns

janet-webb-french-still-life
© Janet Webb

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


I’m the figure on the stone. Naked and exposed, or sleeping my days away.

She takes me from this room only to see Dr. Cullen. She says I’m too frail. She says I must stay here. She says it’s for my own good. She says she doesn’t have time to take me to the garden.

She doesn’t understand. My brain works, but this damned body won’t cooperate with it anymore.

Yesterday, she brought me the jar of fairy lights. She said I could pretend they were stars or fireflies.

I pray for the dark.


~~~YinYang.png~~~

#FF: Nothin’ fancy

sewingmachine_sandracrook
© Sandra Crook

#FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


Don’t know why they called it a Singer, ‘cause it sho’ wouldn’t sing for me. I jumbled up more outfits ‘n I care t’ remember. My fingers still got callouses from jammin’ ’em under the needle or tryin’ to pry out them balls of thread from a messy seam.

Ma could make it sing though. When we was little, she done beautiful clothes at the factory.

Worked long hours, she did, ‘n’ always come home tired. Never had much time for me and Jemmy, but we always had food on the table and, of course, decent clothes. Nothin’ fancy mind you.

~~~

Au revoir, Édouard

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

100-word Flash Fiction
#FridayFictioneers

This week’s story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


I step onto the terrace of my pied-à-terre.

Dusk creeps in. The pounding rain reflects my resolve.

I watch Édouard as he gets into his black Porsche 918 without a look back. God, I hate Porsches. The car should have been my sign from the start. The arrogance, the snobbery. I always knew I’d never fit into his life. And, now it’s reality.

Anyway, I don’t need him. Daddy left me plenty and I don’t intend to waste one more second on the Édouards of this world.

Au revoir, Édouard.

I dial my realtor.

Then I book a flight home.

***

MFtS: Check mate! (A monologue)

2014-12-15-bw-beachamThis is my entry for the Monday’s Finish the Story (MFTS) challenge. Here’s the photo provided for which I’ve written a flash fiction piece. Enjoy! But, just so you know, I’m not really this cynical — just having a bit of fun with the prompt. 😉


 

They say that life is a game of chess.

Yes, that’s what they say. Well, let me tell you something, my friend. That’s exactly what it is.

When you’re young and romantic, you grab onto your knight in shining armor. If you’re lucky you get a quaint little castle in the ‘burbs and produce two heirs: your prince and princess.

Then, before you know it, some young leggy rook takes your knight and your castle. You pawn everything just to keep your little kingdom together and feed your progeny.

To top it all off, the lecherous bishop at your church tries to put the moves on you when he finds out your single again.

Well, look at the knight now. He may think he has become the king of his new demesne, but he’s on a short leash moving only one step at a time at the whim of the evil black rook.

But, you know what, my friend? That’s okay.

I’m the queen now.

Check mate, buddy.

***

Looking for another new challenge? Don’t be shy… check out this week’s Creative Expressions.

 

 

Endangered

still-life-with-doug100-word Flash Fiction. #FridayFictioneers 

A story inspired by this photo provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


The alarm clock shattered the silence of the early morning darkness. Likewise, the remnants of her dream splintered into a thousand tiny shards. She tried to collect the fragments in her mind and piece them together.

All that remained, however, was cold dread.

She leaped to the window and threw open the painted shutters, the ocean had receded more in the night, leaving only abandoned shells, worn stones, white-washed driftwood, and tons of garbage.

Another truck carried a family’s treasures down the dusty road.

She was last to leave.

Her art would have to stay. It meant nothing any more.

***

FavoriteFridayFeedback2


Favorite Friday Feedback (F3) from last week’s #FF story goes to Alisha at lishwriter.wordpress.com. See what follows my story.

First of all, she was bold enough to let me know about a small editorial issue in my story, which just goes to show that is difficult sometimes to edit your own writing — and I’m an editor… Ooops! Thanks Alisha.

Second of all her simple one-line comment “Art in any form is a blessing” is so true and struck a chord with me (so to speak). In my story, I wanted to convey just that and the fact (as you’ll see in another comment response) that not everyone is good at everything. We all have something we’re good at. Sometimes it’s obvious at an early age and sometimes we seek it for much of our life. Sometimes we overlook the one thing that we’re good at and sometimes we envy someone else’s talent. I tend to think that most of us are an artist of some kind. Perhaps we write poetry, write stories, paint pictures, sketch moments in time, play music, sing songs, create arts and crafts, or take photographs. The list is endless. I believe we all have a need to create and should strive to free our imaginations. We should always retain a child’s sense of imagination and play. Art is, indeed, a grand blessing. Do it. Enjoy it. Be thankful for it.

A gift is not a gift until you share it with someone. –Caerlynn Nash

***