#FF: Alone together

© Ted Strutz

Friday Fictioneers (#FF)
This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
A sappy little love story this week.

We took the ferry across Sydney Harbour. The moon shone brightly upon us as we held hands and kissed on the nearly empty deck. We didn’t care who watched. We admired the approaching city lights and talked about old times.

As far as we were concerned, we were the only two people in the world.

We had never been so in love as at that moment.

The fireworks display on the bridge was just for us.


At the quay, I purchased my ticket for next time.

I walked to my car and drove home.

God, how I miss him.

~~~ YinYang ~~~


#FF: Rusted memories

© 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: No pie like it

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

© Roger Bultot

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

“The first and best apple pie I ever ate was in this diner.”
“Really? I thought Grandma’s was your favorite.”
“It was.”
I scowled in confusion.
“My dear, Lily got her first job here when she was only sixteen. I came every day. She made the apple pies herself from her mother’s recipe.”
“You married her for her pie,” I laughed.
I pretended not to see his eyes mist up.
Grandpa had us, but I knew he was lonely these days. He still comes to the diner every day.
Memories, I suppose.
But now he orders only coconut cream pie.


#FF: Nothin’ fancy

© 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.


#FF: Yellow lawn chairs redux

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

100-word Flash Fiction
#FridayFictioneers (#FF)

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

Crys retrieved a chilled beverage from the cooler and pointed across the river. “Have you ever been in that shop?”

“Just once. Lots of interesting antiques and bits of junk. Why?”

“I’m thinking we should redecorate.”

Zeb tilted his head and glared at her over his sunglasses.

“Just kidding. I heard the owner sells his stuff rather grudgingly.”

“It’s true. I bought these chairs from him.”

“Really? Kinda ugly. Was he reluctant to sell these too?”

“Yup. Said they belonged to his granny. She sat right here every sunny day sipping sherry and watching the goings-on across the river.”


Creative Expressions #5: Photo (Christmas Memories)


Welcome to Week 5 of the Pen’n’Tonic’s Creative Expressions challenge.

Don’t be shy! Play along!

Each week on Tuesday (as time permits), I’ll post a word, a phrase, a picture, or an idea that will constitute a prompt from which to submit a poem, a flash fiction piece (not longer than 250 words), an original photograph, an original artwork, or a combination of these things that you think applies to the week’s theme.

Interpret the theme as you see fit. The only rules are that you be creative, be original, and have fun. Post your entry on your own blog and add your link to the InLinkz page (see little blue frog link below).

As with most challenges of this sort, I encourage you to provide feedback, respectful critiques, or general comments. Simple “Likes” are good too!

This week I give you a Christmas image. I’ve written a flash fiction piece about childhood Christmas memories. I hope you enjoy it.

Merry Christmas to you all and happy writing in 2015!
May all your word dreams come true!


Mommy made them

Daylight peaked through Jenny’s window.

Jack Frost had painted a sparkling winter scene on her window.

Her feet hit the freezing floor of the old farmhouse.

She raced to brother Danny’s room.

“Danny. Get up. It’s Christmas! Come on! Let’s go!”

Groggily, Danny swung his own sock-covered little feet to the floor and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

Jenny wasn’t waiting. She was too excited.

She dreamed of Dear Dolly. It was going to be under the tree. She just knew it. It was the only thing she asked Mommy and Santa for this year. All her friends had them. Her cousin had the brown-haired one with the red dress. She didn’t care which one she got. She just wanted to be like her friends.

Finally, the last present was unwrapped. There were three. One had mittens. One had a pink knit scarf and matching hat. The last had three peppermint sticks.

Jenny saw the sadness in her Mommy’s eyes.

Jenny knew.

There was no Dear Dolly this year.

It was okay.

She wrapped her chilly fingers in the mittens and wound the scarf around her neck.

They were beautiful.

Mommy made them.


MFTS: Good times

This is my first entry for Monday’s Finish the Story (MFTS) challenge. Here’s the photo provided for which I’ve written a 100 – 152014-11-17-bw-beacham10 word flash fiction piece. Enjoy!

When I rented the room, I did not think it would be this one! But, what’re ya gonna do?

My ride out of here won’t be back until Friday. I just hope there’s real toilet paper and not a Sears catalog. That’s stuff scratches my delicate behind.

Yes, I know that for a fact. I grew up in SmallTown 1940s. Well, a farm actually. Remember? I took you there once. We had no electricity. I awoke to a frozen-over chamber pot many a morning in the winters.

I did like the patterns that Jack Frost left on my bedroom window though. That little fellow was quite the artist.

Anyway, I digress. Today, the guide is taking us fishing. Tomorrow we’re going to shoot some animals. Don’t worry, we’re shooting with cameras.

Wish you were here, Love.

I’ll call you again tomorrow.


Memories or omens?

campfire100-word Flash Fiction. #FridayFictioneers
A story inspired by this photo provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

My apologies to those of you who provided comments for my last story to which I did not respond . Summer. Family. Vacation… I promise to do better this time. I hope you enjoy this week’s story.


A gust of wind stirs the dying embers. Sparks dance, lighting the midnight shadows.

Everyone claps as Jamie ends his guitar ballad.

Skye flinches and struggles to tear her eyes from the images in the flames and focus on her friends.

Scraps of visions remain entangled in her head. She blinks again and claps politely although she heard not a word.

A raven. An oak tree. A crescent moon. Autumn. Blackness. Sorrow. Her daughter.

She has no children.

Murder. Lost souls.

The words echo in her chest and rip through her like restless ghosts.

Tears stream down her cheeks.


The wake

100-word Flash Fiction. #FridayFictioneers
A story inspired by this photo provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fieldsbjc3b6rn-15

It’s four o’clock in the morning. We are the last two musicians playing.

Shadows of souls flit across my vision.

The liquor is gone. The coffee pot is empty. Sandwich crumbs litter the floor. Smoke slithers across the room.

I’m hazy and giddy at the same time. My head swims in a fog of melodies and notes in four quarter time.

A broken string threatens to end the stream of musical consciousness.

Pain stabs through my hand. Blood oozes from my finger tips.

We laugh. We cry. We remember.

Tears stream down my face.

And still, we play on.