Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 8-15-2017


This week’s photo prompt is provided by artycaptures.wordpress.com.

 Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

1. A prompt photo will be provided each Monday pm to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.

2. Linking for this challenge begins on Monday pm and runs to the following Monday pm.

3. Please credit photo to photographer.

4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.

5. Please indicate the number of words in your story at the end of your story. (It doesn’t count into the amount of words).

This, he thought, was not going well. Had he not been so polite he would have rolled his eyes. Then again, spacey is as spacey does. What else should he expect?

“So,” she asked, blinding him with her smile. “Should I slip into something more comfortable?”

He looked at the burnt hot chocolate. “Yeah,” he answered, loosening his tie. Changing his reputation was looking better and better. Not that he’d forgo sex with any girl, but deep inside something wanted change.

She slipped into the bedroom. He put the mug into the sink.

How had a burnt cup of chocolate come to represent his life? His sex life at least. He didn’t have a love life. Love was too dangerous.

“Can you open some wine?”

He looked at the door. Heard her in the bathroom, then the start of soft music. Scenes from a hundred times before. Thousands. What had changed?

No, nothing had changed. Not him, not the world. Everything was the same. Would always be the same.

Opening the frig, he pulled out the wine.





PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


I can only know you, he said, if I’m inside
And so he crawled in,
My legs spread like a sprawling giraffe.
I am in you.
I am in you.
Like clouds on the sun,
Shadows pretending rain.
When he found nothing
He crawled out,
Walked away without
A word of

Friday Fictioneers 2-3-2017


roger-bultot-flowerPHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot


Chris glanced out the window to the lot below. What the hell was he doing in New York in the middle of fucking winter? He could have chosen LA – warm LA, mind you  –  or even gone home for studio work.

She came up behind him, slipping arms about his waist. “You can’t leave already.”

“I’m supposed to be working, you know.”

She turned him around, hands sliding behind his neck.

“You are working. You’re working on me.”

With a laugh, he let her slide the shirt off his shoulders, shedding clothes as they returned to the bedroom.