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.

(176)

Friday Fictioneers 8-12-2017

PHOTO PROMPT© CEAyr


He balanced on the flat rock, looking into the uppermost round hole.

“What?” Becky asked, pulling on the tattered hem of his shirt. “What?” Anxious. Excited.

“Fairies.”

“What! Let me see!” She pulled his shirt again.

“They’re wearing pink tutus.”

“I don’t believe you.” Hands on hips.

He stepped down.  “Look for yourself.”

Becky scrambled up onto the rock, standing on tip-toes to peer into the hole.

“I don’t see anything,” she complained.

“Look closer.”

She squinted her eyes. Squealed. “I see them!  I see them!”

“What?” He pushed up beside her. “Where!”

Laughing, she jumped down and ran away.

 

 

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner 8-12-2017

bus

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Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner


She watched the red-haired boy from the back of the bus, excited to be on the way to Hogwarts with Ron Weasley.

Paul McCartney had written “Eleanor Rigby” for her. They’d had a torrid affair, but, devastated when Linda died, he’d pulled away.

She’d tried an affair with Tom Cruise, but he was too short.

Harrison Ford, but he was too old.

Hamlet, but really, who needed that?

So, she’d started an affair with Chris Crenshaw, rock-n-roll and sex god all wrapped in one. They were going to get married as soon as he dumped the latest ‘it’ girl on his arm.

She hated ‘it’ girls. So pretty. So stupid. So vapid.

The bus stopped and Ron-who-wasn’t-Ron disembarked. She like Harry better, anyway,

At the next stop, she stepped into the drizzle, heading to H&H Accounting.

“Morning,” the first H said as she walked in.

The second H called, “I need these figures yesterday!”

She sat down to enter them into the computer.

“I’m going to lunch with Chris, today,” she told them.  “I have to leave by eleven.”

She never even saw the bus coming.

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 7-1-2017

Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

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

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

3. Please credit photo to photographer.

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

 This week’s photo prompt is provided by Mark with @any1mark66. 
“That’s one spooky alien.”
“I’m worry more about the Devil.”
“At least the Devil is smiling.”
“The alien looks like he’s pooping.”
I laughed. “Only you.”
We headed towards the store, looking around at all the chain-saw sculptures. At the wall of black bears and monkeys piled onto the front lawn.
“This is really creepy.”
Tim put his arm around me. “Come on. Wouldn’t one of these looked great in the yard.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Our anniversary is coming up.” Teasing.
I slapped his arm. “You bring one of those things home and I’ll leave.”
“Promise?”
I hit him again, still gentle.  “You’d fall apart in minute without me.”
“True,” he agreed. “So you’d better stay to make me sandwiches.”
Holding hands, we walked into the store, ending up with a 5 inch tall alien, memorial of the greatest anniversary ever.

Friday Fictioneers 7-1-2017

I’d greatly appreciate some feedback on this one.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Home

The street was cobbled, narrow, splashed with sun and shadow. I heard the distant tolling of St. Andrews ricocheting through blood and bone and marrow, sea songs deep where I had no control.

It was death I heard calling.

I stepped into the shadows, walking to the land of bones. Sun. Shadow. Sun. Shadow. Sun. Sea salt and brine. Nowhere else to run.

Drowning in air.

I felt the pain before I heard the shot.

Sand. Fish-rough hands. A hand grasping my shoulder.

The sea always calls home its own.

Pappa.

Falling, drifting, far out beyond land. The land of bones.

 

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER 6-23-2017

FFftPProoster


 

“He’s the meanest, ugliest, rooster I’ve ever met.”

She looked over. “How many roosters have your met?”

He cleared his throat, embarrassed. She had to ask the single question guaranteed to make him feel a fool. “One.”

Raised eyebrow. Smug look. “His name is Roofus. He likes to get on the roof and crow until he wakes us.”

“Isn’t that what roosters do?”

Another look, the same as before.

“Guess I’d better head out. Work and stuff.”  He headed back to his truck, hand scrubbing his hair. One minute she seemed to like him; the next those moments.

“Wait!” she called, running to catch up.

He turned, braced for more rooster smugness.

“I’m…. sorry, I…” Her eyes traveled over the ramshackled farm. The house needed painting. The barns repairs. Mud driveway. Weeds. Sagging fences.

“I….didn’t want you to… think less of me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“The farm….” She waved an arm. “You’re so…. smart and…well-off… have a nice condo. I’m just… this country girl…. living here.”

He opened his arms. “Come here you. I love you. Where you live doesn’t matter.”

Held her as she silently cried.

God, he loved this girl, rooster and all!

 

Friday Fictioneers 6-23-2017

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz


“Are we ever going to get on the damned ferry?” John asked.

“Not if you keep swearing.”

“What? Swearing stops traffic?”

“Maybe,” Joe sighed, staring out the windshield at the tail lights ahead, grey sky above. Wishing…. nothing.

They crept closer and closer, finally pulling on and into their designated parking spot.

“I’m going up for a hot dog. Want anything?”

Joe shook his head. There was nothing on board he wanted. Not anymore. Luc was gone. There was no home left.

Following John onto the deck, he stood at the rail, fantasizing about leaping overboard.