Back in the saddle, so to speak, and chiming in with another 100-word entry based on a photo prompt for the Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by the lovely and talented (I’m assuming, never actually having met her) Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I hope you enjoy, and please, feel free to comment, praise, condemn, adjulate or otherwise critique.
“The Eye Of The Beholder”
“I don’t get it.”
“Maybe you’re not supposed to get it. It is art, after all. True art shouldn’t be easy to understand.”
She looked down at the words etched into the small plaque affixed to the edge of the railing: “#23 – Shopping Carts in Reflecting Pool. By Andre’ Fulmer.”
“I still don’t get it.”
His face bunched up in that pouty little moue he made whenever explaining art to the illiterate masses. “It’s clearly a statement on the human condition in a post-consumerist era, an indictment of how our corporate greed has damaged the environment!”
He smiled, satisfied.
Once again, it’s time for Friday Fictioneers, the weekly photo-prompt, 100(ish) word, micro-fiction challenge courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I love these little nuggets of creative fun, and it is especially challenging to try and keep it to only 100 words! This week I managed to hit it exactly!
I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to leave comments and/or suggestions. I love to hear your thoughts! So without further ado, I present to you, “Fire Down Below.”
Copyright – Sarah Ann Hall
“T’ey say thems were for a factory that was t’ere, once, deep un’ergroun. During The War. After having t’ move it all down below, what with t’em ‘smart bombs’ from space sat’lites and the like.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Some folks says t’ey still be down t‘ere, workin’ away, still alive after all t’ese years. “
I just laughed. The War was a good 100 years ago. ‘Course Ziggy was the better part of crazy most days.
Suddenly I stopped, looking at the weed-choked pipes jutting up from the ground ahead of us. I could tell Ziggy smelled it, too.
Click below to read other folks entries!
Time for my lastest entry in this week’s version of the Friday Fictioneers. A weekly micro-fiction photo-prompt courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields to challenge writers to encapsulate a story in 100(ish) words. So here’s my entry, entitled simply, “Oops.”
“Well, what do you think?” she asked, gesturing at the colorful bar around them.
“Kitschy,” he replied, with barely a glance up from his Caesar romaine salad.
“Excuse…me? ‘Kitschy?’ What do you mean?”
He shrugged, shoveling in another mouthful of oversized greenery and garlic croutons. “Kitsch. Tawdry. Garish. Unredeemably flamboyant and without taste. Cluttered. You name it. Kitschy.”
She sat in stunned silence. Her eyes glistened with angry, unshed tears. Oblivious to her inner turmoil, he finally noticed the envelope on the table between them. “What’s that?”
“It’s the deed to this bar. I LOVED IT, and so I bought it as an anniversary present.”
Yes, folks, it’s that time again, the weekly Friday Fictioneers courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 100(ish)-word microfiction based on a photo prompt. Here’s my latest humble submission to this fun challenge, entitled, “Warts, and all.”
“I don’t wanna. Girls are icky.”
The young frog prince stared dolefully out between the pale green shutters of the Frog Palace at the group of village girls lined up at the gate below, his wide, flat lips pursed into a petulant frown.
His mother just smiled. “Sweetheart, you know it’s the rules. Every year on your birthday, you have to be kissed by girls from the kingdom to see if it will break the spell.”
At nine years old, he just didn’t understand the appeal. “Why? I like being a frog. It’s fun. More fun than kissing a bunch of stupid girls.”
His mother just laughed. “That’s what your father thought, too.” She leaned over, gently kissed his bumpy, green head and whispered, ”But I changed his mind about that, didn’t I?”
It’s that time again. Madison Woods “Friday Fictioneers” Photo-Prompt Flash Fiction. I hope you enjoy my latest attempt!
I heard her footsteps, still. The clear, sharp crack of her expensive Domani heels placed with deliberate, angry precision on each hardwood step. Chunk-POW. Chunk-POW. All the way down.
Emotions spun and swirled within me, one part longing to chase her, to beg forgiveness; another part hating the thought of enduring that well-rehearsed drama again.
I finally stuck my head over the railing and called out to her. “Jenna! WAIT!”
She turned, looking back up at me with a strange combination of hope and disgust.
“Here, you forgot this!” I called, as her wedding ring fell. This time, she didn’t try and catch it.
By Steve Berven
Once again, I’ve actually made the attempt to partake as one of the “Friday Fictioneers” over at Madison Woods’ blog. Once a week she posts a provocative or intriguing photo, and the challenge is to come up with an appropriately provocative or intriguing narrative to go along with it, in 100 words. So, here’s this week’s entry for me!
A Forlorn Hope
Jaelen gasped in dismay. “Are you sure?!”
Nehla just dropped her gaze and shook her head. “I’m sure. You can see it in the leaves, the stems. It’s almost summer, and not a single bloom. Not a single grape.” She heaved a deep, shuddering sigh. “It didn’t work.”
That was it then. All hope was gone. Genetically engineered to withstand the radiation, toxic soil, and blight which had destroyed so much of the Earth’s crops, this should have been their way back.
“We need to tell the others.” They turned, and reluctantly headed back down into the tunnels.
Thought I’d start dabbling a little more seriously (can you dabble “seriously”? Isn’t dabbling inherently unserious?) in the microfiction writing community. Soooo, based on a writing prompt from Madison Woods, here’s my first “100 Word” Friday Fictioneer entry:
I pushed my way through the last of the trees and stopped, stunned by the lush, vibrant meadow stretched out before me like a fantastic tapestry, seemingly spun together out of bright, emerald-green thread on the gods’ great looms. A rainbow marked it to me as a good, holy place.
Garrick had said there would be a sign. That I would just know. Garrick wasn’t usually wrong about much; he wasn’t about this, either.
I knelt, like an acolyte before an altar, and dug a small hole, placing the urn gently in the earth. Head bowed, I could only whisper, “Goodbye, Mother.”