Friday Fictioneers

Friday Fictioneers time! This week’s photo comes courtesy of Adam Ickes. Every week Rochelle posts a picture and nearly 100 writers put their own spin on it. Head over, read some great writers, and join in the fun.

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

Copyright - Adam Ickes

you said let’s go someplace quite

a place together; just us

somewhere you could be my knight

you knew i wouldn’t make a fuss

the lake was warm you said

we shed our cloths to bear our souls

somehow this filled me with dread

i suddenly needed to escape this water hole

my fear was real after you revealed

terrible things i didn’t want to here

certain things you wanted i couldn’t yield

you graced me with your rotten sneer

that led to an angry walk

looking back I said

don’t forget your boots are on the dock

Friday Fictioneers: No Trepassing

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

Copyright -Randy Mazie

He remembered the building well. He received a telephone call within a few minutes of checking into his hotel from an anonymous caller telling him to get back where he came from if he didn’t “want to be carried out in a wooden box”.

He told the workers he would organize a “sit down” strike against their powerful employer. Sit-down strikers did just that, electing their own “Mayor” and other civic officials and maintaining the plant throughout the strike.

No trespassing meant death to those inside.

100 Exactly

Friday Fictioneers: The Boat of Charon

Friday Fictioneers (FF) is a challenge open to writers all over the world: write a 100 word story using the week’s unique photo as inspiration. This week’s picture is supplied by Ted Strutz.

More hows, whens and whats of FF can be found here at Rochelle’s site.

Copyright - Ted Strutz

The return voyage was void of passengers except for the ferryman Charon.  He had collected sixty danake, or one for every soul of the deceased, for the journey across the river Styx. Each coin carefully placed on the mouth of the dead person.

Charon could not accommodate everyone. His red flashing eyes would determine who boarded his boat and those who would be left behind to wander the shores for one hundred years.

Charon felt his power while holding his pole in his right hand and using his left hand to receive the deceased. “Another day another sixty danake, he thought!”

NaBloPoMo #28

Friday Fictioneers — I Fall to Pieces

Thanks to Rochelle and her weekly Friday Fictioneers challenge!

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end.

Copyright - Sean Fallon

Photo Copyright Sean Fallon

I remember our first date. How could I forget? It was MY first date. You were a minister’s daughter. My mom was pleased. I picked you up to attend a concert. You slid in right beside me. You placed your hand inside my legs. Remember bench seats? Thirty years married when I started to wear pink. Now I can hardly remember. The memory fails each day. Now it’s one day at a time. The kids keep telling me:

common love you shared

a sad song by Patsy Cline

i fall to pieces

NaBloPoMo #21

Sorry Charlie!

Copyright - C. Hase
Photo by Douglas M. Macllroy

In response to “Friday Fictioneers Challenge.”

“What’s all the commotion about Charlie.”

“It’s an audition for a seafood commercial. They took our glamour shots this morning. I was one of four to be called back a few minutes ago to speak our lines. They narrowed that field down to three. And I am one of the three.”

“Looks like you have some colorful competition.”

“Oh, hoiti toi, there are just a bunch of Koi. Wait, here comes the producer. I hope I’m the winner.”

“Sorry, Charlie. We are looking for someone who has good taste, not taste good.”

Friday Fiction: Shopping Cart Schizohrinia

copyright -Janet Webb

Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields again for her Friday Fictioneers challenge.

The lady, judging from her appearance and quirks, has extreme mental health issues, but she plays the game of life, non-the-less. She walks to and from somewhere dragging that shopping cart, but is also occasionally seen trundling a piece of luggage to and fro. She sports bright red earmuffs when it’s not even cold outside. To talk to her, she seems normal enough, but her appearance and that shopping card set her apart. I wonder what is so important to her that she takes it with her on a daily basis.

She always refused to leave that cart behind for any reason.

Low Tide

Thanks for the encouragement of Friday Fictioneers.

seagulls-wicklund

The police said “that it looked similar to cocaine and they probably thought they’d hit the big time.” Nathan stood in front of the TV cameras and pleaded with the burglars: “please return the cremated remains of my sister. She died three years ago.”

The next morning the bullet-riddled corpse of a drug dealer named Hoochie Pevens was found on the beach. The cardboard box was there too; about half of Gertrude’s ashes remained. and there was this note. It said: “Hooche sold us the bogus blow, so we wasted Hoochie. Sorry we snorted your sister. No hard feelings. Have a nice day.”

Three Doors: Poets, Memories, and Death

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers.

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

threedoorsHe didn’t know why his grandmother like this picture. But she told him her interpretation many times.

“Behind the yellow door you can hear poets and prose writers reading their books. The blue door contains old memories which never die. Some do escape through the opening. And the red door is protection from the angel of death.”

This is where nothing ever happens but winter always comes”.

Night Grandma!

Martha – Friday Fictioneers

“Martha?” Again, no reply.

He knew he had the correct shop. It was where she purchased her wedding dress many years ago. He had returned from the war with shrapnel in his leg. She said the damaged leg didn’t bother her and so they were married.  She was lovely on that day. Her face radiated with a glow so intense he was afraid to touch her. And almost every anniversary they would have tea at the little place across the street.

It had been a few years since they had celebrated an anniversary. He could not remember the last time.

“Martha?”