This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle, and end in 100 words or less. My story follows the picture prompt below.
It is their finished product. It gleams with excitement. Roger had tuned his guitar an hour earlier. John’s trumpet and French horn were waiting. The drums were taking a rest before Keith pounded them into submission. Dave had his piano ready to take directions from his flying fingers.
Now the seats are all empty. The last of the folding chairs are in place. This is the quiet before the storm. The lights will come up to welcome another show. Be it Detroit or Chicago who knows.
Having been some time in preparation a good time is guaranteed for all.
Someone was knocking at the front door. He rose like a zombie to answer the summons. His feet moved without any direction from him. Until recently Carole would handle any interruptions from their quiet life. Until today.
Her fever had approached dangerous levels two days ago. Then came the lost of her taste buds. That was a devastating blow to her ego. She basked in the comments of her guests after one of her fantastic dinners.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.The challenge is to write a short story in 100 words or less with a beginning, middle and end using the picture prompt below.
Looking outside it looks festive, but I can’t really tell from where I stand.
There are twelve of us waiting in line all wearing our white pajamas, hands cuffed in front, to receive our meds from the doctor who is behind a glass partition. He puts two pills inside a small dixie cup. The green one is the magic one. He makes sure you swallow. I have learned to hide the green one under my tongue. I take it before going to bed. It helps me keep what is left of my sanity.
This post is written forFriday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle, and end using 100 words of less using the picture prompt below.
He knew he was taking a chance. He needed the money to support his habit.
It was an elite private high school. His parents paid an ungodly amount to send him there. They provided the best of everything. They purchased him a $45,000-dollar Mustang for his sixteenth birthday. He knew how to play the game with them.
The backpack provided the perfect vehicle to transport his drugs. Everyone had a backpack. He made sure his did not draw attention. Plain black but lots of zippered pockets for his inventory.
He heard a whisper behind his back. It wasn’t a customer.
He lived in his white van. A van he purchased when times were good. His shuttered little sea food restaurant last year was a tourist hot spot. Usually this time of year is when he made almost all of his money. The empty strip-mall behind him was a constant reminder of the virus lurking all around him. The virus that killed his hopes for living.
Yesterday his van stopped running. Even if he could get it repaired, which he could not afford, where would he go. The coming winter would be hard on his seventy-four-year-old body.
The challenge is to write a story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
He spent his teenage summers working at his father’s farm market: “Leon’s Farm Market.” He worked seven days a week while his buddies enjoyed their summers just hanging around the neighborhood. He was responsible for rolling up the chain link fence that surrounded the market at 9 a.m. He was giving exactly $40 (one ten-dollar bill, three five-dollar bills and fifteen one-dollar bills) to open the old crank style National cash register.
He knew his first customer today. Mrs. Rosenburg was always looking for anything on sale. Looking over his shoulder she said, “How much are those garlics today Danny Boy?”
This post is written forFriday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
On that fateful morning of his thirtieth birthday, in a room bare of everything except their sleeping bags, he finally realized that they would be homeless. Their landlord had dumped everything on the street the night before. Even the child’s highchair they had bought for their expected child.
He had always though that the jobs they both had were recession proof. He had always dismissed his wife’s nagging to “save for a rainy day.”
Beside him his wife rubbed her bulging stomach. “Honey, it’s starting to rain,” she said in a sad voice that could not hide her fear.
This post is in response the Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
The movie set looked realistic. Small boutiques lined the winding narrow cobblestone streets. Mannequins replaced actual customers in the store fronts. The old blue roadster parked at the curb beneath the gas streetlights added a finishing touch to the set.
After my mother died I remember my dad taking me to dinner at Finnieston’s, a diminutive blue building on Argyle Street. We would take the Argyle Line and get off at the Exhibition Centre railway station. He would order his Bangers and mash. It was an experience a little lad like me will never forget.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers and the challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle, and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
The winters were harsh in St. Petersburg.
“It’s because you were born early Anna. You will learn to live with imperfections. The cold will always make it hard on you. Your legs and thin ankles will never support your small body. You will learn to live a humble life.”
“Please Grandma, take me to see Sleeping Beauty at the Maryinsky. Let me see the grace of the ballerina’s, the perfect flow of their arms and legs that make them look like white swans moving through the quiet pond.”
This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story with a beginning, middle and end in 100 words or less using the picture prompt below.
My grandmother kept a meticulous record of every family member in her large white bible. Each child’s birthday was recorded in her beautiful handwriting. She lived long enough to record some of their deaths.
Near her death I was sitting beside her as she remembered each one with a special story.
I noticed one entry labeled James that had the same birth and death date. I asked my grandmother about it.
“That was your uncle Jim,” she said crying.
I never knew I had an uncle. “What happened to him,” I asked.