Tag Archives: short short

Together #writephoto

Photo by Sue Vincent

The water was smooth, tranquil, barely a ripple.  It was as if the mighty ocean had turned to glass.

Michael smiled at the quiet irony.

It had been a turbulent few days.  Wave after wave after wave had thrashed at them, ever since the news had broken. Chaos reigned supreme.

Funny that the sea was so still.

He felt the familiar, warm squeeze on his hand and squeezed back. Margret was looking off into the distance, but he knew her thoughts mirrored his, as the still waters mirrored the placid sky.

After all of these years, they almost thought as one. Continue reading

A bird of a Different Color ;)

photo

PHOTO PROMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

I’m sure you have heard of the Bluebird of Happiness.  You may have even know the Chicken of Despair*.

I was visited by a different bird.

After the great success of my opening lines from last week’s FF, I thought I had made the big time.  Fame and fortune couldn’t be far behind.

I was lulled by the tapping of the old Underwood, but the taps continued even after I lifted my hands.

I turned.

It was at the window, watching.

When it caught my eye, the Mockingbird of Mocking started its song:

“It was a dark and stormy night….”

***

* The Chicken of Depression is from a Far Side comic strip, but I like the name Chicken of Despair better…

Note – Last week I started The Great American Novel with those words…

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Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Douglas M. MacIlroy. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Not as Much Fun as it Looks

writers-life

PHOTO PROMPT © Jeff Arnold

Quit complaining!
Wait, it will g_t b_tt_r.
Ev_ryon_ has to do it.
R_ally, w_ all do
Trust m_, it’s for the b_st
You n_ _d to l_arn pati_nc_!

Damn lowercase “e”!

Suzanne took the page out of the beat-up old typewriter.  Piece of junk.  Not worth fixing. She couldn’t image putting up with such a quaint monstrosity. Never.

She was bored.  What could you do while stuck at home?  She found the ancient beast.  She tried her hand at an acrostic about social distancing. Yuck.  She tried using every letter in a paragraph. Boring.

In desperation, she even tried Friday Fictioneers. ;)

***

Double dipping this week…

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Jeff Arnold. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

 

The Book Within Me

writers-life

PHOTO PROMPT © Jeff Arnold

The dull patina of the ancient Underwood drew me in. I caressed a key, imagining the scent of Egyptian spice; cardamom and aniseed.

Thyme? A pun?

I sat.

No bottle of bourbon present, but a glass of red wine would work.

I smiled to myself.

This time out of time, this bit of social distancing, would be exactly what I needed. I would use the sequester to my advantage and create The Great American Novel!

Paper in, enticing me with its blankness, the words began to flow.  I could feel it, my masterpiece:

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

***

Hats off to that great novelist, Snoopy ;)

(Note – I’ve been away from Friday Fictioneers for a few weeks.  Actually, from blogging in general… Glad to be back.)

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Jeff Arnold. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

The Final Act

dale-stage

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The night started like a dream.  We were all elated by the news and were enjoying the night out.

I was jerked back to the present as the action came to a halt.  Before I could protest, the orchestra began to play “Hail to the Chief” and the actors all came out on stage.

I stood and watched transfixed as our victorious president appeared in the front box.

The play was good, but after the funniest line, a man dropped to the stage.  I didn’t know Mr. Booth was in the play.

Only he wasn’t.

Thus began our national nightmare.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Dale Rogerson. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Still #writephoto

Photo by Sue Vincent

Edward walked into the garden. He sniffed the air and frowned.

It was a normal early spring day.  The grass had completed that shift from dead brown to lively green and the first buds were on the point of bursting into leaf.

But still…

The war was finally over.  The soldiers had stood down, and she had made a peace offering.  He had accepted.

But still…

Not a ripple troubled the water of the mill pond.  The gentle sound of grazing sheep was almost enough to lull him into a nap.

But still…

The sun warmed the land as laborers repaired the fruits of the destructive winter war.

But still…

A black cloud reared up in the north.  The world held its breath, then let it out in a shrieking gust. It grew cold.  Flakes of snow filled the air.

“Sir…” Continue reading

Like a Freight Train

barns-1-dawn-miller

PHOTO PROMPT © Dawn Miller

The rain sliced through my drenched clothing as if I were buck-naked.   Where was I?

I bit back my fear.

I knew every inch of this land like the back of my hand, didn’t I?  So what if I couldn’t see that hand if I stuck it out in front of me?

Look!

Was the rain lessening?

I began to see light.  The edge of the storm!

There was Wiken’s barn, standing proud and beautiful in the sunlight as if the storm didn’t exist.

I started to run, but then I heard it, like a freight train barreling towards me…

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Dawn Miller.  Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

**

Tornadoes usually form at the trailing edge of the storm.  As a child growing up in Ohio I saw several tornadoes, but the closest I was to one, it was raining so hard I couldn’t see it…

Another Person, Another Place

porch-steps-rochelle

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

I sat up with a jolt.

The world was throbbing.

Why was I shivering?

The scene in front of me began to focus, but didn’t make sense. A jumble of lines. Light shining from the ground.

I tried to stand, but my feet had no traction.

I looked down.

Red.

The red was wet with something cold and slick under it.

I looked around.

Light wasn’t shining from the ground, it was reflecting from it.

I closed my eyes.

A vision of another person in another place slipping on ice filled my head.

I fell back.

The world went dark.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

The Congregation

unamed-from-ted-strutz

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

The photos filled the news.  The “cherubs” in their white robes, smiling in front of major tourist destinations.  Social media spread the comparisons of the two little girls in bright white to photos of the 17 “kids”, the two oldest girls in their 20s, wearing dirty robes with nothing underneath.

One image was shown over and over, the eldest daughter with her extended belly clearly visible.

That was, of course, how they were caught.  It is thought the youngest three are hers.

James said he was inspired, but had no followers.  Nobody knew the lengths he’d go to create some.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Ted Strutz.  Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky

The Risk

dales-ice-rink-1

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The distinctive marks of Shel’s form of locomotion was frozen into the snow – step-drag, step-drag.  He grimaced. They’d follow that, for sure. He massaged his leg, knowing it would do no good.  Time to move forward.

Moth-like, Shel stayed focused on the light half glimpsed between the trees.  The sky ahead was glowing orange: civilization.

The trees ended in a park at the edge of a sleepy slice of suburbia.

He had to risk the open since the hard-packed snow would hide his tracks.

He was blinded as he reached the road.

“Freeze! On the ground, now! We’ll shoot!”

Caught!

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Dale Rogerson.  Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky