Once more our diverse band of intrepid FRIDAY FICTIONEERS sets out to write. We come together from such places as Kenya, Ghana, Stockholm, South Africa, Australia, the UK, Canada and the good ole US of A. Fascinating group. Join us!
Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)
Make every word count.
- Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
- MAKE SURE YOUR LINK IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH FICTION. (Should you find that you’ve made an error you can delete by clicking the little red ‘x’ that should appear under your icon. Then re-enter your URL. (If there’s no red x email me at Runtshell@aol.com. I can delete the wrong link for you).
- Thanks to Blogspot bloggers for (please) disabling their CAPTCHAs. (Example below)
- Make note in your blog if you’d prefer not to have constructive criticism.
- REMINDER: This page is “FRIDAY FICTIONEERS CENTRAL” and is NOT the place to promote political or religious views. Also, you are responsible for the content of your story and policing comments on your blog. You have the right to delete any you consider offensive.
**Please exercise DISCRETION when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**
Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private.
My story will follow the prompt for those who might be distracted by reading a story before writing their own . I enjoy your comments.
My story this week is dedicated to a friend knows too well the pain of separation and change.
Genre: Literary Fiction
Word count: 99
Often during Chase and Amelia’s thousands-of-miles-apart, online chats, he would interrupt and say, “Brb. Mystic needs his ears scratched.” or “Mystic wants an apple.”
One night, after a simple “hello” and an extended pause, he declared, “Jayne sold Mystic.”
Amelia’s screen blurred. “That sucks.”
“Her property. No big deal.”
Despite Chase’s protests, Amelia detected anguish in his typo-riddled, printed voice. Although none appeared in the portrait icon beside his screen name, she intuited tears.
She typed and backspaced over at least a hundred shallow words of comfort before proffering only two.
“I love that horse.”