TIME FOR FRIDAY FICTIONEERS! WRITE ON! FAR OUT! OUTTA SIGHT! GROOVY BABY!
A special thank you to TED STRUTZ for some nice publicity for my book.
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).
- 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.
Genre: Literary Fiction
Word count: 100
Flower power, Woodstock, bell-bottom jeans and moccasins. It was the 60’s. We tuned in, turned on and dropped out.
Although the following information seems unrelated to the previous line, I include it, nonetheless. The Ashamnu is a traditional prayer of repentance recited on Yom Kippur, the Jewish highest of holy days or day of atonement. The word “ah-SHAM-nu” means we are guilty or we have sinned.
**For a “mood music” click here.**
Rhoda cast furtive glances in all directions, inhaled throat-burning smoke, held it, and then exhaled, handing the joint to Marcus.
“Don’t be so paranoid.” His bloodshot eyes glittered.
Candles illuminated the corners of his darkened bedroom. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida blared from the stereo and patchouli incense tickled her nose.
After they’d downed an entire bag of chips, Marcus plopped his yarmulke on his head.
“So much for fasting. Let’s get back before they miss us.”
Side-by-side they sneaked into the synagogue and giggled through repentance prayers.
Every year afterward, when Rhoda dutifully attended services, she chuckled as she recalled the “High” Holiday.