WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS.
As always, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints.
Henry David Thoreau said it best.
“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
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.
To post the prompt to your page simply right click on the picture and then left click “Save image as…” This will download it to your computer. Then paste it into your blog page. Please respect the copyright and use it only for Friday Fictioneers purposes. Any other usage requires permission from the photographer. Thank you.
Genre: Literary Fiction
Word Count: 99
“Sarah, we need to talk.” Brent leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded, watching her peel vegetables over the sink.
“Can’t it wait?” She didn’t look up. “I’ve got the headache from hell.”
His breath caught in his throat. “I might have a contract on my novel. And lately you and I—”
“You get my bulbs planted?”
“I quit my job.”
“The tub drain’s clogged again.”
Silently he turned and walked outside to his pickup which was loaded with everything he owned. Through the open window he could still hear her.
“And the yard…really, Brent, you just don’t listen.”