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 a few words over the 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. (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).
- While our name implies “fiction only” it’s perfectly Kosher to write a non-fiction piece as long as it meets the challenge of being a complete story in 100 words.
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- My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy honest comments and welcome constructive criticism.
As we pass through life we walk through many doors. One is the unavoidable door that opens onto puberty.
Today it’s 1968. The Vietnam War, protests , civil rights marches and assassinations dominate the news. Peace signs, love-ins and psychedelic rock make the scene. Beehive hairdos and feminine curves are out. Ultra thin boyish figures and straight hair are in.
Submitted for your approval: one adolescent’s story.
Genre: Literary Fiction
Word Count: 99
LEAVE IT LIKE IT IS
“Hurry, you’ll be late for school!” Mom called from downstairs. “And your breakfast is getting cold.”
“Give it to the dog!”
“Don’t make me call your dad.”
Jolene spread her long curly hair on the ironing board, laid a damp towel over it and then pressed it straight with the iron on the hottest setting.
Then, to hide what Mother Nature had too generously endowed, she donned her brother’s sweater. Other girls her age had stick figures, like Twiggy. She tugged her jeans over her hips and scowled at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
As an epilogue to my story, I urge you to listen to the videoed song that follows. I think you’ll understand why.