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.”
**NOTE: Since next Wednesday is Christmas, when many will be busy with festivities and family, I won’t post the photo prompt until Thursday the 26th. I will also extend the link one more day. So there will be a one day overlap in link lists. Thank you for your patience and understanding.**
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.
- 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.
- ***PLEASE MAKE NOTE IN YOUR BLOG IF YOU PREFER NOT TO RECEIVE 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.
- Like us on Facebook
- My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy honest comments and welcome constructive criticism.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
In March 1956, the year I turned fourteen, my best friend was murdered. They found her mangled body wedged in a rock crevice at Koutu Point.
For days I refused to get out of bed. No amount of Mum’s tea and sympathy could ease my broken heart or stem my anger.
The winter wind off the Tasman Sea brought waves of loneliness.
Never again will Opo and I swim together in Hokianga Harbour, but whenever I watch a dolphin spin above the water in gleeful abandon, I see her.
I hope the fisherman who blew up my Opo exploded, too.