HAPPY NEW YEAR AND WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS!
May it be a good year, filled with prosperity, happiness and publication dreams fulfilled.
Henry David Thoreau said it best.
“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
In 2014, as in 2013, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints.
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.
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- My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy honest comments and welcome constructive criticism.
To start off the year with a bit of whimsy, I’m posting my daughter-in-law’s picture of their tree-climbing dog. She assures me that this is untouched and not photo-shopped. Yep, that’s my granddaughter watching.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
This week, just for Elmo, I’m writing a somewhat happy ending. 😉 At any rate, no one dies.
A SOLDIER OF THE GREAT WAR
(With Apologies to Mark Helprin)
In 1918 Dad deployed to France singing “Over There” and returned, months later, a sullen shell.
Then, for Christmas 1919, Grandma gave me a stub-tailed, bull-terrier puppy.
Instead of the “you-can’t-keep-it” snarl I expected, Dad grinned.
“He’s the spittin’ image of the bravest soldier in the 102nd. Bullets and mustard gas couldn’t defeat him.”
“He looked like a dog?”
“Not ‘looked like,’ son. I’d a never made it outta the trenches if that pooch hadn’t…”
Dad coughed and blinked, tucked my pup under one arm, straightened to attention and raised his hand-hook to his brow.
“Sergeant Stubby, I salute you!”