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.”

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THE CHALLENGE:

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.)

THE KEY:

Make every word count.

THE RULES:

• 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.
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   My story will follow the prompt for those who might be distracted by reading a story before writing their own . I enjoy your comments. 

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  Copyright – EL Appleby

  • 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. 

 

get the InLinkz code

Genre: Memoir

Word Count: 98

FATHER’S DAY

            Dad was my first hero. Nobody surpassed him when it came to making up silly stories and songs. His lap was my throne.  

            After cancer took Mom, he deteriorated into a frail, lonely old man who depended on our daily phone chats.

            “You didn’t call.”

            “The kids were nuts this morning.”

            “Your line was busy.”

            “Ruth called.”  

            “You don’t care.”

            “I’ll be by this afternoon, Dad.”  

            Hours later, I found him lying on the sofa, mouth agape and eyes half-open. Stunned and filled with regret, I dialed 911.  

            Thirty years later, I still long to hear his voice.

Robert Edward Wisoff

1914-1984