- WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS.
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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.”
THE CHALLENGE:
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.)
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.
- InLinkz has seen fit to change the format of the link box and automatically pastes the story title into the second box. IT WOULD BE HELPFUL IF YOU WOULD DELETE IT AND TYPE IN YOUR NAME SO THE REST OF US KNOW WHO THE AUTHOR IS. Thank 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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- ***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.
- Shalom,
Rochelle
Genre: Literary Fiction
Word Count: 100
REVISIONS
“Goodbye, wrinkles.” Cynthia glared at her reflection.
After forty years of marriage, seeing her trim figure clad in a clingy silk nightgown still excited Lester. She slipped into bed and snuggled against him.
“Don’t do it, Cynthia.” He curved his arm around her slender shoulders and reveled in her perfume’s scent. “Please.”
“I’ll be gorgeous again.” Her lips, as she whispered, tickled his ear.
A week later, the surgeon’s mumbled apologies filled Lester’s dismayed mind like ashes blowing across a deserted cemetery.
“Internal bleeding…respiratory failure…cardiac arrest.”
In his empty bed that night, Lester caressed her fragrant nightgown.
“Goodbye, Gorgeous.”