A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in Sammi’s Comment Section.
It’s Valentine’s Day. ❤ 😉
Grand possessions and wealth are meaningless.
Without love
I am nothing.
A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in Sammi’s Comment Section.
IT BEGAN IN 1971
(IN 71 WORDS)
“You’re not in love.” My mother fumed. “You’re in lust. Only eighteen. Too young to know your own mind.”
Nonetheless, I dug in my heels. My dad walked me down the aisle, a sorrowful expression on his face and tears in his eyes. “You can always come home if it doesn’t work out.”
“I give them six months,” said my aunt.
A paradox in progress.
Forty-nine years later, we’re still married.
This photo is only 15 minutes old at this posting.
November 28, 1971
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The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
PHOTO PROMPT © C.E.Ayr
Yeah, I know, the frog’s not blue and the following story is a rerun (the story, not the photo) from March 2013. Hard to believe as of this month, I’ve been writing Friday Fictioneers stories for 8 years. Many writers have come and gone since then, but still there remains a handful of us die-hard FF’rs. Thanks for participating one and all.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100
PACK RAT
Boxes overflowing with rusted ten-penny nails, camping equipment and car parts cluttered the garage. Judith hated the chaos, but other things got in the way of Greg’s promise to organize until the day he deserted her.
It took months to sort through the cardboard jungle.
Then she came across a crate with “Judith” painted on the lid. In it she found her class ring, his first speeding ticket and a bottle of cognac—same vintage they’d shared on their honeymoon.
A note in his uneven scrawl read,
“Damned cancer. Wish I were there to toast forty of my happiest years.”
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