The challenge is simple: each week you will be given an exact number of words you can use to write a poem or piece of prose. You can use any format or style you like; go wherever your inspiration takes you.
Does the name Kenner ring a bell? If you grew up—or had a child—between 1960 and 2000 it should.
Remember Stretch Armstrong? You could tie him in knots, stomp on him and extend his body from Kansas City to St. Louis. What Kenner advertisers never bothered to tell you was how the impervious super hero didn’t stand a chance against a four-year-old boy and his comrade.
I’m not sure how the indestructible paladin met his Waterloo. I can only tell you what it’s like to scrape ten pounds of gooey innards from the basement floor. R.I.P., Stretch.
Once more I’m participating in Weekend Writing Prompt. For instructions on how to join the fun, click HERE. Thank you, Sammi, for something different to challenge and fire the imagination. Today’s mother’s reflection is brought to you by the word:
Do you believe in love at first sight?
I believed it then.
I believe it now.
When you curled your tiny fingers around mine
You furrowed an unfathomable trench in my heart
That has only deepened with time.
This was taken several winters ago when school was called on account of snow.
Please be considerate of 70 or more participants and keep your story to 100 words. Thank you.
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.
“You’re such a success, Elise.” says Mary. “I’m jealous.”
“You got it all, girlfriend,” Barbara adds. “You’re a published author and an artist? If I could do what you do, I’d truly be happy.”
Her compliment is coupled with a longing gaze at Elise’s recently finished seascape.
A mixture of pride and something other than joy floods Elise as her admirers kiss her cheek and leave. She sinks to her knees under the weight of her adult daughter’s scathing words, spewed in anger the night before. Her accusations haunt Elise and reduce her to ash.
My doctor called it postpartum depression and assured me it was normal, but I knew better. I resented my son Daniel for what he was not. I wanted sugar and spice. Instead I got snips and snails.
One night, after putting the baby to bed, I turned on the television and came across a promotion for flame retardant pajamas. Graphic images of once handsome children, burned and scarred beyond recognition, seared through me.
“What’s wrong with me?” I bolted from the sofa to the nursery, gathered Daniel into my arms, inhaled his sweetness and whispered, “I love puppy dog tails.”
Seize the opportunity to free your muse and allow her take you on a magic carpet ride.
Henry David Thoreau said it best.
“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
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.
Ready or not, here it comes the holiday season is upon us and I’m not at all prepared. On the upside this is my sixth week as facilitator for this wonderful group of blogging authors.
As this page goes live it’s November 28, the dawn of my 41st wedding anniversary. (No. This isn’t this week’s photo prompt 😉 )
Now that you’ve oo’d and ah’d over my vintage wedding picture here are the “rules”:
Depending on your preference, leave your blog link in the comment section or use the linkz tool (or both ;)). My story follows for those who’d rather not read it before writing their own.
Please make sure your link works. If 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).
If your blog requires multiple steps for visitors to leave comments, see if you can simplify it. Please, for the sake or our writerly nerves, disable CAPTCHA–that wavy line of unreadable letters and numbers. It’s frustrating to have to leave a DNA sample, your blood type and your shoe size just to make a comment. (So I exaggerate. But hopefully you get the picture).
Challenge yourself to keep stories to 100 words. (There’s no penalty for going over or under).
Make note in your blog if you’d prefer not to have constructive criticism.
Be kind in your comments to others. Exercise discretion.
Many thanks for all the well wishing on our anniversary. As always, Jan sent roses to the restaurant. I have to kvell. My husband’s an incurable romantic and hasn’t missed a November 28th in all these years.
Now without further adieu, here’s my story.
“One more cheesy rendition of Jingle Bells and I’m outta here.”
After seven hours of checking out surly customers on swollen feet Carla’s holiday spirit reached its lowest ebb. As she slammed her register drawer a burst of warm fluid soaked her pants.
An associate helped her to a pallet on the dressing room floor. Another called 911.
A hard contraction sent pain-waves through her spine. The paramedic spread her legs and shoved his hand between them.
“It’s a boy!”
The overhead speakers blared with Burl Ives singing.
Over twenty years as an on-again off-again professional cake decorator I’ve been asked to do some interesting things with the edible media. A few of these creations will forever hold a fond place in my memory.
One such customer was a young woman who wanted a cake to celebrate her son’s potty training success. While I’ve decorated cakes for birthdays, baby showers, wedding showers, graduations and monumental achievements, I can honestly say that this one is a first. Nonetheless, it is a milestone. Why not commemorate it?