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.”

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. (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).
• 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. 
• Shalom,

              Rochelle

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 99

ROSE OF SHARON

            Annetta’s blonde hair, blue eyes, and well-turned figure kept her alive for the worst part of two years at Ravensbrück.

            A year after the liberation, she accepted an invitation from Gershom, a Treblinka survivor, to join him and his friends in Palestine.

            At Kibbutz Ein HaNatziv they planted olive trees. Amid the date palms Annetta felt her spirit revive.

            One day while strolling through Beit She’an’s ancient ruins, Gershom led her to sit on one of the amphitheater’s stone steps and then knelt. “Marry me.”

            “You’d marry a…whore?”

            “No…you…” With calloused hands he caressed her cheeks. “…are altogether lovely.”

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For the history behind my pound of fiction click here.