9 August 2019

Published August 7, 2019 by rochellewisoff

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 © Randy Mazie

Some of you may recognize this photo and may even think you’ve written a story for it. If you were part of Friday Fictioneers the week of December 6, 2013, you’re probably right. 😉 I’m off to visit my brother in North Carolina this week so I’m taking the liberty of posting a retread. To see the original post and who the Fictioneers were click here.

Do it! Do it! Click the frog!

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

CLOSE ENCOUNTER

Darlene rescued the tiny, squalling creature from a smelly garbage can. He squirmed and squeaked as she cuddled him on the way home.

“It’s E.T., Mommy. Can I keep him?”

“He needs special care, honey.” Mom gently wrapped him in a blanket and picked up the phone.

To Darlene’s delight, after months of social workers’ visits, Mom said, “He’s ours, sweetie, but we can’t call him E.T. What shall we name your new brother?”

“Elliott!”

Five years later, when Elliott scribbled green flying saucers all over her math homework, Darlene screamed, “You little monster! You really are from outer space.”

***

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8 February 2019

Published February 6, 2019 by rochellewisoff

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As always, please be considerate of your fellow Fictioneers and keep your stories to 100 words. (Title is not included in the word count.) Many thanks.

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 © Anshu Bhojnagarwala

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When I saw this picture, I decided it was the perfect time to rerun one of my favorites. Some of you might remember this one from four and a half years ago.

Genre: Hysterical Fiction

Word Count: 100

FIRE IN THE HOLE

Two months ago my husband bought a dehydrator, a nifty gadget that reduces ten pounds of apples to less than a pound of mummified slices in a matter of hours.

“Think of the money we’ll save,” said Jeff.

“Seriously?” I rolled my eyes.

The final straw came when he dehydrated jalapeños.

A short time later the dog begged to be let out. With my howling baby tucked under one arm and a handkerchief over my stinging nose I blindly kicked open the front door.

It took a week to fumigate the house. It’ll take longer to let Jeff back in.

22 April 2016

Published April 20, 2016 by rochellewisoff

The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.

Best wishes go out to our friend CEAYR and hopes that he’ll be without pain very soon.

PHOTO PROMPT © Madison Woods

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This month marks my fourth Friday Fictioneers Anniversary! To commemorate it I’m posting a rerun. At least the photo’s a rerun. If you already wrote a story to go with this prompt all those years ago, feel free to take a breather and re-post it.

As I reread the story I posted four years ago this week, I decided it needed some updating. It was, after all, the third flash fiction I ever wrote. If you’d like to read the original click HERE

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

IN MEMORY OF 24682

Between barbs and twisted wire the sun had the audacity to shine. Marushka’s stomach howled in outrage as she licked the dregs of a discarded sardine tin. She stretched her skeletal legs and longed for silk stockings to hug her once shapely calves.

She took a cracked mirror from her pocket and winced at her bald reflection. Murderer!

“I couldn’t let them hear you.” Memories of her baby gasping for breath under her palm haunted her. Employing the jagged glass, she slashed from her wrist to her tattoo. Relief flooded her as her life pooled in the grass. “Mama’s coming.”

4 March 2016

Published March 2, 2016 by rochellewisoff

The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.

Please be considerate and make an effort to stay within the suggested word count.

PHOTO PROMPT © Sean Fallon

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Many of you will remember this prompt. It’s one of my first as Friday Fictioneers Fairy Blog Mother. This week I feel the need to direct my writing energy to another project so I’m falling back on a re-run. It’s one of my favorite photos and stories from nearly four years ago. Looking back on the link from that prompt I see that quite a few of you wrote stories for it. Thank you for sticking with it. ❤ Feel free to take a break or write another story.

Genre: (hopefully not) Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

A WELL-ORDERED LIFE

Prototypical milquetoast, Benjamin Parker wore bow ties and kept to himself.

Three days of no-call, no-show to work passed before anyone missed him enough to call the police.

When we broke into his immaculate apartment we found his pajama-clad body in bed. There were no signs of foul play.

Jars filled with things like batteries, safety pins, wine corks and matchbooks lined cabinets and counter-tops.

“Quite the collector. Wonder if he jarred his tidy whities.” I flung open the closet door and choked. “What the—?”

In single file on the top shelf human heads floated in name-tagged gallon jars.

***

This coming Sunday, March 6, I’ll be interviewed on local TV at 7:50 AM CST. It will be streamed live here. Click the red new button and then “Live Streaming.”

And for your listening pleasure.

1 January 2016

Published December 30, 2015 by rochellewisoff

FRIDAY FICTION CONCRIT SUBGROUP

If you want to be part of this group click the link above and follow the rules set forth by Jennifer Pendergast, the leader of this subgroup. No one is under obligation to participate nor is it necessary to dig something up to criticize for the sake of critique. Please keep it polite and friendly.

The next photo is the PHOTO PROMPT. Once more I’m taking the liberty of doing a rerun. Some of you may remember this photo and already have a story to go with it. Feel free to replay your story as well and enjoy the New Year.

Copyright Jean L. Hays

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 98

ILLUMINATION

With her crimson hair and freckles she could’ve been my own reflection. Although we’d never met, I knew she was my birth mother.

“Didn’t you want me?”

“With all my heart.”

Sunlight streaming through the café windows glinted off her tears. “Mother said I couldn’t care for a baby…said I’d hurt you. She never even let me hold you.”

I wrapped my arms around her waist.

“Hold me now…Mama.”

Her fingers caressed my forehead, then moved as lightly as moth wings down my nose and over my lips. Her sightless eyes glistened. “It’s good to finally see you.”

To see the original post click here.

8 May 2015

Published May 6, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The next photo is the PHOTO PROMPT. It’s an oldie but a goodie. To a handful of you it will be familiar.

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A couple of weeks ago I wrote an unstory that I titled THE ULTIMATE COP OUT, this week I’m simply copping out by posting a rerun. With proofing, illustrating and a second novel coming out on the heels of the first, life is a busy proposition. (And there’s the full time job thing.) For most of you this is a new prompt. For those who have written a story for it, feel free to share it or write another, or take a week’s vacation. 😉

The following story is one of my husband Jan’s favorite of my flash fictions. I originally posted this on July 25,2012 when Madison Woods was still leading the pack. Since then our numbers have nearly tripled.

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 97

SNARL

“Nice doggie,” whispered Jolie.

Huddled against the fence she faced a mouthful of Pit Bull teeth. Which would be worse—the whipping she’d get for losing Grandma’s ring or to be eaten alive by a junkyard dog?

A few inches from the behemoth’s haunch, moonlight glinted off the sapphire. With her eyes fixed on his, she slid her hand toward the ring, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But he snapped to his feet with a roaring bark and lunged.

Her heart thrashed against her ribs.

In one ferocious bite the Copperhead skulking toward her met a grisly fate.

ORIGINAL POST

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