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 relish constructive criticism. 
• Shalom,

              Rochelle

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Genre: Literary Fiction

Word Count: 99

VESTIGES

            The day Eleanor entered the convent her parents wept. No amount of pleading would change her mind.

            “It’s my calling to live my life for Him.”

            With bridal joy, she hid her cropped auburn hair under coif and veil and pledged her troth to God until death.  

            Years passed. Her faith waned and the church, once her safe haven, became a stone-walled Purgatory.

            Her reflection’s faded brown eyes scrutinized her from the cracked mirror. Headpiece abandoned and threadbare habit a crumpled heap on the floor, she smiled at her silver-gray locks.

            With renewed purpose, she faced the future.