Friday Fictioneers for September 30th, 2022

For our October’s eve challenge, Mistress Rochell has worked her magic of Friday Fictioneer redux by reviving a past portraiture of her own. It’s a busy time of year for our illustrious maven.

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, commenced at sundown this past Sunday, marking a time of the high holy days. Soon to follow will be Yom Kippur, then Sukkot.

Click on the picture of Rochelle’s lamps to be magically whisked to her blog page where her cauldron formula for fewer than 100-word stories can be realized.

Genre: Semi-speculative Fiction
Title: Lamps of Enlightenment
Word Count: 100

***

“Whale oil lamps? Your witch’s coven meets here tonight?”

It’s our October bridge meeting. Don’t call us witches. We play cards.

“Tarot cards.”

Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor—a scientist. Rochelle will explain magic and witches in the Bible.

“She’s Jewish. They don’t believe in witchcraft.”

She’ll explain. The Witch of Endor is in ‘Samuel’ when Saul calls her. I want you gone.

“No worries. I don’t play bridge. They scare me.”

Before you go, please fetch my broom and large cauldron from the attic?

“Sure thing. Double, double, toil and trouble; lamps to burn and a cauldron to bubble.”

***

Look both ways when learning about friends.
Mind all the gaps lest someone put a spell on you.

Click the coven to be spell-cast into other lamp oriented fine fictional stories.

Friday Fictioneers for September 23rd, 2022

For the last full day of global top-half summer, our waving but unwavering maven of history’s mysteries, Rochelle, has boxed-up a deal with Alicia Jamtaas. That duet has flat-out challenged our fictioneer muses to contrive artful `songs or stories of fewer than 101 words. I don’t think titles or postscripts count, lest she DQ’s me.

Click any box, bike, or item in Alicia’s photo and UPS will pick you up and creatively deliver you to Rochelle’s post of purple passions to open the what-ifs and where-how’s of joining the fray.

Genre: Murderous Mystery
Title: Friends in Low Places
Word Count: 100

***

“You didn’t have to shoot him, Bill.”

“His last bad joke. My gun’s in the blue-handled box.”

“Nothing’s priced. What’s up behind the curtain?”

“Porno auditions. You should try out.”

“Focus, Bill. We need that damn gun. This shooting people over jokes needs to stop.”

“It wasn’t the joke. He was an asshole and an organ donor. I made the world a better place with one shot.”

“Oh? HE was now? Okay. We’ll pick up what’s left at the morgue tomorrow. She wants a grand for the box. She must know.”

“Well, crap! Ask her if she’s an organ donor.”

Look both ways to make your world better.
Mind the gaps, especially in murder plots.
“Remember what the dormouse said, feed your head.”

Click on the man with a gun to read more boxes of fun. Was that the punch line?

Friday Fictioneers for September 16th, 2022

For mid-September, our fantastic Mistress of Friday Fictioneering fantasy, Rochelle, poked us with the picture of Pincushion Hakea flowers provided through the good graces of Trish Nankeville.

The lovely photo inspired my memory, and I considered a quote by Henry David Thoreau that Rochelle has posted on her blog in the past, it’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see. Some say it was written as, “The question is not what you look at, but what you see.” (From the essay, “Walking.”) Whatever—close enough. What you see is a good theme.

I’m fascinated by the work of people who see around us the things I miss: the artists and photographers who’s work I often borrow to enrich my world. Through their art, I get to see what they see: a lovely natural world.

Click on Trish’s photo of the red pincushion flowers to be transplanted into Rochelle’s blog where you can learn how to set your roots into the Wednesday, Friday Fictioneers writer community.

Genre: Autobiographical Fiction
Title: Thoreau’s Pincushion Hakea
Word Count: 100

***

We walked the path near the lake. Jay was a talented amateur photographer who did all his own film processing.

He said, “It’s like hunting. Look there. What do you see?”

I replied, “Weeds and stickers.”

We knelt and he spritzed water on the weeds.

“Look closer.”

I looked. “Wow. I didn’t even see the flowers much less that spider’s web. Now it all glistens.”

He said, “Everything is a subject or a scene. I use other things, lighting, angles, and point of view to enhance it. I do more in the lab. It’s the beauty of nature artfully staged.”

***

Look both ways. What you see matters.
Mind the gaps for the hidden fruits of nature’s beauty.

Click on Waken Pond to float over to the FF squares page where more wonderful stories are linked.

Friday Fictioneers for September 9th, 2022

What day is it boys and girls and other less binary-specific people? It’s not Howdy Doody time with Buffalo Bob. It is Wednesday’s Friday Fictioneers time hosted by the magical and majestic Mistress Rochelle, who by now we all know so well.

By slipping us a Lisa Fox pontoon boat photo taken in front of Preacher (formerly Buffalo) Bob’s Church of What’s Happenin’ Now, we are to be blessedly inspired to contrive a little lily-white, fib-ological story in all its radiant glory.

If you want the whole homily about telling your own fewer than 101 words heavenly-inspired story, clicking on Li’s pic should do the trick.

Genre: Magical Get Realism
Title: The Bigger Boat
Word Count: 100

Wanda said, “The kids are grown and gone. Let’s buy a boat and sail around the world.”

Alfie said, “Great idea, Honeypot. Preacher is selling his.”

At the church Brother Bob says, “Praise God. Wanda and Alfie. We ain’t seen y’all in a coon’s age.”

“We are empty nesters who wanna buy your boat and sail around the world. Wanda’s idea.”

Y’all’s boaters?

We ain’t, Preach. We aim to learn, quit our jobs, sell the house, and go for it.

Well dang, Alf! You’re gonna need a bigger boat. I’ll pray for y’all.

Thanks, Preacher. A bigger boat you say?

Look both ways, find what you love, and let it kill you.
Mind the gaps and check the weather.
The sharks are always biting.

Click HERE to link up with a parcel of other inspired stories, good to go until next Wednesday when we will discover another fine photo with which to proceed.

This story is not truly 100% fiction, but the line about the bigger boat I bogarted from the Jaws movie.

And the humorous nature of my Li-inspired lie was partly set to sail by a scene from Caddyshack.

Dale mentioned the Styx song “Come Sail Away” in THIS recent travel post, so I was tempted to use it. But I steal enough stuff.

Note: While I double check every link, I cannot determine if youtubes work outside of the USA. But it’s all about the micro-fiction. The links are ancillary.

Friday Fictioneers for September 2nd, 2022

To slip nicely from the end of sweet summer sweat and August’s heat into September’s pre-Labor Day weekend; her magnificence, Rochelle of the purple addiction, and Wednesday Wonder Woman, has cast a David Stewart late night photo for all to see and to be mused into a fictional tryst for Friday.

If you wish to try a fib, a lie, or you have a story to aspire, click on David’s photo, and you shall flash over to the blog of our magical mistress to learn all her secrets.

My tale grew from an effect echoed by a favorite musical afterglow. Fans of the band or the song may glean the tune from the nature of some lines I borrowed.

Genre: Musical Fan Fiction
Title: Programed to Read
Word Count: 100

***

Shimmering lights lit the shed.

Don pointed. “There’s the doorway. Step inside. Say, ‘1969.’ Another door opens to a colitas casino.”

I said, “Gambling’s legal. Why the drama?”

“Libraries are underground since books and music became illegal. Dancing to remember is forbidden.”

I did as he said. I heard happy voices. Such a lovely place with music and books. I asked the librarian, “Could I check anything out?”

She lit a candle and replied, “Such a lovely face. Relax. We are all prisoners here programmed to read. You may check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

***

Look both ways.
Saying it will not happen again doesn’t mean it won’t.
Mind the gaps for fears in the middle of the night, just to hear them say,
“Bring your alibis.”

Click on the Eagles “Hotel California” poster to zip to links for more great flash/micro fiction stories.

***

This is not the Eagles, but cred to their song by buskers Sherlock and Rodrigues. My deep apologies if this YouTube fails you, I don’t know how to tell if it’s banned in Boston, London, or Montreal.

Friday Fictioneers for August 26th 2022

Our unrivaled and swimmingly marvelous maven and Friday Fictioneering mistress, Rochelle, has paired up with Brenda Cox to serve up a stinging photo with food, working women, and a mad mugging man to inspire us to fictionalize 100-word stories mused from the minds and memories of twisted fibbers.

If you want to get jiggy with the ways and where-how’s of this Micro-, flash-fictioning adventure, click on Brenda’s photo for a sit down at Rochelle’s blog to check the menu for rules regarding ingredients.

Genre: Derivative Fiction
Title: Barbecue Stir-Fry with Tomatoes
Word Count: 100

***

Frank sat; arms crossed. “These are all women. Why’d you bring me here?”

Ruth smiled at Idgie. “They’ve excellent fried green tomatoes. The stir-fry is to die for.”

Frank mumbled, “These look like illegals. I’m calling Sheriff Smoot.”

Ruth nodded to Idgie and touched her neck.

Idgie waved her arm.

Frank felt a sharp sting. “Damnit! A bee. Give me Benadryl.”

Ruth handed him the bottle. Frank drank then collapsed. A small crowd gathered, then Frank was gone.

Idgie hugged Ruth. “Come back tomorrow, Love. We have fresh meat to barbeque.”

Ruth touched Idgie’s cheek. “I’ll always love you, Bee-charmer.”

***

Look both ways when seeking friendship and love.
Mind the gaps and take karma into account when life hands you Towanda’s rules.

This story is derived from, and inspired by, the book and movie, Fried Green Tomatoes.

Click on Idgie and Ruth at the Whistle Stop Café to truck on over and read other deep-fried stories.

If you’re unfamiliar with the 1991 movie, here’s a trailer to tempt you.

Friday Fictioneers for August 19th, 2022

Mistress Rochelle has returned to her castle from her annual August quest, and she is enticing us with her own painting of shells in a glass. I kind of did a hard left leaning twisty turn on the prompt (coz TMI) to flesh out my 100-word limited story whilst weaving in some suggestive erotica, playing around, and the results of binge-watching too much Grey’s Anatomy.

My tongue-in-cheek apologies for rubbing-in an R-rated Friday Fictioneers (fantasy) story. If you think you might do better, it’s on! Click on Mistress’s fantabulous watercolour ((winks at Brits and Canucks)) to jump on my bike and wheel on over to Rochelle’s purple pleasure posts to get your ticket to ride.

Click a shell to hop on over to see Rochelle.

Genre: Allman Erotic Fiction
Title: Polyamorous Holiday
Word count: 100

***

The lady was an artiste, a trooper. She did it all. When she climbed on behind me, I sang out.
We gotta run to keep from hidin.’ I don’t own the clothes I’m wearin’.

Then she sang.
“Not gonna let ‘em catch us, Midnight Riders.”

She grabbed my crotch and yelled in my ear.
“Ten-day vaycay, Babe. Let’s go before I do you here.”

I sang.
I’ve passed the point of caring. I’ve one more silver dollar.

She squeezed hard.

We crashed.

Ten delightfully romantic days in the hospital. Each day we sang.

“Same old bed we both are sharing.”

***

Look both ways during those special summer days.
Mind the gaps unless that’s where your hand lays and stays.

***

Click the chick-pic for more marvelous myth, memoir, and mendacity.

I bogarted and messed around with the lyrics to the song. If you don’t recognize it, here goes… I shudda picked a shorter one, but hey, meh likes it.

Friday Fictioneers for August 12th 2022

Mistress Rochelle shuffled her photo deck and dealt us a Roger Bultot metro scene to provoke our creative juices with a New York state of mind. This one mused up too many stories for one day, in this case a pair of Ragin’ Cajuns in the Empire State. If you can gin up a microburst of fewer than 101 words, click on Roger’s pic to sky over to Rochelle’s blog and get the lay of the land. Come play with us. This is fun.

Genre: Fan Fiction
Title: Look Both Ways
Word Count: 100

***

Philippe say, “Look. Two one-way signs pointing opposite ways. That says STOP ALL WAY. We ain’t in N’Orlins no-more, bro. Nothin’ make no sense.”

I replied, “It’s New York, Bubba. See dat church fence, windows barred, that shop covers windows—tagged.”

The lady across the street walked toward us. There was a loud screech of tires—then a scream. Everyone ran.

“Call 911. Dat lady got run over.”

He called. “Shit man. WTF?”

I sez, “She was reading my blog. Walked into the street before she read my postscript.”

“How you know dat, mista Bill?”

“She didn’t look both ways.”

***

Look both ways, even on one-way streets.
Mind the gaps on sidewalks
and don’t read my blog crossing streets
if you’re in a New York State of Mind.

Click on any famous New Yorker to read more wonders of fab fiction.

And then there is Billy J…. (it is a long one)

Friday Fictioneers for August 5th 2022

Her Majesty, Mistress Rochelle took up with the artful British Lady, Sandra Crook, and her collection of local history castle photographic art to inspire us to fictionalize a bit of Brit history and fantasy. If we surpass Her Ladyship’s 100-word limit, we’re forgiven (fingers-crossed) but sent to the castle dungeons where a Scot vampire Count will teach us to painfully count—one number at a time.

To join with this British invasion simply point to the below photo and click, from whence you’ll magically be transported to the wonderful purple swimmingly world of Rochelle’s blog where you’ll be provided proper guidance and told how to mind your manners.

Genre: Speculative Travel Fiction
Title: Castle Horror Picture Show
Word Count: 100

***

Elizabeth tugged the wheel, “Left side. We meet up there at midnight.”

I asked, “Why join more judgmental, malcontent, freak poets?”

She pointed, “That’s our B&B. It’s a cover coven with vampire poets. Ancestry shows DNA matches.”

“You’re a hedge witch!”

“Be quiet!”

Later, I heard church bells as we walked into the ancient castle ruins.

A male voice, “Mistress Lizzy, is it? Douse them torches. Remove your clothes. Join us for sexy dungeon dancing. William must be bit.”

I felt a prick in my neck. Elizabeth laughed and danced away with a vampire named Charles. We were home free.

***

Look both ways and don’t think love conquers all.
Mind the gaps for mind control nips
and put some garlic powder on your tasty neck.

***

Click on Dr. Frank-N-Furter “if you want something visual that’s not too abysmal” and more hot lit micro-fiction “from Transylvania, ha ha.”

***

If you’re unfamiliar with the movie, Rocky Horror Picture Show, here is a trailer.

Friday Fictioneers for July 29th 2022

I woke to a surprise this morning when I discovered that the Maven of freestyle, the Mistress of the breaststroke, and the Madam of fictioneering, Rochelle, had slipped in a prompt photo I took out in the wilds of my daughter and son-in-law’s west Texas grange.

Click on the remnants of the greenhouse to spread over to Rochelle’s blog camp so you can grow your own stories of 100-word micro-fiction.

Click on my prompt photo to go to Rochelle’s page with all the fixin’s.

Genre: Horticultural Fiction
Title: Greenman Phish-heads
Word Count: 100

***

What happened here?

The well-water went bad years back. The plants died. Now it’s only what grows naturally: mesquite, cactus, and other wild things. The Green Man makes his home in there now.

What’s over there?

That’s Uncle Billy’s Phish Camp. That’s Julie’s cat house over to the left, and that big building is the main house.

Green Man isn’t real.

He’s real. Come back next Spring and you’ll see his magic. It’s beautiful. Get in the truck and I’ll show you the business end of the Greenman rebirth. Maybe you’ll meet him. It’ll make you a believer forever.

***

Look both ways and learn to grow new beginnings.
Mind the gaps as you turn tragedy to treasure.
Greenman is all thumbs.
It’s never too late.

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