Many thanks to Rochelle @Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple for herding us through Friday Fictioneers, even while on a vacation visit. The challenge is to write a story based upon a photo prompt, today by Jean L. Hays.
With fewer than 101 words we are challenged to contrive a beginning, middle, and an end.
Title: Whisperer Bay
Genre: Animal Fiction (Allegory)
Word count: 100
I rowed my skiff into the bay and leaned against the seat to vegetate under the stars.
There was a nearby splash. Something bumped the boat. Then again.
Then a voice. “Relax. Don’t talk. Just make sounds.”
I could barely see the head of a dolphin looking at me.
I spoke. “You can talk?”
Again, “Don’t talk. Make sounds. I don’t understand speech. I cannot talk.”
I thought, I must be dreaming.
“No. Some humans understand echolocation sounds. You do.”
I thought, I understand you and you me.
“Come back this time tomorrow. Plan to stay longer. I’ll explain then.”
Relaxed attention sees both ways and perceives concealed secrets.
Mind mental gaps.
Many thanks to Rochelle @Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple for orchestrating Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story based upon a photo prompt (today she gets extra credit for providing the photo, as well). With fewer than 101 words we are challenged to contrive a beginning, middle, and an end.
Title: Pleasure Palettes
Genre: Romance (autobiographical) Fiction
Word count: 99
I was at my easel trying for a loose, semiabstract, colorful urban cityscape.
Conjetti walked in.
“Did I hear you talking to someone?”
“It was your boyfriend. He’ll call back later.”
She cleared her throat.
“Okay. It was Julie. We discussed art. She said watercolor is a metaphor for letting go.”
“And you said?”
“I told her it was like herding wet, angry cats of different colors that don’t mix well.”
She reached around and grabbed me, biting my neck.
“Follow me,” she said with a sultry gaze.
I smiled, “At your service m’lady.”
“You’d better be.”
Look both ways as
“Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life” (Oscar Wilde).
Mind the gaps of romantic truth.
Many thanks to Rochelle @Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple for orchestrating Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story based upon a photo prompt (and thanks to Jean L. Hays for that), with a beginning, middle, and an end in fewer than 101 words. This is my third venture.
Genre: Ironic (flash) Fiction
Word count: 100
Lobo and Robin met and married at the University of New Mexico following his return from Vietnam in 1970. He was from the Atchafalaya Swamp region of Louisiana, she from Montana ranch country.
Doc Robin, as she was called, was an internationally known infectious disease specialist. Lobo, a highly sought after free-lance journalist.
Their 50th anniversary party was planned for Saturday night on their rancho near Albuquerque.
“What’s in the box, Robin?”
“Designer surgical masks for the party.”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“Not really, Babe. But it would not do for our quests to go home with COVID-19.”
Look both ways to plan a party.
Mind the gaps of the ironic mind in a literal world.
Many thanks to Rochelle @Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple for orchestrating Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story based upon a photo prompt, with a beginning, middle, and an end in fewer than 101 words. This is my second time at bat.
Genre: (Flash) Fiction: Romantic Drama
Word count: 100
Steven looked through the window at the next building as he washed dishes. His back was toward her.
Karen quietly picked up the butcher knife from the counter-top and walked toward him, the sharp tip pointed directly at his naked back.
When the point touched his skin, he turned around to face her, carefully took the knife, and slid it into the water.
Karen asked, “I didn’t frighten you?”
“I saw your reflection in the window.”
She slid into his arms. They kissed.
“Besides,” he whispered, “it’s a well-known fact, no man has ever been murdered while doing the dishes.”
Look both ways while doing dishes. Wouldn’t want to miss something.
Mind the gaps and sharp objects.
This is my first swing at Rochelle’s 100 (or fewer)-word story challenge based on a photo provided by Na’ama Yehuda. Many thanks to both. If I did anything wrong, someone please tell me. My story:
Word Count: 99 (including title)
She told the turban-clad cabby, “Seventy-second and Central Park West.” As he pulled into airport traffic he asked if she was a fan. She said, “No.” But she claimed to be born on December eighth, nineteen-eighty. He looked and shrugged.
She stepped onto the Dakota driveway and walked slowly to the archway door. Then she walked across to the park. As she stepped onto the Strawberry Fields Memorial, she removed the Carter Arms .38 special from her purse, placed the barrel in her mouth, and pulled the trigger. She heard, let me take you down…nothing is real…forever.
Look both ways. Forty years ago from next December 8th, Mark Chapman murdered 40-year-old John Lennon by shooting him four times in the back with a Carter Arms Undercover .38 Special, in the arched entrance to the Dakota Apartments. One can walk across the street into Central Park and view the Strawberry Fields Memorial. Within days of Lennon’s death, several fans committed suicide. While this story is fiction, the emotions are not. Mind the gaps.