For the Friday Fictioneers. Join in! It’s fun.
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
I always wanted to play on the grass beyond the railings. But they never let. I remember when legs were short and I looked through. Asked, “Please?” They said, “No!”
I watch from outside, kids running and playing ball. I want to join, run, play, but if I call out they shout, “Be quiet!”
Muscles in legs twitch with wanting to run. Now I’s big, I can look over the top. Wonder if I could scramble over without hurting. But I tied up too tight. Collar tugs hard. They play. I watch. Wait. Legs twitch.
Microfiction, exactly 100 words, for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. The prompt is the photo below.
PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma
Samira wandered downstairs, thinking about nothing in particular, her hand sliding idly along the cool smoothness of the wrought iron handrail. She stopped just before the last step, her eye caught by a dash of colour on the rail.
Bright emerald eyes looked at one another in disbelief as the monster loomed on the screen and a frantic twittering came over the micro from the landing party.
“Beam us up for pity’s sake! I think we got the wrong planet!”
Samira pulled a face and slammed her palm down on the ugly insect.
In the ship, the micro went dead.
This 100 word story is for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers, based on the prompt photo taken by her lovely self. Thanks, Rochelle 🙂
It was a strange morning with an electrical tension in the air instead of the usual spring energy. I wondered if there wasn’t a storm on the way. With a frown, my husband pulled over, stopped the car and got out. I followed him as he stomped into the field.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“That.” He pointed at the beautiful almost biblical sky, dark cloud silhouetted against a fierce light that streamed in broad bands of searchlight brilliance.
His finger moved to the brightening hills that rimmed the other side of the sky. “The sun’s over there.”
For the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. A short story in 98 words.
PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Potter
Snow fell thick and fast. It had been falling for days now and the city was smothered beneath a cold white blanket. If anyone knew how long it would last, they weren’t saying. She pulled the curtains tight closed and sat on the floor with her back against the tepid radiator. Fuel was rationed, and the white flakes still fell. She refused to think about what would happen when the hot water ceased pumping through the pipes, when her stores ran out and she would have to brave the streets in search of groceries. And this was August.
When I saw Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers prompt, I knew exactly what I was going to write. Here it is, in exactly 100 words
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
Nan had lived in the house in the glen since she was married. That made sixty-three years, five of them alone since Grandad died. We grandchildren visited, reluctantly, too foolish to appreciate the peace and quiet. When the council decided to flood the glen to make a reservoir, Nan refused to leave. The night before the bailiff came, she set Grandad’s chair outside, looking down the glen. That’s where they found them in the morning, her and the old dog with his head in her lap, her face to the sunrise. I often wonder if she saw it.
This is for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
Everywhere there were people: beneath, above, across the hall, across the street, at the other side of the wall, inside her head. The racket of their shouting, drunken, whining, angry voices was unceasing. Even in her dreams they raged at her, feet drummed, music pounded, cars roared.
She watered the plants on the window ledge, looked down into the gulf of the street. She pinched a flower head and dropped it into the emptiness, watched in fall, slow, drifting white and peaceful. She wondered how long before it hit the pavement below. She wondered, put one leg over the sill…
This is for the Friday Fictioneers. I ought to have a link button on here but haven’t got a clue how to get one, so I’m just linking ‘normally’.
The mill hadn’t functioned for years and had been converted, along with the little house where the miller had crammed his large family, to make a comfortable home. Only the pit wheel and shaft had been left as a feature. The result was idyllic, though Gilly sometimes found the noise of water rushing past the kitchen wall unsettling.
After they found the child’s skeleton in the millrace, rushing water became the background to the incomprehensible grinding of the pit wheel, night after night. When it was joined by the plaintive pleading of a small voice, the idyll turned to nightmare.
For the Friday Fictioneers, A short story of less than 100 words (92 for this one). Lots of stories to read on the site.
PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma
The door swung closed behind him, dulling the sound of riotous celebration inside, though the sharp sounds of laughter and cheering, corks popping and firecrackers spluttering filled the street. He stood on the curb side, following the chain of street lights to where they ended in darkness on the edge of town. Beyond was another world.
In the club, his girl had already moved on. He shrugged his backpack higher on his shoulders and smiled to himself when he realised he didn’t care. The last street light twinkled. Beyond was another world.