Just a touch of horror here – maybe zombies, or maybe fantasies running wild. It’s your decision…
Anyway, please let me know what you think of my story. It’s just 100 words long, and inspired by the photo below. Want more? Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site and you’ll find all sorts of tiny stories, all starting from this picture –
Nowadays people believe in good solid walls, solid enough to hold the monsters – the infected ones who used to be people – outside where they belong. Safety first, especially when you have kids.
But walls wear out. Sometimes you have to work extra for money to fix them. Megan hurried downstairs, finished at last, and found little Hannah peeking through one of the rusted-out holes. She grabbed the child. Hannah struggled to get back to her peephole.
“Want to see!” Were the eyes and the tiny voice changing already? Megan’s heart broke. She knew she could never trust her daughter again.
Another Friday Fictioneers short-short story. Believe me, 100 words is short; I always start out over the limit. This time, though, I trimmed it down to less than a hundred words, and I think it’s a better story as a result.
Don’t forget to go over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site, read the stories other people wrote based on this week’s picture, and – if you want to – post one of your own. The more the merrier.
But first, please read my version and let me know what you think of it!
Didja ever wonder what’s behind windows – you know, inside? I walk down this street pretty near every day, and I wonder. That one up there’s extra hard to figure out, what with the curtains and the reflections.
And it’s probably different now. No telling what’s in there. Not me. And for sure not my clothes, not since she threw them all outa that window. She always was trouble to get along with. Course, she said I was the one who was trouble.
Wait, she did the same thing to you?
And I always thought I was special.
Another short-short Friday Fictioneers story! Don’t forget to see what other people did with this week’s prompt picture. And please let me know what you think of this one –
“This is such a great city, and nobody appreciates it but me. Does anybody even notice – sculpture, architecture, and all our murals? So many styles – abstractionism, symbolism, trompe l’oeil – why, there’s a garden you could try to walk into by mistake. And does anybody care?”
“Wasn’t there a book about-”
“Nobody cares. Let me show you! Come on, down this way. How could anybody tear this down?” He swept an arm dramatically toward the missing wall.
“I tried to tell you. Just like your painted garden. It really looks like you’re seeing the inside of the building, doesn’t it?”
This is my first Friday Fictioneers story in – how many months? Oh yeah, eight. Nothing since January. I’ve been too busy and too tired to write.
How about you? Do you have stories to tell? Take a look at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ prompt picture, and share your hundred words with the world.
And while you’re at it, see what the other Fictioneers came up with.
They’re searching, but they can’t see me in this gulley under the bushes. No more locks, no more guards, no more shouting. I can go anywhere.
I could go anywhere if I could stand up.
This is a good hideout – shelter and water. I wonder if this little stream’s clean? It’s cold, anyhow.
Cold’s good. Makes my ankle throb less. I wonder if I broke any bushes falling in here? They could see that.
There goes another one with a flashlight. So bright. Looks like the sun. They’ll never see me. I could stay down here forever.
Friday, and the Fictioneers; about 100 words inspired by the photo below. (I know, I know. But this story started out at almost two hundred words; 130 is a lot of trimming.)
Of course, every person who looks at this week’s picture will take something different from it. You don’t want to settle for just my version when you can find links to all the other stories at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site. Check out what all the other Fictioneers came up with – but first, please tell me what you think of my story.
The wall of gray blocks; the grayish tan blocks of the neighboring building. Charcoal gray flagstones paving the courtyard, stripes of pale sand marking their junctions. But the light would go soon.
Quickly, neatly, he stacked the dishes, carried them out of harm’s way, set up the easel. Time blurred like the paint sweeping over the canvas. Noise, a doorbell, brought time back.
At the door? Ella, her husband, a strange girl. Pretty. He grinned at the girl, studying the colors of her face, her hair. Ella pushed past him. “Some host you are,” she said. She turned to the stranger. “I warned you how my brother is. He can paint, though. And he can pay to take us to a restaurant. Once he finds a shirt that he hasn’t wiped brushes on.”
Friday Fictioneers on Sunday! Check out other stories about this picture over at our fearless leader Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site.
But first, please tell me what you think of my attempt. Thank you!
I enjoy being a tour guide here. Such a beautiful house, and such good stories.
There’s one yarn I’ve never believed. They say years ago, old Mr. Vanzelder – the one that left the place to the Foundation – was crazy in love with the chauffeur’s daughter. They were both teenagers then, and their parents pried them apart. The last time they saw each other, he swore he’d grow her the perfect rose, and she swore she’d come back when he did.
He went from rich to richer selling roses, but she never came back. Now the greenhouse is a wreck, and the gardens – excuse me.
Ma’am, what’s wrong? There, there, don’t cry like that. You’re her granddaughter? Can you take care of her?
Friday Fictioneers! The continuing saga that answers the question, “How many different stories can people tell, if they all start from the same picture?” Take a look at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site to find out, and add your own story if you want to.
But first, please take a look at my version and let me know what you think of it.
It’d be funny, if I was in a better mood. I mean, who tucks a DETOUR sign between two trees with the arrow aiming you into the library? But I just figure it must be kids. Nothing to me.
I got enough to think about. Do I look to you like the kind of guy that goes to the library for fun? No? Hey, you’re pretty sharp. I got perfectly good plans, no books involved.
No meetings either. “You show up at ten tomorrow morning”, they said, “or you know what happens.” Yeah. You know what? They can toss their job training out the window. I got to stay on track, no detours. I’m a busy man. I got banks to rob.
Another super-short story inspired by the photo below. Want to see what other people made of the same picture? Here’s your chance. And, if you want to, add your interpretation!
“So your husband sold these?”
“Oh, yes. Mounted collections. He was so proud of his finds – these are really rare shells, you know.”
“Uh-huh. Pretty pricey?”
“Well, yes. They had to be. His expenses were so high.”
“Uh-huh.” The policeman headed for the next room, and she trailed after. “Lots of equipment in here.”
“You need all sorts of computer stuff to run a business these days.”
“Printing invoices and stuff?” She nodded. “Who uses a three-d printer for invoices?”
“That? That’s just a hobby.”
“Profitable hobby. We’ll have to test these shells, but I bet they turn out to be plastic.”
“Fakes. Nice job programming that printer, though.”
* * *
Please let me know what you think of this story!
Friday Fictioneers again! It’s been an exhausting summer – I’ve missed writing these stories, and reading the stories by other Fictioneers.
“Out of marshmallows.” The kids protested. He couldn’t see faces around the campfire, but he knew the voices.
“We’ll get more tomorrow. Right now, let’s tell stories, then bed. I’ll start. One night, three kids were camping in the woods. It got dark, and their dad said ‘Time for bed!’ And they said ‘No!’ ‘No!’ ‘No!’ ‘No!’. Well, their dad could count right up to four. So he said -”
“Dad,” sighed Norah, “is this a ghost story? Because they’re dumb.”
“Yeah. Wanna go to bed now.”
“Me too. Because there’s no ghosts.”
Kids bedded down, he stared glumly into the flames. Got to stay awake till the fire’s out.
Thin – bony thin – fingers clutched his shoulder. A voice moaned, “It’s cold. So cold. Let me join you?”
Please let me know what you think!
It may be Saturday, but that doesn’t mean it’s not time for Friday Fictioneers! Please let me know what you think of this story, and go read the rest of the Fictioneers’ tales.
In the Middle of My Life
When I started college, everything seemed to open up in front of me. So many new things to learn and do – and in a few more years I could step into the real world and claim my place there. But you have to be practical.
After college, my place in the real world turned out to be a cubicle with an uncomfortable chair and an out-of-date computer. Marriage and family are great, but I didn’t like feeling them push me back into that colorless cubicle day after day, year after year.
Well, we’re home from seeing our youngest graduate. No more reason to be practical. I want to hand in my resignation and go figure out who I can be. Will you come with me?