Tag Archives: Friday Fictioneers

Friday Fictioneers: Poseidon’s Fury

Time for Friday Fictioneers again – and another unusual photo to inspire hundred-word stories. Go over to Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s site, read the other contributions, and try your own mini-story! Here’s mine – please let me know what you think of it.

sandra-crook-3Poseidon’s Fury

Oh, the earthquake. I was dictating my new play to my scribe, when the ground rolled under my feet. I had to throw my arms around an olive tree to keep from falling. But that was only the beginning, just Poseidon’s joke. Next he was angry – cracks ran through the olive grove, and in the town walls and pillars broke and fell.

Anyway, that’s how the theater was ruined. We had to cancel the festival for this year and offer extra sacrifices so the gods won’t resent losing the entertainment. And I know my play would have won!

* * *

In ancient Greece, earthquakes were thought to be caused by Poseidon, the god of the sea.

Ancient Greek play writing was competitive – I suppose it still is, but today we don’t hold a formal contest to decide who wrote the best play of the year!

Friday Fictioneers: How to Be Birdbrained

Friday Fictioneers. You know you want to try it, so visit Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s site, read the rules, pick up a copy of this week’s photo, and share your creativity with the world.

Meanwhile, let me know what you think of my story…

seagulls-wicklundHow to Be Birdbrained

We all have talents for something or other. What’s mine? I’m very good at flying off in the wrong direction. Consider this week’s Friday Fictioneers. I took one look at the first photo in Rochelle’s post, assumed it was the prompt without bothering to read anything, and spent several days writing a story about a wedding.

Sometimes I’m a very silly gull.

I didn’t realize my mistake until I was ready to post my story and went back to collect the photo prompt. Then I spent another day mentally flapping and squawking. Now, at last, I’m ready to wing it.

Friday Fictioneers: Down the Shore

Friday Fictioneers strikes again! Curious about what that means? Just follow the link, read the guidelines, look at the picture, and contribute your own itty-bitty hundred word story. This time, the photo prompt makes me think of a boardwalk shop at the New Jersey Shore…after this past year’s troubles.

the_second_hand_shop-1Down the Shore

There’s not much left of the old place. Storm, winter, fire…not much left. He can still see it so plain, though. Goblets, paintings – frame and all! – pretty dresses for the next pretty girl.

The store was his life. He knows they’re all wondering if he can outlast it. True, he feels a little off balance. But one good thing about getting old, you find out you can’t live in the past. The past is dead, and if you try to stay there too long, you’ll be the same.

He turns away, heads for the car. “You all right, Grandpop?” Joey asks.

“Me? Sure thing.”

Friday Fictioneers: Modern

You too can be a Friday Fictioneer! Just hop over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site, read the guidelines and look at the picture, and write your own hundred word (more or less) story.

And if that doesn’t sound like your kind of fun, follow Rochelle’s InLinkz collection to enjoy an unpredictable assortment of tales inspired by this photo –

the-boat-and-miss-libertyModern

New York harbor. Looming masts and low-lying steamships.

“It’s been a quick trip, for sail. But steam’s the future,” says a young man in a bowler. The man beside him grunts. “With a steamship, you just plow straight ahead steady as a train. Modern.” Bowler-hat smiles at the harbor, the city, the world.

“The fare’s too much.”

Something’s happening. Men jostle up the gangplank and take hold of the grunter. “Here, you can’t…” says bowler-hat.

“Albert Gregory?”

“What’s it to you?”

“You’re under arrest for burglary…”

“I ain’t even set foot in your country yet!”

“Theft, and murder…”

Bowler-hat gapes. “He hasn’t been off the ship!”

“In London, sir,” says one of the intruders to bowler-hat. “They want him bad. Paid my passage by steamship. I’ve been waiting here ten days.” Albert Gregory is hustled away, struggling.

Bowler-hat shakes his head in wonder as he watches them go. “Steam,” he murmurs to himself. “That’s the future, all right.”

* * *

A couple of notes:

First, I’ve never heard of a real person named Albert Gregory (I picked the name because it sounded vaguely appropriate for the mid to late nineteenth century). If there are any actual men of that name, this story has nothing to do with them.

On the other hand, my story is closely based on a real incident. I can’t locate the details right now, but during the period when sailing ships were losing the competition with newer technology, someone broke into an elderly London woman’s home and robbed and murdered her.

Unfortunately, by the time Scotland Yard knew who they wanted to arrest, he was in the middle of the Atlantic sailing to New York. So the detective in charge of the case was provided with a steamship ticket, and when the criminal’s ship docked the detective was waiting to arrest him.

As far as I know, the young man with the bowler hat is my invention. But he could have been there.

Friday Fictioneers – Time Passes, Things Change

Back to the Fictioneers at last! (Who are the Friday Fictioneers? A loosely (dis)organized group who post stories more or less a hundred words long, based on photos posted by the one and only Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Try it – you’ll like it!)

My story follows – please let me know what you think!

lvbydawne_3Time Passes, Things Change

So here I am, temp agency security for discount retail, plenty of room in the aisles and the whole place like a big open barn. Used to be, stores were like palaces. High ceilings, marble columns. Crowds you could hardly push your way through. Tough job being one of their security guards.

Back then, I worked alone. Went with the territory. And believe me, I learned how security spots all the sneak thief tricks. But you get older, you get clumsier and slower, and getting honest starts looking like the smart bet.

I wasn’t just a good thief, I was the best, so good I had a clean record. Just a little resume fudging and I got this job. I like it. Keeps me sharp without the agita.

Excuse me, got to go put the fear of God in that kid over there.

Friday Quatrain

Why I’m Not Friday Fictioneering Today

My mind’s out of focus,
My head’s full of fluff.
I’d like to write more,
But today, that’s enough. 😦

Friday Fictioneers: Hot Day

Friday Fictioneers again! And the Internet blossoms with another crop of 100 word (more or less) stories based on the latest photo prompt chosen by the one and only Rochelle Wisoff-Fields…please let me know what you think of mine:

anelephantcantHot Day

Lazy summer Saturday, friends relaxing at the cafe.

“That bike’s been here hours. Wonder where the owner got to?”

“It’s too hot to bike. Maybe they took a taxi.”

“Nah. An ambulance. Heatstroke.”

“No, a bike messenger rode it here, and got a call to deliver something way across town, so he quit on the spot.”

“No. The girl that owns it? She met Prince Charming, and he carried her off on his white horse.”

“His white Ferrari. With air.”

A waiter shed his apron, unlocked the bike, and rode away. “Well, that’s boring.”

“Yeah. See, that’s not really a bike. It’s an alien in disguise. That poor guy’s being abducted.”

“No, what’s really happening…”

Friday Fictioneers: Family Feud

I’ve been away from Fictioneering for the past month – it’s been one thing after another in SharonWorld. It’s good to be back again, even if I’m not getting my story posted until almost midnight Saturday night.

Be sure to check out the Laws, or Polite Suggestions, or Group Customs of Fictioneering at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’s blog, and don’t miss all the other stories based on this photo:

goats_and_graves_3_randy_mazieFamily Feud

The Jacksons? Not one of them’s said a word to the rest ever since the old man died.

Tell the truth, they got along fine right up to the funeral. And then that old goat poked his nose between Joe and Bella – that’s the old man’s son and daughter – and started nibbling on the flowers.

Joe was ready to break its neck, and then Bella yelled at him for wanting to hurt a poor dumb animal. Next thing the whole family was shouting, and the priest was telling them to calm down and act decent, and the goat just kept on eating as fast as it could chew.

That goat always did enjoy funerals.

Friday Fictioneers: Dedication

Friday! Time for the Attack of the Fictioneers!

We’re mostly harmless, really. We’re only a vast swarm of storytellers set in motion by Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s weekly choice of – usually  strange – photo prompts. All we’ll do to you is expose you to a huge assortment of hundred word tales…and, just possibly, infect you with the irresistible urge to join in.

How do you do that? Easy – go to Rochelle’s site and you can read all the details, and then start typing away. Come, transform yourself into a Fictioneer. It’s fun! (Or, of course, just go to Rochelle’s Linky List to read all the other stories of the week.)

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA Dedication

Our music teacher was very dedicated, but kind of strange. Ten or fifteen years of teaching kids with three left feet to march, plus battling with the school board over money for new instruments (the band and the football team got into an argument) – it all wore him down.

So when Mr. Dolber showed up at the dress rehearsal for the school musical, the English teacher who was directing didn’t even blink. Three-tone saddle shoes with floppy green bows? Plaid knee britches? Hey, he always looked like that, or worse. “Emory, this piano’s a mess. Can you tune it?” was all she said when he walked in.

Mr. Dolber always did throw himself into his work.

* * *

(With apologies to high school music teachers everywhere! And to Emory Dolbers, if there are any.)

Friday Fictioneers: Poor Pitiful Pobble

This is my longest Fictioneers story ever, even after trimming – more than twice as long as the desired hundred words. Ah well. How else could you get the chance to meet a pobble?

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting our strange tales!

copyright-el-applebyPoor Pitiful Pobble

The pobble is a fascinating animal, shy and eager to please. Rare, though, very rare – we think. What does it look like? Let me tell you a little story.

A few years back, a pobble wandered into our town. It made one big mistake: it spent the night snuggled up against the wall of a school. Morning came, and with the sunlight, lots of eight-year-olds excited about their trip to the zoo the day before.

“I wish I had a zebra with lots of stripes!” So the pobble changed its hindquarters to be black and white and stripey, because it wanted that child to be happy.

“Who wants a zebra? I want a tiger to chase the zebra.” And the pobble’s middle was covered with orange and black stripes, so it could please the second child.

“Well, I want a giraffe with a great big long neck and I could sit on its head and see right over the top of the school.” Feeling its head shoot high into the air made the pobble dizzy.

“I wish I had an elephant with a long long trunk.” That was too much. The pobble was too shy to trumpet like an elephant, but it couldn’t help letting out a faint unhappy “Bleep”.

Animal control rescued the poor thing, of course. No, you can’t see it. It’s been invisible ever since.