#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 03/01

February 28, 2013

First, my apologies for barely reading anyone’s fine work last week.  I had some serious (on a legal matter) writing to do that ate up a ton of time.   Second, this was one of the toughest yet to come up with something, but I like what I ended up with.  I hope you do too.

Every Wednesday Rumbleseat Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt challenging writers to create a 100-word story, poem, or whatever works for you.  After posting your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add your link on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

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 home-made-car

The Car

David ditches work early, swirls the last gulp of lemonade, eyes the old car Mom built.  Smiles, remembers “driving” to California until Mom called “Dinnertime!”  Mexico for tacos,  Atlanta for baseball, until Mom called “Bedtime!”  Lunchbox packed, Disney-bound, until Mom said – differently – “Dad’s home.”

Dad’s home.  Smiles dried, hands twitched, eyes unsure.  Dad’s home.  Voices stuttered, bruises ached.  Mom, David, quietly awaited barks and permission.  Run to the fridge when Dad swirled the last gulp of Budweiser.  Dad’s home.

Schoolbus pulls away.  David Jr. runs up the driveway, smiling, singing, “Dad’s home!”

“C’mon, Son.  Let’s go for a drive.”

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100 words

I started with a story about missing kids and an FBI investigation, searching the car for clues, but it didn’t pan out.  Then I switched to the car being a time-travel device for two kids, but I couldn’t figure out to end it.  Although I abandoned that one, I kept its essence.  Then it became a “time travel” device for a sad kid with difficult parents, but it became too sad to write it.  So I kept that but twisted it to be more upbeat instead of depressing.  I think that was a good idea.

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#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 2/22

February 21, 2013

Every Wednesday Rundown Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt challenging writers to create a 100-word story, poem, or whatever works for you.  After posting your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add your link on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

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 copyright-janet-webb

The Barn

Two children sit in a barn loft.

“Granpa Wilson demolishing this tomorrow,” he complains.

“Why?”

“Building a new one.”

“After all these years?” she whines.  “Where we gonna play?”

“I’m staying right here.  He don’t scare me.”

“He’s knocking it down ‘cause he hates us playing here.”

He drops from the loft.  “He don’t even know we’re here.”

Sure he knows,” she smiles.  “Hands shaking,” she mimics.  ”Holding his gun when we get too loud.  Let him knock it down.  Ain’t chasing me away.”

Next morning, backhoes dig the foundation, then stop.

“Ho-ly Christ.”

“What’s that?”

“Bones.  Go get Wilson.”

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100 words

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#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 2/15

February 14, 2013

Every Wednesday RenShui Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt challenging writers to create a 100-word story, poem, or whatever works for you.  After posting your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add your link on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

As has happened before, I forgot to keep my original version and edits, and I’m kicking myself because of what – I think – would have been educational.  Yeah, but that’s patting myself on the back.

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 dsc04876

11 A.M.

Xi, about half the elderly man’s 80 years, approached slowly.

“Pardon, Sir.  You seem lost.  Can I help?”

“I come each Sunday to remember my son.  Gone 29 years today.  We sailed boats in the fountain, here, especially Sundays.”  Exhale.  ”Now –  I come for memories.”

Xi looked away, then back.  “What happened, may I ask?”

“Foolishly, I hit him for disrespect.”  Eyes distant.  “Then, one morning.  Gone.”

Xi blinked.  “Perhaps he too was wrong.”

“I must go.  My empty house waits.”  The man turned, shuffling from the fountain.

“Sir?”  Xi touched the man’s arm.  “Isn’t it this way?”

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100 words

I did a little playing with words here.  The name of “Xi” was chosen very specifically but also numerically.  I was stuck with what to do about Xi.  I originally thought maybe he would learn a lesson from the elderly man and then go buy a boat for his own son, but that would be too much for only 100 words.  So instead I made him the long-lost son who had come back to find his father.  However, I was worried that it might be too easy for people to figure that out while reading.  But then I thought that there is no reason to be so “mysterious.”  And, more importantly, it felt good to write it that way.

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Post #500 – fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 2/8

February 6, 2013

Every Wednesday Roger Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt challenging writers to create a 100-word story, poem, or whatever works for you.  After posting your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add your link on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

Please read the notes after the story.  It’s important.  

Well, to me, because it’s my 500th post.

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 67986_479608712100282_219414539_n

Philadelphia Airport – en route Mexico – 11/8/12

The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber

His mini poodle Ernest was tucked neatly under the seat in his carry-on cage as Flight 505 raced down the runway.  The idea of returning to his lover’s strong arms lightened his heart as the plane floated to the clouds. After finally finding the courage to admit his true feelings, he proudly told everyone and enjoyed his emotional freedom. He couldn’t have been happier. His skin sparkled in the window’s reflection as he looked out at the wing, only to see the engine rip away.

For the first time in his life, it was okay to scream like a schoolgirl.

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100 words

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This week’s post came about a little differently, but let me first explain that this is my 500th post.  For a few weeks I thought about doing something special or interesting for #500.  Thought about congratulating myself in some way, maybe asking people to contribute something, but that seemed too much like pointing a finger at myself and waving a flag with my own name on it.  And then something else happened instead.

This morning Tom Poet sent me his story to get my opinion because someone else did not like it very much.  I immediately did what I can’t help doing – started “tweaking.”  First, one grammar adjustment, then one or two adjectives, then one or two hints at the ending.  For example, I added Flight 505 because the 505 looked like the SOS distress call.  But my psychic side knew what was going to happen next – Tom felt like I had changed too much, that it was no longer “his” story.  He suggested giving me credit as a co-author, but really he did the hard work, and I swept up the sawdust from the shop floor.  Then I suggested we both post the same story and acknowledge the collaboration, and luckily he was cool with that.  I say “luckily” because occasionally I read someone’s story and leave a comment that says, “I wish I had written that.”  This was one of those stories.

But I need to get to the 500 part without wasting more of your time.

I thought about what I really enjoy doing on/with this blog.  I really enjoy writing these stories each week.  I really enjoy making comments and suggestions on other’s work.  And I really enjoy that there are friends to be made here who I could not possibly meet any other way.  With too many to mention without causing someone to feel they were left out, I’ve been fortunate to have coffee with a couple of you and might soon get on a plane or behind the wheel to meet up with a few more of you.  So it made perfect sense that this would be my 500th post because it is a combination of everything that I enjoy here.  Writing with a purpose, making suggestions, and connecting with people.  Also, it’s a little extra cool that Rochelle used one of my pictures this week.  Too many stars aligned for me not to take advantage of it.

My thanks to Tom for allowing me to join in with his story.  Also, if anyone tries to read into this and think it’s some kind of a “coming out” statement, you are very wrong!

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#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 2/1

January 31, 2013

Every Wednesday Rodin Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt challenging writers to create a 100-word story, poem, or whatever works for you.  After posting your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add your link on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

I had some great editing challenges this week, and I’m kicking myself for not saving them for those who like to see the progression.

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 copyright-claire-fuller

The Sculptor

“Sorry.  Haven’t seen them since Tuesday,” The son says.

“Any idea when they’ll be back?” Detective asks.

“Nah.  They’re retired.  Always going places.”  Son washes hands thoroughly.

“Did they say where they’re going?”  Detective scribbles.

“Not usually.”  Son wipes hands on apron.

Detective leans closely.  “What’s this?”

“Soapstone.”  Detective scribbles more.

Son precisely arranges hammers, chisels.

“That’s them.  I’m sculpting my parents .”

“Nice.  So, you’ll call me if you hear from them?”

“Certainly.”

Detective leaves.  Son sits, a drastic grin, exhales.  Then, fist tight, he punches the table.

One chisel is gone.

Detective hurries to his car, pocket slightly heavier.

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100 words


#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 1/25

January 24, 2013

Every Wednesday Roughskin Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt to challenge writers to create a 100-word story or poem or anything that works for you.  After you post your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add a link to your post on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

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 ff

Lunchtime in Florida

“Lookit the chest on the blue one!”

“Red bikini got perfect legs.”

“Legs?”

“Yeah.”

“Legs are okay, but I love a big rack.  Watch ‘em bounce when she runs to the water.  Nature’s built-in buoys.”

“You got issues.  Think about where those legs go.  That soft, round, fleshy-”

“You’re into butts?  I thought you meant something else.”

“Wanna get that soft spot.  Can’t wait to taste me some juicy-”

“Shhh.  Calm down.  She’s coming.”

Me calm down?”

“Dude, you’re scaring them.  You come on too strong.”

“Relax.  It’s SpringBreak.  They’re everywhere.  And I’m hungry.”

Two sharks lurked beyond the breakers…

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100 words


#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 1/18

January 17, 2013

Every Wednesday Rickety Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt to challenge writers to create a 100-word story or poem or anything that works for you.  After you post your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add a link to your post on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

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 006

Phone Call

“Hello?” said a raspy growl, putting down crayons.

“Afternoon, Sir.  I’m calling on behalf of-”

“Half of what?”

“Sir?”

“Half a sandwich?”

“No.  On beHALF.  I’m with the National Association-”

“Location?  In the living room.  Where are you?”

“No, Sir.  I’m calling on be-.  I’m calling for-.  (exhale)  We’re trying to raise money for-”

“Money?  Sure.  I’ll take some money.  Whatcha got?”

“No, Sir.  Would you like to donate-”

“I LOVE doughnuts!”

“Certainly, but children in town need-”

“Let ‘em get their own damn donuts!”

“No, Sir.  I’m-”

From the kitchen.  “Jimmy.  Who’s on the phone?”

*click*

“Wrong number, Mom.”

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100 words


#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 1/11

January 10, 2013

Every Wednesday Rachmaninoff Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt to challenge writers to create a 100-word story or poem or anything that works for you.  After you post your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add a link to your post on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

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copyright-roger-cohen

Showtime

Moments before the 8pm show, tremors shook Karnagee Hall.

Tiny, “IT’S GONE!”

Dust rained in the basement as he stomped his feet.

The stagehand, “We’re looking, Tiny!”

The agent, “Get him a chair!”

The seamstress, “Get him a couch.”

Tiny, “Whaaaa!”

First clarinet, “Please change my seat.”

Tiny, “Whaaaaaaaaaa!”

The conductor, “Keep him quiet!”

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

The stagehand, “I’ll get tissues.”

The custodian, “I’ll get a mop.”

The seamstress, “Maybe a towel.”

The agent, “Call the producer!”

Tiny stomped harder.

The producer, “Call the carpenter!”

The mover trudged carefully, lugging an oaken cello.

The mover, “Found it!”

Tiny smiled, “My violin!”

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100 words

This would have been a good one for me to have kept track of the revising because I had originally written ...said the agent  and …said the stagehand after each line of dialogue.  Then I realized I could get away with removing “said” from each line because we can tell that it’s being said.  It’s dialogue.  Then I shifted the attribution to be beginning, like a script.  Like this:

Producer:  Call the carpenter!

The problem there was that it did not give me the same visual impact without quotation marks, but I didn’t like having the quotes with the name and colon because it just isn’t the right format.  By moving the quote after the title, it gave the dialogue more impact, which is what really drives this.  For me, it felt like a nursery rhyme, which is kind of what I wanted.


#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 1/04

January 3, 2013

Every Wednesday Rorschach Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt to challenge writers to create a 100-word story or poem or anything that works for you.  After you post your work on your blog,  go back to her site and post a link to your blog entry on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

fireworks-lora-mitchell2

Rocket’s Red Glare

Colorful booms, screams, blasts, overwhelmed their senses.  Frightened eyes wide, wider.  Nervous hands reached for something, anything to stop it.  But others were transfixed, frozen by the flashes, blasts, howls.  He regained awareness.  Clumsy hands covered awkward ears.  Shaking, panicking, remembering emergency procedures.  “Nobody else sees this danger?  They’re attacking!”   Others on board – motionless, awestruck.  Not him.  So small but climbing into the control chair as others stared blankly.  He pressed buttons.  Engines humming.    Turbines spinning.  Lasers charging.  Cylinders opening.

Baby Jessica gazed skyward at new lights, booms.  Then cries.  Alien craft, just now visible, began firing back at Earth.

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I had a busy few days and didn’t get to this until very late Thursday.  I don’t feel as strongly about this as other weeks.  oh well, can’t win ‘em all.

100 words


#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 12/21

December 20, 2012

Every Wednesday Ralphie Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt to challenge writers to create a 100-word story or poem or anything that works for you.  After you post your work on your blog,  go back to her site and post a link to your blog entry on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

I could not add revisions this week because I had too many things to do today and didn’t have the time to color-code and underline and such.  I wasn’t even sure if i would even write this until late tonight or tomorrow morning.  For those who liked the revisions, sorry.  For those who did not like it, Happy Holidays.

I’m going to try to keep up with this, as should you.  Give it a shot.  I prefer to stick to 100 words, but she doesn’t mind either way.  Not everyone has the time to sit and write, revise, edit, revise, edit, etc. until getting it down to 100 and telling everything you want to tell.

copyright-scott-l-vannatter

Midnight

Neither moved.

One knew the other.

One – a mysterious, great beast.

Both calculated in milliseconds.

“If I move…”

“What if he tries…?”

Cat – fangs, silent speed.

Beast – far slower, but massive, stronger.

Both – fur, claws.

Both – eyes they’d remember, next time.

Both – determined to reach morning.

Only one absolutely had to get past the other.

Beast slowly extended his arm.

Cat hissed, tail tucked, ears pinned, feet planted, ready.

Cat squinted, focused.

The great beast’s gentle paw, Claus revealed, stroked cat’s head, spine.  Flashing an Elfin smile, the great beast moved past and began his jolly work.

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100 words


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