Welcome to FRIDAY FICTIONEERS, a growing global family of blogging writers founded by Madison Woods.
We have some December Fictioneer birthdays. I apologize if I’ve missed any. My sources are limited.
Ted Strutz-Dec. 4
Sandra Crook-Dec. 15
Kent Bonham-Dec. 21
Mary Shipman (Oldentimes)-Dec. 22
Jennifer Pendergast (elmowrites)-Dec. 31
The rules that follow are simple:
- Please copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions.
- Please make sure your link works. If you find that you’ve made an error you can delete by clicking the little red ‘x’ that should appear under your icon. Then re-enter your URL. (If there’s no red x email me at Runtshell@aol.com. I can delete the wrong link for you).
- If your blog requires multiple steps for visitors to leave comments, see if you can simplify it. Please, for the sake or our writerly nerves, disable CAPTCHA –that wavy line of unreadable letters and numbers. It’s frustrating to have to leave a DNA sample, your blood type and your shoe size just to make a comment. (So I exaggerate. But hopefully you get the picture).
- Challenge yourself to keep stories to 100 words. (There’s no penalty for going over or under).
- Make note in your blog if you’d prefer not to have constructive criticism.
- Be kind in your comments to others. Please, exercise discretion.
- My story follows the photo prompt for those who would rather write before reading other stories. I appreciate your comments and critiques.
- *NOTE-If you’re not posting a flash fiction, please DO NOT use this site or anyone else’s page for political platforms or advertisements.
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THIS WEEK’S PHOTO PROMPT
from Rich Voza
Here’s my own story for this week.
PRELUDE TO SUCCESS
The sterile walls echoed the word as he shuffled down the long corridor and ruminated over the loss of his day job. It was the first morning in five he’d showered or dressed.
He wanted to turn back but he couldn’t renege on a promise.
Stopping at room 223, he pushed open the door and then tiptoed to the bed. Feeding tubes and IV’s snaked around the tiny girl.
His heart raged with more why’s.
“Marissa?” He caressed her glabrous head.
Her chocolate-brown eyes fluttered open and shone with innocent faith.
“Santa, I knew you’d come!”
Final Note: This story is dedicated to a couple of genuine Santas, John Schuech and Allan Buford. (Yes, the beards are real).