Welcome to Friday Fictioneers. If you’re looking for an entertaining respite from malls, crowds and holiday shopping and you’re a writer, you’ve come to the right place.
We are a growing global community of blogging writers founded by Madison Woods. Each week the challenge is to write a one hundred word flash fiction or a poem inspired by the photo prompt. The rules are as follows:
- 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. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
- 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.
This week’s photo comes from Scott Vannatter
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Like the anguished images that flashed across our television, Friday, November 22, 1963 will ever be etched into my memory in black and white.
Walter Cronkite wept on camera.
The nation mourned.
Dazed, Mom sorted Christmas ornaments at the kitchen table and mumbled empty phrases. Dad dropped to his knees, laid his head in her lap and sobbed.
“He was my hero!” I screamed.
My eleven-year-old world spun out and I kicked at the two faceless uniforms.
Their vacuous condolences pelted me like the bullets that killed my big brother in Vietnam.
I’ll never forgive Mr. Kennedy.