The Mayans were wrong. Let’s write.
WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS!
We are a growing community of blogging writers who come together each week from all parts of the globe to share individual flash fictions from a single photo prompt. The prompt goes up early Wednesday morning to give each writer time to compose a story by Friday. Some use the photo as a mere inspiration while others use it as an illustration. There’s no right or wrong way.
Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end.
Make every word count.
- 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. This mainly applies to Blogspot. 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).
- Try to keep stories to 100 words. (No one walks the plank 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 will follow the photo prompt for those who would rather write before reading other stories. I appreciate your comments and critiques.
- *NOTE-If your link is to an advertisement or any type of platform (be it religious or political) it will be deleted.
This week’s photo is from my longtime friend Jean Hays, a gifted artist. The stained glass is an example of her work.
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With her crimson hair and freckles she could’ve been my own reflection. Although we’d never met, I knew she was my birth mother.
“Didn’t you want me?”
“With all my heart.”
Sunlight streaming through the café windows glinted off her tears. “Mother said I couldn’t care for a baby…said I’d hurt you. She never even let me hold you.”
I wrapped my arms around her waist.
“Hold me now…Mama.”
Her fingers caressed my forehead, then moved as lightly as moth wings down my nose and over my lips. Her sightless eyes glistened. “It’s good to finally see you.”