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 CST 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. Use your imagination and think outside the box.
WARNING! This is an addiction for which there is no 12 step recovery program.
Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)
Make every word count.
- 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.
- MAKE SURE YOUR LINK IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH FICTION.
- Make note in your blog if you’d prefer not to have constructive criticism.
EXERCISE DISCRETION AT ALL TIMES WHEN COMMENTING ON A STORY! BE RESPECTFUL. THIS IS NOT THE TIME OR PLACE PLACE TO PROMOTE POLITICAL OR RELIGIOUS VIEWS. IF YOU HAVE SEVERE OR HOSTILE DIFFERENCES OF OPINION WITH ANOTHER PERSON PLEASE TAKE IT TO EMAIL OR ANOTHER METHOD OF PRIVATE MESSAGING.
Should 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).
Thanks to Blogspot bloggers for disabling their CAPTCHAs.
The photo this week is mine. It’s a still life of “stuff” that I used as a model for a watercolor which is the book cover of my short story anthology, THIS, THAT AND SOMETIMES THE OTHER that debuted in November 2011. You can find it in the right hand margin of this blog. In any case I’m interested to see how many stories it will inspire this week.
This week my story is not so much fiction as autobiography. My maternal grandfather came to America in 1903, as my mom was fond of saying, with nothing but the clothes on his back. After coming through Ellis Island, he slept under park benches in Central Park and eventually hitchhiked to the Midwest. At least this is the story I’ve gleaned from my mother and cousins. Grandpa wasn’t a warm fuzzy person and it’s only been the past few years through research for my novel that takes place in turn of the 20th century Eastern Europe that I’ve drawn some conclusions. They may or may not be accurate but I’ll never know because I was too afraid of him to ask.
Click here to learn about the world from which my ancestors escaped.
Every Sunday my mother dragged me to my grandfather’s house. She said I should get to know him, learn from him. After all he’d survived Russia’s pogroms. My family history.
But I asked no questions. He offered no stories.
One week mom took a vinyl copy of Fiddler on the Roof for him to hear. His timeworn torso sank into his recliner as he listened to Tevye the milkman sing.
“If I were a rich man, yaba-deebee-deebee-bum.”
Forty years later I still remember how my austere grandfather’s granite-hard eyes transformed to liquid quartz.
“My father sang…just like that.”