WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS!
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.
Thanks to Doug MacIlroy for sharing the photo prompt this week.
Submitted for your approval…or disapproval. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Although when my husband read it this morning he reminded me that we’re out of Cheerios. Read on, you’ll understand.
Happy Hanukkah to those amongst us of the Jewish persuasion. Good Yontiff or Hag Samayakh.
Somewhere between “I do” and diapers Gavin’s winsome bride turned into a nattering, self-centered shrew. Everything he said or did she took as either an affront or lack of caring.
If he brought her flowers she accused him of seeing another woman. If he made overtures she accused him of treating her like a sex object.
Eventually he gave up trying to fix their relationship and escaped to his garage sanctuary.
One afternoon Lois stood over him, their three-year-old son in tow. “I’m leaving.”
“Pick up a quart of milk.”
He smiled. Peace at last!