WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS.
As always, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints.
Henry David Thoreau said it best.
“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
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. However, I respectfully ask for your consideration. Please refrain from taking the liberty of posting 200 words or more as a Friday Fictioneers story. Thank you.)
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. (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).
- Make note in your blog if you’d prefer not to have constructive criticism.
- REMINDER: This page is “FRIDAY FICTIONEERS CENTRAL” and is NOT the place to promote political or religious views. Also, you are responsible for the content of your story and policing comments on your blog. You have the right to delete any you consider offensive.
**Please exercise DISCRETION when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**
Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private.
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- My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy comments and relish constructive criticism.
Word Count: 99
My offering this week is a little lighter than my usual bill of fare and is based on fact. Although I’ve taken some liberties with this one, the conversation did happen. Some things you just can’t make up. With special thanks to my dear friend and confidante, Jeannie.
My sister is my best friend, confidante, and hero.
Deserted by a waste-of-skin husband, she single-handedly raised three rational children and runs a successful business.
Yet, she seems to live in a world all her own. Maybe it’s oxygen deprivation. Mom says the doctor had trouble getting Liz to breathe at birth.
I’ll never forget one particular phone call.
“Gina! I’m mad as hell!”
“It’s my chicken salad.”
“Chicken jump out of the bowl?”
“Very funny, Smarty-pants. I opened the can and it’s tuna! The label clearly says ‘Chicken’—”
“Of the Sea?”
“How did you know?”