PHOTO CREDIT: Photo Prompt © Jan Wayne Fields
Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields kindly hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz (the blue frog) on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!
The two English boys travelled from Canada and when Betty met them in Des Moines they offered her work. She already had a job and she was recently divorced with a young daughter. And she wanted to be a writer.
“Miss Knox,” said the boys. “It’s 1928. We can make you rich and famous by 1929!”
She was the first of at least eight girls. The boys treated her well and she loved the work but she missed her daughter. And she still yearned to write.
In 1941 she went home and a new Betty joined Wilson and Keppel.
After Betty Number One retired in 1941 she became a successful journalist, reporting on world events, including the Nuremberg Trials.
There are myriad images from the twentieth century: Chamberlain waving his piece of paper, the tragic suffragette at the 1913 Derby, the lady trying to launch a ship with a champagne bottle that refuses to break. And always, Wilson, Keppel and Betty, doing their Sand Dance.
Friday Fictioneers: Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. The fun really starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!
Photoprompt copyright Douglas M. MacIlroy
Friday Fictioneers – It’s All In The Genes
Dear Mrs Dickinson,
A missive has been found beneath your daughter’s pillow. It reads:
I thought I was settling in okay but they do sport stuff every day so I do not plan to stay and I shall hit the big highway and please believe I love you true and I am not blaming you.
I hate basket, bat and ball. I am a poet, after all.*
*Like my Great Great Great Auntie :))
We sincerely hope you find an alternative school for your daughter. Indeed we sincerely hope you find your daughter.
Margaret Stern, Headmistress
Photo Prompt © Yarnspinner
The woman gazed around the workshop. “I adore that piece up there,” she said. “Its bent blades protest against every offence against womankind.”
“You mean our ceiling fan?” said Joe. “It’s broke.”
“Oh, and I adore that cool wood artefact. The way it just appears in the wall.”
“The toilet door?” said Joe. “I wouldn’t go in there if I was you.”
“Door? Nonsense. It’s clearly the artist’s representation of man as a stained intractable rectangle. Note the genius positioning of the phallus.”
“The doorknob?” said Joe. “Sorry, who are you?”
“They call me the bad girl of British art.”
We are grateful to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields who hosts a weekly flash fiction challenge to write a complete story, based on a photo prompt.
100 words or less.
Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz (the blue frog) on your page. Link your story URL. Then it gets really enjoyable as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!
Photo Prompt © Dale Rogerson
Gina was puzzled. Jimmy had a mass of brochures spread out but this time there were no mountains. Only pictures of ladders and workmen’s cradles with ropes.
“You know I just love being up high,” said Jimmy, “and if you want to be up high you have to aim high.”
“But I worry about you, going up those mountains. I miss you. And we’ll never afford the wedding. And what’s with the cradles and the ladders? You going to climb up a mountain then climb up a ladder and hang from a cradle?”
“Darling, I’ve won the contract to clean the lights in the mall.”
Photo prompt copyright Fatima Fakier Deria
The discussion has to be before 9 a.m. because that way Lisa won’t be on her second gin. Lisa is not a bad person. Even Queen Victoria drank alcohol with breakfast.
Ben hides in his tiny shed while he rehearses what to say.
“Darling, don’t be angry, but white cast iron is a bit last century. Didn’t we decide on rustic?”
This conversation must take place in the garden. Within earshot of next door. They were inside the house when Ben commented on Lisa’s removal of his big shed. The stitches are out but he still has visible bruising.
Photo prompt ©Bjӧrn Rudberg
Lately I have to physically stop people bumping into me. It’s true. When a woman loses pigment and elasticity the wide world and all his crazy servants become blind to her body and deaf to her mind.
I hope you understand. You see, this sign is not a warning. It’s an invitation just for me. And I have accepted. I am ready to find out what’s next.
I promise that your brilliant blue-topaz eyes will still see the very sequins of me bedazzling our precious patch of velvet sky. My love for you is immortal.
Please don’t be cross.
Photo Prompt copyright Ted Strutz
My subject poses on the car, bare chested, legs twin denim arches, a beer in his hand. He sips and swallows and stares at me.
I tremble from a heat of something I must conceal or at least play gauzed, like an actor as a ghost.
His beauty panics me. I’m clumsy with the lens. I snatch at misremembered words–a book of verses underneath night sky, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thee beside me in our private paradise.
What I want to say will stay behind my eyes. Like many truths it’s too high risk.