“That nutty Don Charisma’s at it again, he’s posted a black box as a writing prompt, surely that imbecile has lost his mind …”
Couldn’t resist joining in 🙂
“Don Charisma’s Sneaky Black Box”
“I am not red”
“I am not green”
“I am not blue “
“That can be seen!!”
“I’m not a circle,”
“I’m not a star”
“I’m not a pentagon“
“None of these, so far!!”
“I am black”
“My sides are four”
“I am a square”
“There is no more!!”
So, can you tell a story in just fifty words? This is the Weekly Prompt on the Daily Post @ WordPress.com. I’m big on talking so I wondered if I could create a story in just so few words. Here’s my attempt. What do you think?
The clouded midnight sky prevented the full moon glow entering her house of pain. Cloak of darkness strengthened her courage. Dragging the large knife upward preparing to bring it down as he slept, clouds parted for a moment, moon rays illuminating the cold, steel blade. She loathed who she’d become.
I always enjoy having a dabble with this challenge when I can. The idea is to write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end using 100 words. The prompt is a photo. This week it is from a site http://castelsarrasin.wordpress.com
Even if you don’t wish to participate in Friday Fictioneer there are some great stories contributed for reading on the site.
Hope you enjoy my writing 🙂
“Farming, base job of civilisation!” Grandma muttered when I told her one day I would work in a city wearing a suit.
“Farmers, salt of the earth,” Papa snapped when I told him I would travel the world learning about exciting places.
“Farming, in our blood,” Father snorted when I told him I would be a journalist sharing the plight of those oppressed.
“Shh … the hay truck is loaded, its first stop is the railway café a two hours’ drive away,” Mumma whispered, waking me far earlier than the cock’s crow.
“Go experience life. Write to me often please.”
This post is in response to the Friday fictioneer challenge.
She accepted the sangria glass twirling it slowly between her fingers. The fruits spun causing ripples in the wine based liquid. She sniffed the cinnamon scent and closed her eyes, reliving those last days in Portugal – that artist – the laughter- love- sadness of a trip home to reality.
Curiousity and a heady schoolgirl like crush drew her today to the exhibit in her home town. She’d imagined this day, rehearsing conversations. She wasn’t foolish enough to imagine fairy tales come true. Her face looked back at her from a painting titled “Cinderella”. She knew there’d be no slipper left behind this time.
This us my submission in this week’s Friday Fictioneer
Friday Fictioneers Photo …copyright
As always, man thinks he can control nature, imposing himself larger than life, rigid as a cement wall. Ignorants clearing space to fill what once was green meadows, gardens of fresh scented plants , canopies of shades of green and hues of rainbow, with grey harsh identical towers.
But, the cracks of control, fatigue of cement, angry words placed by angry ones who think they own the world ‘NO TRESPASSES’ is totally ignored as the seedlings overlooked in the clearing, wind their magical branches in and out the cold metal grills. The fragrance smothering the putrid smell of cold man’s structures.
100 words
I follow a blog in which the the lady that writes it manages to create a calm feeling as you read and her posts have a wonderful sense of humour in their style.Her blog is called IT GOES ON and she recently wrote a post about lighthouses which you can read here and included some great photos. I particularly liked the ones where the white of the lighthouse contrasted with the stormy background.
It got me remembering a poem I wrote a long time ago. It probably dated back to 2008 or 2009. I remember my daughter was trying to write a creative story for a high school assignment in her Yr 11 or 12 English. I told her at the time it was easy if she just let her mind wander, or she looked at people’s face in photos and took inspiration because that’s what I do. I set about writing my own poems and stories based on her theme topic ‘Journeys of the Heart’, us both pounding out stories, her on her computer , me on mine. I don’t know what became of her stories. That computer died not long after she finished her HSC and we hadn’t backed much up. Mine on the other hand was backed up (its also a replacement computer) so with a little searching I found my lighthouse poem.
Moving on
Your love is a lighthouse beacon
Guiding me safely
Through the violent waves rolling
Thrashing in the sea of life.
A strong undercurrent attempts to drag me
Back to a place I no longer wish to be
The shore I left from now far away in the distance
Guide me through the rocks that continue to graze my heart
Love’s past hurts like open sores on my body
Feel every jag of the rocks
Until your light guides me to a safe passage
Then I’m able to rest on the soft sand
Basking in your glow
As my wounds heal.
Thank you Suzi for reminding me of the folder of writing I have.
Click on photo for link.
http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2013/10/23/25-october-2013/
“Mum my organ isn’t working!”
Hitting the keys– no sound. Why always on Christmas morning? Why can’t Santa leave toys that work? Just once!!
The roast is cooking, minutes before pork crackling becomes char, potatoes crunchy enough to be mistaken for pork crackling.
Remove the grey selector. It cracks as I pull it. Nothing out of place. Remove the keyboard to see the wiring. Plastic tearing as I prise it off. I ponder the maze. I can’t fix this.
I glance at the power point in the “OFF”.
Guess I didn’t heed” IF IT AIN”T BROKE DON’T FIX IT !
