I’m running a bit late this week but didn’t want to miss Friday Fictioneers. Who could resist a 100 words of fiction, a bite size bit of fun that’s less calories than a treat size Snickers.
Photo Copyright : Peter Abbey
Do you wanna hold it
It’s clean, promise. Mary Jane said it was.
Mary Jane don’t know what clean is,
Yeah she does, she showed me hers. It was all pink and clean and smelt of oranges.
I don’t like oranges,
No me neither. Go on, just hold it,
Ok, but just once, it don’t mean nowt if I do it once,
It don’t mean nowt anyway, I did it with Mary Jane, Mary Maude and twice with Billy Ray, cos he let go.
Alright, but it better be quick.
Just hold my hand will ya, you talk too much.
Once more unto the breach…. or so the story goes. I’ve missed Friday Fictioneers for the last few weeks but great to catch up again. A 100 words of fiction based on the weekly photo prompt. Grab a seat, pull up a stole, sit awhile and read…
Photo Copyright : Claire Fuller
He glared. She felt a hand reach in, grip her heart and squeeze.
“a penny for your thoughts” he growled, making her gasp and step back. Fear stealing her voice.
He raised an eyebrow.
He raised the other.
Afraid of his answer but needing to know, “Can I get them back” she whispered.
“Nay, you sell em, I own em” he snarled.
Trembling, she held out her hand as cold nickel scorched her palm.
A moment later, on the back wall, the shelves were no longer empty.
She didn’t think about that. She didn’t think at all…
Friday Fictioneers, an eclectic mix of creativity that wets the appetite and feeds the soul. A 100 words of fiction to fuel any weary traveler. Follow the link and join the caravan.
In an alleyway of red brick, a single street lamp flickered erratically. The smell of rot and decay so pungent, even the rats held their nose and scurried off.
It was raining. The relentless downpour, powerless to dilute the stench.
Then amidst the deluge, a beacon.
An open shop doorway.
Hints of honey and bees wax teasing the nose. Warmth, settling over shoulders chasing away the chill.
The air singing of bygone days of grandeur and romance, of visitors and expectations. Like catching ghosts off guard, running through the shadows, slipping back into the walls.
Another stitch in time.
Another re-visit this week, this time from Jan 15. Friday Fictioneers is a 100 words of fiction based on a weekly changing photo prompt. Just dabble your feet in the water and jump right in.
Photo Copyright : Georgia Koch
I watch as the skies turn darker, as the mist sweeps in from the shore. I feel the chill seep into my centre and the tightness take hold of my soul. I know that the tide is turning, that the storm is upsetting the calm, but I can’t stay away from the danger and I can’t accept the alarm.
I drown in a sea of dejection, swallowed up by a swale of regret. Adrift in a small wooden tender, only steered by the oars of lament.
I know there’s no land on the horizon, we are just ships that passed in the night.