Friday Fictioneers: The Hit Man

copyright Renee Homan Heath

I had nothng for this until my son woke me at 4 o’clock this morning getting ready for work. Hmm… Nah. He’s a good kid! The story started out a little soft, but I think it ended up pretty hard-boiled. Ha! Okay, what do you expect at 5 a.m.? Monty Python? Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

The Hit Man

Genre: Crime

My uncle had always considered the world his ashtray and human life something to be snuffed out like the unfiltered menthols he habitually left at the scene of a job. It was appropriate, perhaps, that he was found buried in the sand, vertical, head down, only his feet visible still sporting his signature white crew socks with blue stripes. It was a cosmic joke that I happened to be on duty that day, a joke at my expense that I told myself over and over again sitting by the ocean later, watching the salt water wash the white beach clean.

I hope you liked my drabble. Read more great flash fiction at Friday Fictioneers’ on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog. Or add one of your own!

Friday Fictioneers: The Menorah

Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Quick submission today.  Feel free to comment!

Genre: Speculative Fiction

The Menorah

The unnatural way the sun was dropping from the sky bewildered Esther.  She looked around for Toby.  His crayons lay abandoned on the living room table.  She heard a tapping from the den.  He was at it again—trading coloring for more destructive pastimes.  She walked through the doorway, saw him seated on the floor, golden menorah cups scattered around him.  Only one left attached.  His hand held high, hammer ready to descend, he gazed at her with too much knowledge in his eyes.  Esther turned to the window again, considered the blackened noontime sky, and heard metal strike metal.

I hope you enjoyed my drabble.  Read more great flash fiction at Friday Fictioneers’ on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.  Or add one of your own!

Friday Fictioneers: Not Really a Story

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Today I considered doing a rime rhyme or a frosty fantasy, but I was finally drawn by the atmosphere of the recent elections.  My offering this week is not really a story, but my hope that we can all extend love and understanding to others, even when we don’t see eye to eye.  Although my piece is set in the aftermath of a U.S. election (any one will do), the underlying philosophy is not limited by nationality or the political sphere.

I welcome critique.  My last story generated some discussion about word choice that I enjoyed and appreciated.  Thanks to all who participated.  Since this piece does have a political element, I would re-emphasize that comments should be kept civil.

Not Really a Story

It was odd weather for this early in November, but it matched the mood of the Facebook posts she’d been reading.  It was an icy world out there.  Still, the sun would return, and as long as she could maintain a peaceful demeanor, hearts in her circle would melt just as surely as the sleet on her window.  There would be some who hung on, who called her evil because they disagreed, who popped keys off keyboards or called for unjustified impeachment on their car bumpers.  But most, she believed, would settle back into a sanity of forbearance and friendship.

I hope you enjoyed my drabble.  Read more great flash fiction at Friday Fictioneers’  on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.  Or add one of your own!

Friday Fictioneers: White is White

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Running quite late today.  I considered not writing a story at all this week, but I did for two reasons: to support Rochelle on her first week in charge, and to overcome my own laziness.  However the story turned out, I reached those goals.  I struggled to find a title for this drabble.  If you can think of a better one, please feel free to share.  And when you are done here, head on over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields blog (the new home for Friday Fictioneers) for more great flash fiction.

I welcome critique and comment.

White is White

I stared out the window at my parents’ perfect garden while Mom brought me iced tea in a pink tumbler.

“We always did the yard work ourselves.  I suppose you could hire someone if you need to.”

Condensation slid down the side of the glass.  I reached for a packet of sweetener but the white dish was empty.

“Nothing artificial in this house,” she sneered.  It wasn’t personal.  She was thinking of Dad’s hospital room.

I grabbed the sugar, poured some in my tea.  Stirred.  Sipped.  The saltiness was a shock, but I waited until she left to refill the dispensers.

Friday Fictioneers: Wisdom in a Blue Skirt

copyright Ron Pruitt

I’m sure I’m not the only one to take this route with this prompt.  And I wrote this pretty early in the a.m. (for me, anyway).  Perhaps I was just too tired to search out a quirky twist.  On the other had, this shot is already pretty quirky.  Not much searching necessary.  Sometimes the most obvious elements make the best stories.  This short is only 67 words.  It’s actually an attempt at a four-sentence short.  Not quite as brief as Hemingway’s, but I hope you still enjoy it.

Please feel free to critique and comment.

Wisdom in a Blue Skirt

When Bruce had pulled his clothes from the overnight bag this morning, he knew he’d gone too far.  To him it had been just another argument.  To Julie it had been the last straw.  Now, waiting to board the bus behind his wife and child, the wind whipping the lace-trimmed skirt around his naked legs, it was clear to him who wore the pants in this family.

Thanks to Madison Woods who has been such a great moderator for Friday Fictioneers.  I’m sorry to see her pass the torch.  However, I know Rochelle will do a great job running the group.

I hope you enjoyed my little story.  Read more or add one of your own at Madison Woods’ blog.

Friday Fictioneers: The Old One

Photo by Lora Mitchell

I usually wait until Friday to post to Friday Fictioneers, but I will be travelling again tomorrow, and this prompt was too lovely to pass up.

Feel free to critique–positive or constructive negative.  I can take it.  I can even take deconstructed negative, and possibly unconstructed, but just plain negative brings the whole tone of the discussion down, don’t you think?  😉  Have a great Friday!

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The Old One

Battled off by sylphs for years, age had not touched Belinda early.  She entered her fifties with alabaster skin unwrinkled and eyes clear and bright.  But as her sixth decade wore on, her guardians flew to younger faces and soon Ariel alone was her protector.  He kept her surface safe, but the veins beneath her skin began to appear, thin channels through which her life flowed visibly now.  Nightly she traced the memories in her body, until the grandchild arrived and Ariel knew his time was spent.  The velvet wrinkles came quickly, and the infant girl played with air spirits.

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Hope you enjoyed my drabble.  Read more stories or add one of your own at Friday Fictioneers on Madison Woods’ website.

Friday Fictioneers: Trapped

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

So glad to be back at FF after 2 Fridays off travelling. It always feels great to start Friday with a completed story.

Critique me. Positives, negatives (put constructively)–I love it. We become better writers by recognizing and working on our weaknesses. Also, our stories sound different in our own heads and I’m often surprised by what others hear when they read mine. Feel free to share these perceptions as well.

Just a note on this challenge–I am not a fifth-grade boy and I enjoyed the assignment. 🙂

Trapped

A story about spiders? Dumbest assignment ever. All the good ones had been written. Stories about spiders with special weaving abilities, bigger than life spiders, spiders on roller skates, radioactive spiders that bite you and give you super powers. All he could think of was how Jenny Finch’s hair was like a spider web—straight and pale and shimmery in the morning sun.

He would remember that moment years later as Jenny gazed at him from behind her bridal veil. He would wonder if flies felt this sense of euphoria as they wriggled in the web, waiting for the end.

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Hope you enjoyed my drabble. Read more great stories or add one of your own at Friday Fictioneers on Madison Woods’ website.

Friday Fictioneers: Food

Photo by Lura Helms

Nature is a cruel Mother.  Feeding to be fed.  Nurturing to be nurtured.  Consuming flesh, leaving bone.  Then absorbing that, too, until nothing is left resembling the creature that developed from her seed.

Abbie watched her father pull out of the driveway.  Another day, another dollar.  The insistent clatter of breakfast preparations summoned her, but she lingered, watching his car stop at the sign, turn the corner.

“Abbie.  Breakfast.  Hurry or you’ll be late for school!”

She slid from the couch and allowed her feet to carry her to the kitchen table.  A good student starts with a nutritious meal.

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Hope you enjoyed my drabble.  I love comments and critique.  Read more great stories or add one of your own at Friday Fictioneers on Madison Woods’ website.

Friday Fictioneers: Contact

Photo by Susan Wenzel

Water rippled away from her fingertips.  She had seen the shell clearly, centimeters from the surface.    It seemed a simple thing to retrieve, but she should have touched it already.  Focus was everything; anxiety, adrenaline were distractions.  She breathed deep, pushed through, purposefully, until she felt the boundaries of dimension shift.  There it was—the hard edge of the double lobes.  She ran her fingers over the smooth exposed plane of each half, lingered at the point of connection, then withdrew her hand, resisting the temptation to pull the shell back to her side.  Contact was enough for now.

Hope you enjoyed my 100-word (99, actually) story.  I love comments and critique.  Read more great stories or add one of your own at Friday Fictioneers on Madison Woods’ website.

Friday Fictioneers: Fiona

grapevine gore, Madison Woods

“Is nothing sacred?” Fiona cried.

She pulled her apron off as she ran to the vine.  She knelt, wiped the slime from the gash.  It was too late.  Infection always hung in the air, waiting for a break in the skin.  She watched it flow through the sapline, turning the vine black.  This had been her one responsibility in the Community.  Damon had witnessed the defilement and  run off to inform the Committee.

The blackness reached the ground; she turned to her son.  His toy sword trailed in the dust.

“Everything will be okay,” she lied as she held him.

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Hope you enjoyed my 100-word story.  I love comments and critique.  Read more great stories or add one of your own at “Friday Fictioneers” on Madison Woods’ website.