Tag Archives: Friday Fictioneers

Photo copyright by David Stewart

The wild clanging of the heavy iron bell that normally summons the kids to dinner wakes me, a sound not indigenous to this late hour. Pulse pounding, bare feet slapping worn oak, I grapple with the shackles of a sinuous cotton gown in my mad scramble to the back door. I pull aside the curtain as lightning splits the sky, illuminating a monster that should not exist outside of nightmares. Hail begins to strafe the roof as I whirl to rouse my sleeping family, my frantic cries a whisper against the train-like roar outside. “Get to the cellar! Twister!”
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One hundred words in response to David Stewart‘s photo, selected this week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, the leader of the pack at Friday Fictioneers. You can check out other submissions by clicking the little blue guy below.

Photo copyright Dawn Quyle Landau

Mama, what is it? Why you cryin’?

Remember dat piddly-ass check FEMA gimme after Katrina? $1700 for “rent and expenses”?

Yeah, don’t know how dey ‘spected you to live on dat kinda money. Why?

Dey want it back.

Want what back?

Da money!! Dis here letter say there was some kinda “clerical error,” and now dey want da money back. It been six years! Dat money gone! Why else I be here livin’ offa you and Jeanie?

Okay, Mama, just relax. We gonna fix dis.

Oh, Lordy. First my house, den my freedom, now my dignity. I got nothin’ left.

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It’s Friday Fictioneers time again! One hundred words in response to a photo chosen by leader Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. There’s a solid group of 80-100 writers who contribute stories each week–if you haven’t checked out the links, you’re missing some great fiction.

Dawn’s photo is actually of a bathroom in Barbados, but no roof, missing steps…I immediately thought hurricane damage. So I went to Google to see what interesting things I could find about hurricanes and stumbled upon the outrageous story of FEMA trying to reclaim nearly $600 million from Katrina victims six years after the relief payments had been made (I was living overseas at the time, consciously avoiding as much US news as I could, so I missed the story when it actually occurred in 2011). Now, I can understand trying to recoup losses from fraudulent claims, but trying to squeeze money out of innocent folks (many of whom are elderly, disabled, and economically unstable) because of the agency’s own internal errors really rubbed me the wrong way.

Photo copyright Jean L. Hays

Bob chuckled at the bottle-nose swimming lazily across the Bills mug beside him.

His Buffalo-born wife would not tolerate his “gaudy sports memorabilia” in her kitchen, so he’d been touched last year when, with a stained glass circle, she’d acknowledged his fanatic love for the Miami team.

She’d been on the road for a week now, promoting her newest book, and the kitchen reflected his temporary bachelorhood. Faced with a sinkful of dirty dishes and an immediate need for caffeine, team loyalty had vanished with the sunrise; he’d shamelessly abandoned the Dolphins in favor of the cabinet’s sole clean mug.

Photo copyright – Adam Ickes

She went shopping with her mother.

He went for drinks after work.

A sexy stranger. A drunken kiss. The wrong witness. Word spreads.

On the pier where he’d proposed six weeks earlier, everything comes undone.

The ring hits his chest, slips between the planks. Plop.

Gravel pelts his shins as her Mustang roars away.

Was she blinded by tears or the lights of the oncoming semi?

He shucks his boots, dives into the evening-calm water, wonders if the gloom of the lake floor is anything like her coma.

Prays if he finds the ring, maybe she, too, will finally resurface.

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I’m desperately trying to find my fiction groove again–my muse has been AWOL for weeks–no cards, no letters, no phone calls. There was finally a tiny spark of something when I saw this week’s photo prompt for the Friday Fictioneers, so I snatched at it and actually managed to churn out a 100-word story.

Photo copyright Kent Bonham

“Really?” Bethann raised a manicured eyebrow in disdain. “Never mind, I see Gina. I must go and say hello.”

“For Chrissakes, Jen, officers’ wives are worse than the bitchiest girls I ever knew in high school. There are more trip hazards in a conversation at these Navy luncheons than in any dark alley.”

“Yeah, it can be tricky,” Jen replied, watching over the rim of her Chardonnay as Gina and Bethann cut glances at them from across the room. “If your husband doesn’t get put up for promotion, at least you’ll know which topics are off-limits at the Christmas luncheon!”

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One hundred words for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers! Check out Rochelle’s site for more great entries or to play along yourself.