This Friday Fictioneering is an addictive thing, miss one week and I feel dreadful. I have been trying to organise my time so I can do more writing -no, I am serious – and so far it has worked. Both last week and this I have managed to post something BEFORE Friday, very happy about that.
For those who are not yet aware and wondering what on earth I am blabbering on about, Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the one and only Rochelle you can read the rules on her post, then join us in our addiction. The photograph this week comes courtesy of the lovely Janet Webb
Copyright Janet Webb
Word Count: 100
The sky is a glorious palette of colour; the pale fluffy clouds, almost touching the treetops are tinged with a warm apricot blush. As the sun dips below the horizon, a deep orange glow spreads outwards, filling my room.
Birds are winging their way home, returning to safety in the thick branches of the tall oaks; their freedom strengthens my resolve.
My eyes focus on the reflection in the window and I smile. I’m not the frail old woman I see there, I am strong. I am ready now to find Jack and tell him why I couldn’t meet him.
Read more stories –
PS Something seemed to go wrong with WP apologies if you just got the background picture when i hit publish the first time. Hopefully sorted out now.
Suddenly, it’s Wednesday again and time for Friday Fictioneers (don’t ask, just accept it, we do) ~Writers from all over the globe come together to submit their 100 word stories or poems, inspired by the weekly prompt sent out by our lovely purple leader Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. It is her birthday today so join me in sending her the warmest of birthday wishes. HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROCHELLE. The photo this week comes courtesy of the lady herself, my story follows the photo.
Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Word Count: 100
“It’s just clutter, nothing of value, why can’t I throw it out?”
“That’s my grandmother’s button tin you’re holding. Remember how we used the big buttons to teach you to count?”
Laura glared at her mother and sighed.
“You don’t need any of it.”
“How do you know what I need?”
“I look after you mother, I think I know.”
Isobel watched as her daughter walked around, calculating how many boxes they’d need.
“Laura, you pop in briefly, collect my prescription, get my groceries, but you can’t give me what I need.”
“And what would that be?”
Another week, another photo prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for Friday Fictioneers. This amazing photo is courtesy of David Stewart and you can see how others have interpreted the prompt here
Remembering the Song
Grey haired, quietly waiting,
I make no movements now for you to marvel at,
My joints seem permanently fixed,
Not flexible or free from pain.
Nothing could help me sway to your music now
Though I remember our song, few would think there ever was one,
Or believe that here there once was joy, pleasure, movement, grace.
They see a body, stiff, unyielding, closed, and think that it was always so
And that my mind must be the same.
They raise their voices and wave their arms about
I’m not yet deaf or dumb, just old.
I scream in silence.