Happy Friday, everyone, and welcome (almost) to the weekend. How about a short story to celebrate? Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Madison Woods and this week’s photo prompt comes from Sandra Crook.
Give it a read and let me know what you think, then jump into the fray and write one of your own!
Through The Paifang
My father led me up the trail, through the painted paifang and under the yunnan trees. This was the place of our ancestors, and here my father knelt to pray.
This is my second attempt at doing the Trifecta Writing Challenge, and this week I decided to pull out all the stops and tackle a question that has troubled laymen and academics alike for ages: what do Polish people think about when they’re sad? (I’m starting with some levity because my story feels a little depressing this week).
If you agree, why don’t you head on over to the Trifecta Writing Challenge page and try submitting something a little bit happier for us to read, huh? Seriously, though: Comments, criticism and links to your stories are welcome below.
Przypadek
Every night the cinema plays the same film; I have seen it a hundred times, this beautiful work by Kieslowski.
I’m extremely late to the party (especially considering Friday comes to some parts of the world when it’s still Thursday here) but I’ve finally gotten to my Friday Fictioneers post. Yet again it’s something a little different for me (I don’t usually write much of anything related to religion) and it’s way, way, way too long (not so much flash fiction as extended-full-frontal-nudity fiction) but hopefully some of you will make it to the end.
Bernie
Bernie stood at the mirror and flexed his new wings, wincing as they pulled taut the raw-sewn wound. They were heavy and strong.
Dead Man Walking
It wasn’t until I died that I finally saw my life clearly – not until this morning, that is, when I woke up on a cold gurney with a Y-shaped scar on my chest, a bitter taste in my mouth and a lipstick stain on my cheek. Read the rest of this entry »
I’m a little late to the Friday Fictioneers party, but I’m still getting a hang of my new schedule so bear with me. The prompt this week dealt with spiders, so in keeping with a lot of my posts recently I went creepy with it. I’m not sure whether I like this one or this earlier post better when it comes to my spider-related writings, but I’ll let you be the judge. Thanks, as always, to Madison Woods for hosting the prompts, and thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for providing this week’s picture.
Solitary Confinement
So dark. Black. And without time, just like death.
This week I’ve done something very different (for me at least) for Friday Fictioneers: A poem!
Maybe it’s because I’ve been gone for a couple weeks and I wanted my glorious return to be different, or maybe it’s just because I started writing and noticed a lot of rhythm in the words and decided to go all in (who can really say?), but whatever the reason, this is where I ended up.
As always, constructive criticism is welcome (be gentle! Poetry isn’t my thing), and head on over to Madison Woods’ website for past weeks, sweet writings and authorial goodness.
Who Lives There?
Deep in the Kip is a stony mill,
and close by the mill is a stream,
dark and small and easy to miss in the shade of the close-spaced trees.
Friday is upon us again, and here I am Fictioneering – with what I’d consider one of my creepier attempts.
The photo comes courtesy of Lura Helms, but the prompt, as always, comes from Madison Woods. Give it a read and let me know what you think!
The Hatchery
Snap.
A fissure opened in the stump and Cole stepped closer. The trees had died months ago, but somehow they’d kept growing – not up, but out, tumid trunks swelling in the blackened soil.
Snap.
Now the forest was full of pregnant trees, thick boles hung with knots, limbs splayed.
SNAP.
The fissure grew wide, and a long leg, bone white and ragged, reached from the darkness, groping for purchase on the swollen stump. The dead leaves rattled as a fat body turned beneath, scraping inside the trunk before thrusting another leg into the light.
Cole stepped back.
Snap, snap, snap.
All across the forest, the spiders were hatching their shells.
***
You know the drill: Leave your comments and criticism (and, hopefully, links to your stories) in the section below, and click on the little blue guy for even more great stories! For more of my stories, check out my fiction section.
If you’ve been following my Five Sentence Fiction story over the last couple of months, you’ll know that it takes place in the Civil War-Era South. And if you’ve been stalking me lately, you’ll know that, coincidentally, I’ve also just moved to Atlanta.
Well, over the weekend my girlfriend and I got out of the city and went for a hike at Sweetwater Creek State Park, where the trails took us on a bit of a historical tour – one that turned out to be oddly relevant to my story.
pinionpost 