While one of the district’s most accomplished saber fencers, Hector Santiago would often lean his head forward while attacking, as if he were searching for an opening like a man searching for nocturnal slugs by flashlight. His opponents, at least the few in the region who weren’t intimidated by his aggression, learned to wait for this technical flaw, and would score points against his mask when he leaned in too far, using his prognathous tactics against him.
Starting a new tradition today. On weeks when I’m not inspired by Friday Fictioneers, I’m going to write a 100-word story based on a word I’ve discovered in my reading.
She began cartooning in preschool, and for her fourth birthday illustrated all 22 invitations. After completing her first comic book the following year, the 43-page space opera Beyond the Stars, Wylie discovered she was more interested in coloring than drawing.
Shen then began painting, but grew dissatisfied. Her lines were clean, the images vibrant — the colors, though, weren’t right. In frustration, one day she painted with eyes closed, and when finished, she opened her eyes, and smiled.
Wylie then began coloring blindfolded, with both crayons and paints. And an artist found her vision.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly flash fiction contest. You’re limited to 100 words, but keeping your eyes open is entirely up to you.
One day eighteen winters ago, Jackie Shen dared me to crawl under a barbed wire fence, walk into an abandoned building, and return with evidence of the structure’s former life as a military laboratory.
When I refused, Jackie laughed at my trepidation. “Wait here,” he said, getting down on his belly. Clearing the fence, he stood and ran, disappearing into the derelict structure.
After waiting two hours, I ran home and told my parents. They called Jackie’s parents. Three days later, his body was found in a ditch ten miles away. No arrests were ever made.
I’ve never forgiven myself.
I usually don’t get this dark for Friday Fictioneers, but the photo prompt for this week called for a different approach to my 100 word story.
Daniel shook snow off his pant leg as he crossed the street, not noticing until he had reached the sidewalk that Miriam was still standing outside their car, her face filled with anxiety.
“You OK?” Daniel squinted in the late afternoon sunlight.
“I… didn’t think it would be this hard.” She brushed away a lock of hair blown across her face. “Weddings, bar mitzvahs — ”
“B’nai mitzvah, dear.”
“Right. But a Shabbat service? Not since I was eight. I don’t feel like I belong here.”
Daniel held out his hand. “If you choose to be by my side, you belong anywhere I’ll go.”
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly flash fiction contest which challenges you to write a complete story of up to 100 words based on a photo prompt. You know you want to participate, so what’s holding you up?
The bay had been a busy lumber port a century earlier, but had lost most of its traffic when cheaper timber material became available elsewhere; after the hydroelectric dam was built a mile upstream, the shoreline had receded too far for the bay to have any seafaring value. A single beam from a loading dock beam was the sole relic of that era. Suspended far the new shoreline, decades of fungal detritus dangled from its sides like icicles. On mornings after a long summer rain, its damp weathered features seemed ready for the arrival of ships from its forgotten past.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly flash fiction contest which challenges you to write a complete story of up to 100 words based on a photo prompt. I cheated a little bit this time, as the bay in the photo looks to be on the ocean rather than a river, but what’s the fun in always playing by the rules?
Malcolm’s head nodded slowly, like a pumpkin falling off a scarecrow. “The plane leaves tomorrow morning.”
Under a leafless tree, Trudy put her arms around Malcolm, who hugged her affectionately as he looked up. In the winter moonlight, the bare branches resembled a spider’s web.
Trudy broke their embrace, and stepped back just in time to avoid the maddened rush of a werewolf, who tore open Malcolm’s belly, casting his entrails onto the ground.
After gasping in horror, Trudy glared at the retreating lycanthrope. “You couldn’t wait until I fucking kissed him?”
Over the past couple of years, I’ve been a semi-regular participant in Friday Fictioneers, a weekly flash fiction contest which challenges you to write a complete story of up to 100 words based on a photo prompt. I’ve enjoyed taking part, but have decided there weren’t enough werewolves in my stories.