I admit it: I forgot. I wrote it on my calendar: “2/1/2016: Post on Writing Wranglers and Warriors.” Yesterday I remembered. Then I forgot. So I’m late. [Sigh.]
Anyway, just under the wire–Here are four stories I wrote and published on my personal blog as part of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Each was written from a photo prompt. Each is exactly 100 words in length. (Or was when I last counted.) I hope you like.
When Derek fell for LucyMae, he immediately introduced her to his wife.
“Look, Mandy.” His tone was reverent; his eyes betokened lust. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”
“Good gosh.” Mandy touched the hull. “Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink. Where does the albatross sit?”
“Hydrate her, the boards’ll plump up.”
“They’re rotten. . . . What’s that thingy?”
“It’s a . . . I’ll fix her.”
He switched on pleading puppy eyes.
Sigh. “Okay.” Mandy took his arm. “Let’s go look at that treadle sewing machine I want.”
“You can’t sew.”
“No. But it was love at first sight.”
Screams pierced the air. The woman dropped her trowel and raced across the yard. “What happened?”
Pushing through a ring of children, she lifted the crying child, examined the swelling lip.
A Greek chorus erupted.
“Lisabeth, I told you not to drink from the hydrant.” Then, turning, “Lisabeth’s four. You’re ten–“
“I was rescuing Kitty from–Mom, I can’t watch her every second.”
“Get the baking soda.”
TLC applied, the woman returned to gardening.
Screams pierced the air. She ran.
“Lisabeth teased Kitty and–“
“Lisabeth, I told you–“
I heard them talking.
Daddy said, She wants a pogo stick.
Mama said, She has enough presents.
Santa brought a pogo stick.
Daddy smiled. Sturdy.
We went outside.
Mama frowned. Don’t fall.
She’s fine. Daddy lifted me on.
I bounced. The pogo stick didn’t.
Daddy frowned. Spring’s tight. You’re not heavy enough.
Daddy tried. He bounced down the sidewalk.
Mr. Smith came over. Can I try?
Daddy jumped off. Sure.
Mr. Smith bounced down the driveway. This is fun.
Let me try again, Daddy.
Daddy bounced up the driveway.
Mama brought me my doll.
She’s right. I have enough presents.
John ambled into the kitchen. “What’s cooking?”
“Mushroom gravy.” Mary kept stirring.
John frowned. “Toadstools. Fungi. Dorothy Sayers killed someone with mushrooms–Amanita.“
“These are morels.” She added salt. “Everybody eats mushrooms.”
He sat down. “Where’d you buy them?”
“I picked them.”
“Aunt Helen helped. She knows ‘shrooms.” Mary held out a spoonful. “Taste.”
“Well . . . ” John tasted. “Mmmm. Seconds?”
“Yoo-hoo.” Aunt Helen bustled in. “Like my new glasses? With those old ones–I couldn’t see doodly squat.”
Mary looked at the gravy, then at John. “Maybe you should spit that out.”