Friday Fictioneers – New Life

Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!

PHOTO PROMPT © ROGER BULTOT

New Life

It was out the front of the Chinese restaurant in a pile of furniture. Sally stopped, just as the owner staggered out with more trash.

Sally pointed.

“Would it be okay for me to have that?”

“Take it. I hope you can put it to good use.”

“Oh, I shall! God bless you!”

For the first time in months Mr Chan’s spirits lifted.

It was tough lugging it home. It took an hour to clean it properly.

Sally was just finished when Colin came in.

He saw the baby chair immediately.

“Does this mean…?”

Sally’s radiant smile was answer enough.

Click here to join in the fun!

What Pegman Saw – Trapped

“What Pegman saw” is a weekly challenge based on Google Streetview. Using the location provided, you must write a piece of flash fiction of no more than 150 words. You can read the rules here. You can find today’s location on this page,  from where you can also get the Inlinkz code. This week’s prompt is Maienfeld, Switzerland.

WPS - Trapped 190928

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Trapped

A flurry of snow burst against the window, leaving its four little panes crusted so thickly white that the feeble daylight could hardly force a way through.

Heidi poured warm goat’s milk into a bottle, and sighed. Before her grandfather had died, she had enjoyed living on the Alm even in the winter. Grandfather had kept the woodstore full of dry logs which smelled sweet when they burned slow and hot in the stove. He had kept cheese and cured meat in the store, tasty and ample to feed them through a blizzard.

What did she have now? A little butter and some potatoes riddled with dark spots of decay. Peter, feeding the last of the hay to their goats, would turn up his nose at them.

She heard thumping as Peter knocked ice off his boots.

In the corner, the baby started to wail.

The snow kept falling.

Friday Fictioneers – Escape

NaNoWriMo is over for this year, and I’m delighted to have succeeded in writing 50,000 words of a novel in the month. I’m now trying to continue at the same pace until the first draft is finished.

However, this week the siren voice of Friday Fictioneers has lured me into the shoals of flash fiction, especially as Rochelle has picked such an evocative photoprompt from Dawn. Thank you to both of you!

Friday Fictioneers - Escape 181206

PHOTO PROMPT © Dawn M. Miller

Escape

If Saaburah had looked back, she would have seen a smudge of smoke on the horizon where her house had once stood, but she didn’t look back.

If she had listened to her memories, she would have heard gunfire, screams, and the roar of fire as her family and friends were slaughtered, but she didn’t listen to her memories.

With her baby swaddled against her breast, she had walked towards the border, at first alone, then with a few others, then with a multitude.

Filthy, exhausted, frightened, they streamed across the railway bridge into Bangladesh, homeless, stateless.

Alive.

Friday Fictioneers – A Motherless Child

Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz (the blue frog) on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!

I’m afraid the connection of the story to the photoprompt is very tenuous. My thought was the nurturing of a helpless infant by an older couple, just as the fledgling has been hand reared.

FF - A Motherless Child - 171011

PHOTO POMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

The Motherless Child

“I can’t tell you how sad I am for you, Maureen,” said Carol.

The white wall-clock ticked away the seconds. There was a smell of disinfectant. My daughter, Diana, looked peaceful now. I stroked her hand. It was smooth and soft – and already cool.

Diana’s new-born baby daughter snuffled in her crib.

“Thank you, Carol.” I took her arm, for she, too, was a grandmother to the child.

“That wastrel son of yours; who’s going to look after the baby?” ground out my husband.

Carol flinched, but I answered “We are, Ted. There’ll be legal things, custody. Will you ring the solicitor?”