Friday Fictioneers – Not an Option

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!

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PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Not an option

Pain flickers, then flares.

The sound of my pulse is loud and swift.

I can smell blood; my own blood.

My eyes open on an unfocused world.

Forty feet below me lie the shards of my mobile phone. Ten feet above me is the canyon’s rim. Unless I climb those ten feet, I have no hope of rescue.

I nearly faint as I take the first step on my shattered left ankle.

I clutch a rock. Failure is not an option.

I struggle out as the sun is setting. There is a Jeep. I wave – and it turns towards me.

Inlinkz – click here to join the fun!

What Pegman Saw – The Crossing

“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 Tolchester Beach, Maryland, USA.

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The crossing

Jim drove towards the water, parked and sat in darkness. The far side of the estuary was spangled with lights.

He gulped bourbon from his flask, then stripped, folding his clothes neatly onto the seat. “See, Mom?” he slurred, not knowing whether it was a sneer or a lament.

Then he waded into the water and swam towards the far shore.

It’s five kilometres and he was not a strong swimmer. He would swim until exhausted and then quietly let himself slide under…

The water wasn’t cold, not at first anyway, not as cold as his loss. He swam steadily, his mind floating free. This wasn’t such a bad way to go.

A slap of water roused him. His limbs were shuddering, but still moving. Orange street lights! Close!

His left leg cramped.

Only one hundred yards to go.

His head was submerging.

Every stroke was agony.

He made it.

Friday Fictioneers – Sacrifice – Survival

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!

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PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio

Sacrifice – Survival

The leaf-stalks, the arteries of the tree, became choked, losing their strength just as the autumn gales blew fiercer. Desiccated leaves clattered in great drifts, leaving the gnarled limbs and wrinkled bark of the tree facing the onrushing fury of winter naked, without protection. Sap sank back into the branches.

A persistent east wind hardened the cold. The tree pulled its sap back deeper, sacrificing more and more of the tightly-wrapped packets of new leaves. It was a killing winter, set to split a tree and bring it down.

Spring came late that year, and the leaves were few.

 

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

 

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!

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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.