Sorry, I’m afraid my take is a little obvious. No excuses here. Just, it’s what I saw when I looked at the photo prompt. Once you have seen it, it cannot be unseen.
Every Friday, authors from around the world gather here to share their 100-words and offer constructive criticism and encouragement to each other. Readers are encouraged to comment as well. The prompt is from Kent Bonham. For details, check out Rochelle Wisoff-Fields http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
“What is it, Mom?”
“Ahh…it was once a tree, a long time ago, Honey.”
“What’s a tree?”
“If you really want to know, you ought to ask your pre-fall holographic history module.”
“Fine. A tree was…well…it was a kind of plant that grew really tall.”
“Yes…but trees had flat, green disks called leaves instead of spines.”
“Trees needed lots of clean water and sunlight to live.”
“So…when everything got bad…the trees died?”
“All of them?”
“What was it like?”
“There once were giants to blot out the sun.”
“I guess we aren’t missing much then, living underground.”
Every Friday, authors from around the world gather here to share their 100-words and offer constructive criticism and encouragement to each other. This creates a wonderful opportunity for free reading of very fresh fiction! Readers are encouraged to comment as well. The prompt is from Janet Webb. (If you squint you can see her name in the frame of the mirror. Cool that.) If you care to join us, check out Rochelle Wisoff-Fields http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2014/09/10/12-september-2014/
Ever since the change, I’ve avoided mirrors and windows. Any reflective surface, really. My eyes skitter past any accidental glances. I don’t like what I see. When I was young, they promised miracles. “Modern medicine will see people living well into their hundreds.” The doctors said. Then they came for me. “It’s just one, quick procedure. This won’t hurt.” They assured me. They lied. And now, instead of the youthful vitality they promised, I face centuries of desiccated wandering. Always thirsting for what was lost and never satisfied with what I find.
Friday Fictioneers is brought to you each week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who leads our band of merry writers, in weekly photo-prompt flash fiction. You can find other 100-word stories on Rochelle’s blog, Addicted to Purple. Join us, or just enjoy the wide variety of stories. ** Please leave a comment. I welcome constructive feedback. Play nice.
In the distance, flashlights race and bob heading toward the light. They are too late in their rush to judgment. I have already passed sentence. This fire burns to cleanse the inner demons. I will incinerate them all—those hell-bound thoughts which howl and gnaw within. I take each poisonous self-infliction: WORTHLESS, HOPELESS, PATHETIC, and toss it, another log on the fire. From the dust, I will rise anew.
Another submission to Friday Fictioneers: Roasted Wood Gnome
Photo copyright: Madison Woods
While hunting for mushrooms recently, I came across an unusual specimen: the Wood Gnome. A rare gastro-gnomic delicacy, the small creature was hunted nearly to extinction by German foresters; Wood Gnomes came to the New World along with other unsavory immigrants: pox, diphtheria and the Welsh*. French fur trappers made Quebec famous for its gnome fur exports. (It takes several thousand gnomes to make a decent coat.) To prepare, simply remove lederhosen, wash gnome thoroughly and skin before spitting and roasting over hickory fire embers. Gnome is done when the tiny nose pops. Sprinkle with gruyere and serve.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*Please, no hate mail from the Welsh. It just sounded funny to me.
There is a house, hemmed by hundred-year-old forests. It sits wedged at the crack where the mountain and the trees argue about property lines; each takes a small step here or there, reclaiming what was lost. The crenellated highway cuts through and, playing referee, takes no sides. From the uppermost window you could see traffic zoom by. Only birds know this was once a palace of an impoverished people. Zigzag stairs dash haphazard footpaths—dizzying, transitory indecision leading nowhere. And flower pots wait at the end of the world for owners who are never coming home.