Friday Fictioneers – Basil Thistlethorn Goes Left

After a week away, I am pleased to return to Friday Fictioneers. This week’s photo comes from Danny Bowman. I must also credit Brian Benoit, who suggested I write a story from “the left side of the third floor” of The House of Several Genres.

Copyright – Danny Bowman

Basil Thistlethorn Goes Left

Basil Thistlethorn, aged 10, with grass stains on his trousers and dirt beneath his fingernails, lifted the receiver to stop the ringing.

“Hullo?”

“Basil. Just the boy I wanted.” The voice on the other end was smooth, like the top of his favorite pudding before Mummy spooned it into his bowl. “We need another villain. If you are clever enough, find me, August Templetorn, in the building directly facing your playground. Third floor. And Basil… If you wish to taste your mother’s pudding again, do stay to the left.”

Basil dropped the phone and very carefully placed his left foot in front of his right.

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Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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Friday Fictioneers – Double Header

The votes are in from The House of Several Genres. The basement beat out the ground floor by a mere two points, so… because I love you all so much, we’re visiting both floors.

Enjoy, and be sure to check out other Friday Fictioneers’ stories by clicking on the blue froggy guy at the end!

Copyright-Ted Strutz

When Art Intimidates Life (100 words, Horror)

I’ve checked the locks a thousand times, always keeping one eye on the painting. Any minute now, one of Gus’s little monsters, so pretty on canvas, will lift itself from art to life. I check the back exit again. Locked from outside, I cannot escape. Neither can they. The world is safe tonight. If only I might be also.

I hear her first, sharp breath and turn. Another gray shape marks where lively color once existed. She stands behind the bar, still adjusting to our three-dimensional world.

“No more playing nicely,” she purrs.

Thirteen wine bottles hurtle toward my head.

 

 

Not an Act of Golden Courage* (100 words, Romance)

We’ve been coming here two years now, separately since the Tyler incident. He sits at the counter, I at a booth. I deserve my banishment.

He’s wearing a uniform today. When did he enlist?

I hold up my book, so he will not see the tears forming as he passes by. The table jostles, his fingers curl over the top of the page, and a scrap of paper flutters to the table.

“When you finish your book, write and tell me how you liked it.” His finger catches my falling tear. “Morning in Antibes always makes me cry, too, Lily.

 

*Title taken from Morning in Antibes, page 223. ”I had come for her,” John Knowles’s main character says of his unfaithful wife. “I had not gone away. I had come for her. Not an act of golden courage, not like giving up your life for what lies deeply in your heart, but just a short but definite and irrevocable step. Since I had never walked that way in my life, the first step could only be a short one.”

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Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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Friday Fictioneers – The House of Several Genres

I’m in the midst of mad revisions to a manuscript, so I may not be around much, but here’s this week’s offering, compliments of Penn… Hope everyone is doing well!

Photo Copyright -Kent Bonham

The House of Several Genres

Second story’s haunted. Basement swarms with evil. Stay off the top floor, too. You’re not old enough for what goes on up there.

A mad, time-traveler settled in on the fourth floor with all his gadgets and wizardry… No, the wizardry’s all on the third floor. Dragons and scrolls, too. Stay on the right side of things if you want a happy ending on either of those levels.

Now, if all you want is a handsome hero, stick to the ground floor.

Whatever you do, be sure to come back out now and then. That’s where the real stories are.

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Now for a little fun: Please pick a floor for me to visit next week. For several reasons, I will decline any requests to write on the top floor, but the rest is fair game. I’m afraid I have little creativity to spare until my revisions are complete, but if you’ll give me a genre to use with next week’s prompt, we’ll see what fun we can have!

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Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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Friday Fictioneers – Shelved

By some miracle, seven days have come and gone since Rochelle posted last weeks photo. If that isn’t enough to convince you that miracles occur, take note of my word count and let all doubt go.

If you were hoping to see Penn again this week, I beg your forgiveness. Truthfully, Penn was the first one I saw in this prompt. But then…

A little angel on my shoulder whispered, “This one’s mine.”

Please join me in welcoming Angelique into Claire’s library for the first time.

Copyright-Claire Fuller

Shelved (80 words. Eighty words. A-T words. 8. 0. You will never see this again.)

“Everyone has a story,” Claire said, “full of secret memories and hidden sorrows. You can read it in their eyes, if you look deeply. Or…”

She pulled a small volume from a bottom shelf and tucked Angelique’s report inside the back cover.

“Is that the fat man’s story?” Angelique asked.

“This thing?” Claire waved the thin book in the air, then looked up at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the cozy room’s walls. “Heavens, child. This whole room belongs to Steve.”

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Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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Friday Fictioneers – In Which Penn Advises Her Rider

Copyright-Janet Webb

In Which Penn Advises Her Rider

The engine sputtered as Penn came to a stop beside a dry creek bed. I hopped off her worn seat and crouched down. There, among stones smoothed by flowing waters, was an empty wasp nest. I held it in my palm – so fragile, so delicate, like the unveiled human soul trembling in the wind of uncertainty.

My other hand wrapped around a honey-colored pebble, longing to draw from it a portion of its strength, that something it possessed that enabled it to weather cold winters and tumultuous waters.

“Keep ‘em,” a voice behind me purred. “You’ll need ‘em both.”

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Lately, I have been thinking how very raw the act of writing and pursuing publication can be. One of the things that has amazed me most, that I had never thought of before I began writing, is how utterly vulnerable a writer makes herself. To write well, one must pour every ounce of emotion onto the page, swirl it around, turn it into something beautiful, and then wait… quite possibly for criticism and rejection. And when criticism and rejection come, so may tears. And I don’t mean, “Boo-hoo. Woe is me,” tears. I mean these things that spring from the depths and come silently, unbidden, unavoidable, and unspeakable.

But there is this other thing that has amazed me as much as, if not more than the soul-gaping vulnerability, and that is strength. One cannot be a wimp when it comes to writing, but must see beyond the tears to the truth, and then find the strength to make oneself and one’s writing that much better.

When I saw Janet’s beautiful photo this morning, I saw the dual natures of a writer. The vulnerability of the soul on paper, waiting either to be cradled or to be discarded, sits beside the strength of character that resolves not to shy away when the winters come or the waters flow.

Vulnerability and strength.

Keep ‘em, friends. If you’re going to write, you’ll need ‘em both.

Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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Friday Fictioneers – Riding Penn

Copyright - Sandra Crook

Riding Penn(100 words)

“What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with it?”

“You ride Penn wherever she takes you.”

“It looks like some kind of medieval torture device.”

“She won’t bite. Well, she might, but you won’t mind.”

“How’s it work?”

“Magic.”

“Magic?” I forgot I wasn’t supposed to arch my eyebrow at stupid people. “Seriously.”

“Seriously. Hop on.”

I grumbled as I maneuvered around the gears and belts. Situating myself in the rusty seat, I grasped the goat-horn handles. Energy surged through me into the contraption.

“Whoa!” I shouted, but no one heard.

Penn and I, we’d left the world behind.

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Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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Friday Fictioneers – Involuntary Sabbatical

First and foremost, happy birthday to fellow Friday Fictioneer Renee Heath!

Secondly, I apologize for not getting through all of last week’s stories. Same goes for not having responded to all of your comments on last week’s post. Sometimes life just gets crazy busy.

Finally, today’s story takes place immediately after Accidents Happen, that little vignette in which we saw our sweet little Angelique cushion a man’s fall with an ax. We pick up the story with Angelique emerging from the barn to come face to face with her less-than-impressed handler…

From Scott Vanatter with permission-Copyright- Indira

Involuntary Sabbatical (100 words)

“Don’t make it personal, Angie.” Jeremy stood beneath the oak, muscular arms across his chest, ebony wings twitching with displeasure. “Do you think his Maker smirks? Do you suppose He delights in a life lost?”

“But,” Angelique glared at the dilapidated barn. “He killed…”

“Uh-uh.” Jeremy shook his dark hair out of his eyes. “You deliver justice – swift, severe, final. But you are not the judge of that man, not the judge of any of them. Go home, Angelique. Find me when you can serve honorably again.”

He left, a flurry of raven wings, before she could protest.

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Friday Fictioneers (n): A world-wide community of writers addicted to writing 100 word stories based on a photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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