Tag: 100 word fiction

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The Stage

Thanks again to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers! Here’s my take on the photo prompt in 100 words.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The Stage

Little Emmie loved to dance, but distrusted the stage. 

She rushed twice a week to the room with mirrors and eagerly mimicked as Ms. Jones moved to the music. But it didn’t seem quite right, like trying to draw a sunset.

“On stage,” Ms. Jones’ words glowed with reverence, “it will be magnificent!”

Emmie wasn’t sure. Her costume looked too ruffly, sequin-y, and bright. 

Mom read Emmie’s thoughts on performance day and smiled. “Just try it once, hun. Experiences are good.”

After the dance, Mom pushed her way backstage. Emmie ran to her.

“Agggghh!” She screamed. “I love the stage!”

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Trash Day

It’s time again for Friday Fictioneers! Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting! One photo, 100 words…

Trash Day

Stench stabbed her nostrils as Isabel pushed open her apartment door. The trash. Had it been two weeks? Three? Ugh. It had to go. 

She stabbed the elevator button and tapped her toes as the machine yawned to life. Rushing into the tiny space, trash bag in hand, she nearly gagged, then looked up. A neatly-dressed man with his hands primly behind his back looked uncomfortable. Fantastic.

Counting down the floors, Isabel raced to the dumpster, paused, giving the man time to walk by, then turned, nearly crashing into him.

He held up a bag of familiar-smelling trash and winked.

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The Magic of Sea Life

Many thanks once again to the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers! Moved by the prompt photo? Come on by and write your own 100 words…

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Magic of Sea Life

It isn’t the weather I miss when I’m inland; it’s the ambiance. The whole experience. The chatter —powerful yet subtle—between sea, sand, and any visitor who happens to have a listening ear. 

The water, salty on my throat and sweet on my toes, teases me as the sand drains from my soul everything grimy and dark. Like a sewage suction truck, it pulls the stresses of life through my pores and captures them in its tiny granules. What happens there? I suspect the ugly is composted, like food scraps, into peace. 

Where else would the calm come from?