Ameeruddin didn’t like movies. Newspapers, religious and political chatter entertained him enough. For Aisha, wash day blues took on a jealousy-fueled meaning when she discovered the ticket stubs in his jean’s pocket. Double tickets.
At dinner she suggested they go to watch the very same movie. He declined, feigning distinterest in superhero nonsense. “Besides, I’d rather take you to a romantic dinner at The Moghul.”
She smiled. Received his kiss. And later, cocooned in his post-coital embrace, willingly cast aside the mysterious movie companion in favour of hope and affection that was far easier for her tired heart to grasp.
Written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the inspiring Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Submit to the link below and join this fun community of writers.
Her favourite flower was roses. Various mediums depicted Dorothy’s unapologetic floral partiality. Printed fabrics of light and dark hues dressed her windows and tables and crocheted patterns draped over her armchairs in stern solidarity.
A ceramic, gold-tipped single rose pendant dangled at her throat.
Another strange and eccentric old woman to the outside world. She knew what people said about her.
Her mother was named, Rose. Died giving birth to Dorothy. Years later, her daughter had been Rose too. She remembered the tiny coffin that took all the love Dorothy knew to its equally tiny grave.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Submit yours by clicking the frog icon and read other’s flash fiction.
Tshepo was silhouetted against the setting sun, beer bottle raised against the dying light. “To our success!”
“Cheers to that!” Brenda, Gift and Tshepo tipped their bottles together.
“Do you think the police will find out we stole it?” Gift whispered.
“Nah.” replied Tshepo, after some thought. “It’s not worth much anyway. Doubt anyone will miss it.”
“It is priceless to us.” said Gift, firmly.
“Gogo was a great artist.” mused Brenda, gazing at its colours as a tear fell onto her cheek. “She’d be happy to know her painting is home. After all these years.”
I based this loosely on true stories of Jewish families who have had their family assets, arts and jewellery, seized by the Nazis. And whose living relatives fight court battles to reclaim these priceless treasures today.
Gogo means grandmother in some African languages, particular to the Zulu language.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Submit your story by clicking the blue frog, and read more awesome flash fiction too.
He waited for hours, watching. Waiting. Hidden behind a tree. Or pretending to stroll on the park lanes. People didn’t notice Thomas. Not when he asked for coins in his cup, and not as he circled this part of the park. His eyes fixed on the pair of boots abandoned on the low wall. He waited for the owner to claim them. Everyone ignored them, just as they ignored Thomas. Taking a deep breath, he crept closer and plucked them off the wall. Safely on his way, he felt pleased his brother would have a good pair of boots.
When he first entered his cabin up in the woods, the strange item caught him off guard. Not strange as in unknown, he was old not ancient, but strange as in not belonging to him. He could use a computer, even operate this laptop version too. Only he didn’t own a laptop. Even stranger still was the young woman who rose from her hiding place behind the kitchen island, hands in a surrender position at her shoulders.
She looked familiar. Then he remembered. Dusty. Hazy. Her face on the news, posters and milk cartons. Years ago. Missing.
“Dad?” she said.
Getting my flash fiction in just before the doors slide closed on this Friday Fictioneers train.
I don’t know how this guy didn’t know he had a daughter. It seems people have lied to him and a missing girl (on the run or kidnapped) comes to find him. Guess they’ll have a lot to work through! Once she proves she is his daughter, that is.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by the gracious Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Click the blue frog icon to submit your story or read what others have written.
Nancy loved pottering about with Mum. Today they were planting flowers. Or they would once Mum found her garden tools.
“It’s as if they crawl off on their own.” she muttered to herself digging through piles of junk in their garden shed.
“Maybe the gnomes came to borrow them.” mused Nancy.
Mum mumbled something about gnomes and arses.
Cinnamon sticks poked out off one shelf, catching Nancy’s eye.
“See! The gnomes replace what they borrow with cinnamon sticks.”
“Flip! so this is where I stuffed these bloody cinnamon sticks. Maybe I should check the spice cupboard for my garden tools.”
My very first instinct was to write some grisly murder / thriller. Images of leaves, dried twigs and wintry scenes has this effect on me. I pushed myself to find something different, stretch my creative muscles a bit. Get the rusty cogwheels turning. There’s a bundle of twigs on the makeshift shelving that look like cinnamon sticks. (Left on image). And I went with that!
Hope you enjoy the break from my dark side. Anyone who is a busy parent juggling work (housework or career or both), fitness habits, hobbies, child-rearing will know that feeling of confusion upon discovering misplaced items. And I doubt that Mum will find her tools in the spice cupboard. That would be too easy.
Write a story in 100 words or less, and join Friday Fictioneers. Hosted by our friend Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click the icon to read more flash fiction in different genres.
She leaned back in the chair, the cold wrought iron pressing into her back. Through her grief a smile rose to her mouth. Countless Sunday lunches, warm garlic breads and ice cold lemonades. She could almost hear the chatter, the laughter ringing around the table. Young and old.
A hand touched her shoulder, she didn’t have to look to know it was her brother, Barry.
“C’mon sis, I’ll make you some tea. Let’s go inside.”
She stood up and took one last look at the chair where Dad always sat. Sunday lunch would not be the same without him.
Hooray! My picture was chosen for this week’s flash fiction, and I couldn’t be more thrilled! Thank you, group leader, Rochelle!!!!I took this picture while on holiday, and the lodge I was staying at had a sombre air about it. Later I heard from hotel the hotel staff that the father of the family-run business had just passed away. So naturally their story came to mind.
I apologise for not commenting much on last week’s flash fiction. Life has thrown me major life changes which has given me the most confusing mix of incredible joy and sadness at the same time. I promise to double my efforts this week and read as many of this week’s posts as I can.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by the most talented artist and writer, Rochelle Wiesoff-Fields. The challenge is to write a story in 100 words or less. Click the blue frog icon to read more awesome flash fiction by more great writers. Make coffee, sit back and enjoy 30 second stories.
This was his place. A sanctum of peace, serenity and love like no other. On top of a mountain overlooking the fields. Cloudless days allowed the horizon to kiss the earth. Today, the clouds rolled at his feet below the mountain peak. Glowing pink and yellow. He extended one foot to dip into it when a loud banging noise stopped him.
His eyes flew open. Noddy, his labrador jumped excitedly towards him and licked his face. Behind him tottered his toddler, squealing and snatching at the dog’s wagging tail.
He sighed. Five minutes of meditation would have to do.
Hope you enjoyed this attempt at flash fiction humour. Those with small children and hyperactive pets suffering from separation anxiety may relate to this somewhat.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle-Wiesoff Fields. The challenge is to write a full story in 100 words or less.
Click the frog to read more flash fiction from other great writers.
We sat in the gardens of an ancient ruins, side by side. Laughing with the ghost of my mother. She looked young like me, but felt older. Behind us the shrubbery crawled over an abandoned castle, most of it gone. What stood was crumbling. Above us thick green canopies shaded us.
“When will we meet again?” I asked her, taking note how black her hair was, without the strands of grey that sprouted when she was still with us.
She offered me only a knowing smile as her answer.
Of course. I wasn’t permitted to the knowledge of the unseen.
My mother passed away two years ago. Yet I never feel as if she is gone. I still feel her overbearing, sometimes annoying, presence with me. (This was really how our relationship was! No angelic talk here 🙂 )
And when I dream of her, it feels as if I’m really seeing her, and in the dream I’m aware she has passed on.
There have been many dreams of her. The year she died, she came into one of my dreams on the eve of my birthday and I hugged her in delight, knowing she was not with us.
The above story is part of one of the dreams I had of her, where there was an abandoned castle behind us.
Proudly written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by our leading writer, Rochelle Wiesoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less! Click the frog icon to read more flash fiction by other awesome writers.