Here is this week’s. I’ve been looking through my records of writing FFs and it looks to be once every couple of months! Well, that’s not very good, is it? I need to make this more of a habit. (But probably not next week, as both I and my s.o. are getting our second shot of vaccine and probably will be sick for a few days each.)
“Mom, I don’t think that’s what they meant when they said we need to quarantine.”
“They just said we can’t leave the house,” Liza carefully pulled the trailer onto the highway. “Well, we ain’t leaving it, are we?”
“Look,” she turned to her teenage son in the passenger seat. “we planned this months ago. The money’s all paid, and I can’t start that job late just ’cause the gov’ment’s being slow.”
“It’s not safe!”
“It’s fine. We’ll stop by Nana’s on the way, and I promise I’ll wear a mask. Okay?”
“Okay,” he grumbled, clearly unappeased, but stopped arguing.
Yes, another installment of this Friday Fictioneer thing. Great writing practice when you’re trying to get yourself back into writing again. So let’s go!
Ronda put the box down at the bottom of the apartment stairwell. It was done – she was finally moving out of this dump of a place and into that posh loft downtown. It’d add another 15 minutes to her commute, but she didn’t have to worry about double-locking her windows and keeping her gun within reach of her bed anymore. Her son could also go to a much better school. All it took was to wait for her boss to finally retire. It was time for younger folks to take up the mantle. It was now her time to shine.
Wow, it has really been a while since I attempted this, huh? Time to pick this up again, and hopefully make it a habit.
It’s stopped snowing but Jessi still haven’t left the house. She can see the bench where Stephen’s supposed to be, but he’s nowhere in sight. He’ll show up, she thinks. He’s a little scatterbrained but there’s no way he’ll forget her birthday.
She shuffles her feet as she keeps looking out the window. Her red jacket and matching boots are ready by the door, and she’s already clutching the housekeys. He’s only five minutes late; no big deal. Stephen is always running behind anyway. Surely he’ll show up, and they’ll go out to dinner, and everything will be fine. Really.
Yep, continuing to do this now. Should be fun. I really need the accountability and the practice. There’s just something about having to post at a certain time to keep me…writing? Creating? Freaking out less? Either way, wow, more rusty than entry #0 if possible. And I’ve decided I should make an account just so I can be part of a community – ish. Might offset the perils of social quarantining for the past (and future) months.
She stares at the hat stand in the small shop. It’s such an obvious tourist trap, with price marked up by at least 200%, yet she is contemplating a purchase. She’s always preferred physical souvenirs to Instagram memories. The handful of black sand from the volcanic beaches of Hawaii lets her relive her honeymoon. A colorful, cheaply made hat from a beachside shack in Samoa marks her first trip alone after a messy, emotional divorce.
She buys one with a neon bright print. It will sit on the shelf next to the black sand. A suitable bookend for that affair.
I’ve done Friday Fictioneers on other blogs before, and then stopped when I switched blogs or just didn’t feel like doing it anymore. Basically you write a short fiction of 100 words based on a weekly prompt. Now I’ve decided to pick it back up but there’s apparently a new system of posting links? It required me to sign up and all that so I didn’t bother with it last week. But I did write an entry, so I’m just going to post it here all by my lonesome. I’ll try to do it properly this upcoming week, but no promises.
And like I said, it’s been a while, so I may be very, very rusty.
A Prickly Narrator
I found a box of old photographs at my neighbor’s yardsale.
“It’s not for sale,” she explained, “but sure makes a pretty centerpiece, no?”
I’d only spoken with her a handful of times, so who am I to judge what she
deemed as appropriate deco?
“Lemonade?” she offered me, and I said sure. It was too
sweet, but I didn’t complain, only looked at the collection of knickknacks that
littered her lawn. Compared to those the photographs were practicaly pristine,
the only things worth any value.
“It’s not for sale,” she insisted. That just made me want to ask more.