The inspiration: A story: He lies, deliciously spent, as she rolls off him. “Is it done?” She asks. The perfect nipples on the perfect breasts sway as she moves across the room. He swallows, wanting her again, what she does to him with her mouth, her hands … right now and forever. “Yes,” he answers. He recalls the ashen face of his wife, his weeping children, the reddened face of
Friday Fiction 100 Word Challenge
April 24, 2015
Friday Fiction: 100 Word Challenge [Darleen Click]
The Inspiration: A story: It was a punishing summer, crops and townfolk fading under a relentless sun. They rolled in with the dust at the edge of town with tents of gaudy gypsy color, crackling torchlight glinting off spangles. Hungry from our months of sun-leeched existence, their bazaar bewitched us. Fried delicacies entranced the children, the menfolk sampling exotic drink, the women drawn to silks and potions of promise. A
April 17, 2015
Friday Fiction: 100 Word Challenge [Darleen Click]
The Inspiration: A story: “Sweet Jesus, Vic, now we’re lost!” “Shutup, Stacy.” “Shortcut, my ass.” “Shut-the-fuck-up.” They glared at each other over the hood of the car. “Where the hell is everyone?” Even the gathering dusk couldn’t hide the griminess of the town. Vic noticed her first. She stood across the street, as tattered and dirty as her surroundings, cradling a doll. “Hey! Little girl!” He crossed to her and
April 10, 2015
Friday Fiction: 100 word challenge [Darleen Click]
The Inspiration: A story: “Mom?” Sighing, I take my foot off the pedal. Flat fell seams take concentration and now this! Alex is at the window, pointing. I look out into a gathering dark, the sky roiling like a hurricane tossed sea. The neighbors have left their homes, standing in the street. Some are clutching each other, sobbing. Some have fallen to their knees, eyes fixed on a sky that
April 3, 2015
Friday Fiction: 100 word challenge [Darleen Click]
The Inspiration: A story: Dusk. We’ve come from the fields, washing up at the handpump. The women have been cooking on the outdoor stove. Grandma lights the coal oil lamps. We tuck into the food sitting out under the green-tinged summer night sky. Grandpa refuses to look up. “I ‘member the first night of that damned goblin’ light. Even have a picture of it hovering over the bay …” Grandpa’s