To join Rochelle’s prompt press ‘here’
A hundred miles I walked. Stinking dirty miles, in shoes that didn’t fit. The right too tight, reminding me, squeezing too much in leaves little space to breathe.
The left, two sizes too big, rubbed raw my foot. It made me bleed until it seeped through the lace holes and rolled back the skin, but on I walked.
It taught me to say no, to leave room to be kind, so I can grow a better man.
It taught me, never to be too proud to admit, this is too big for me.
It needn’t hurt to learn that lesson just take an educated walk.
Thanks for the Photo @Sarah Potter
Click here to join in with the fictioneers HERE.
Photo for friday fictioneers exclusive use only, by © Fatima Fakier Deria.
Across the harbour he gazed, floating money pits, gin palaces, toys for the wealthy. Phlegm hit his boot, he screwed his eyes against the sun. Stuffing a cheroot between his discoloured teeth he thrust chapped hands deep in his pockets. With hunched shoulders he watched his feet as he scuffed on the dry earth and lurched away. He may earn his living on them but he’d never own one.
Below the harbour was buzzing, tanned yachtsmen flirted with ladies. Coiffed girls with plummy accents giggled and money was no object; but there was no room for salty sailors in this bar.
This is a snapshot of a bigger story, curtailing it to 100 words was tough and I hope I captured the irony of the sailors lot. Please leave a comment I love to connect.
For my virtual friends all over the world “Merry Christmas” Happy Holiday’s whatever your beliefs be kind to each other. To you all “Peace on Earth”.
I will be away for a while but will See you next year. Xxx.
Our Christmas tree.
Enjoy festive music if you can keep your eyes off Mariah’s chest… ooooherrr missus.
#FridayFictioneers have once more been challenged by the lovely Rochelle. In a hundred words no more or less use the picture and write.
The photograph is on loan strictly for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle for the loan
Through the snow I watched them skulking in the treeline. It was comical really; me watching them watching my animals. The herd oblivious to any of us, heads in the trough eating. Warm mash, measured and scooped, mixed as a cook in the best of kitchens would. Warned about a spate of nastiness I was ready, the locals thought it was travelers on the Gypsy camp. But as I could clearly see it was youths from the estate. I alerted the police and they were on their way. They wouldn’t slice the tails and forelock’s from my herd.
Photograph by Robert Bultot for use on Friday Fictioneers Prompt only. Press here to visit Rochelle Weisoff-Fields blog where you can join in or connect with more 100 word fictioneers.
A twinkle of lights fell over the stairwell as spotlights hit the patterned skylight. People tucked away in plush apartments for the night were oblivious to what was happening above. A hum could be heard it throbbed and pulsed, followed by electronically stylised notes.
One by one the doors opened, children clutched teddies, men smoked cigars and Women holding nightgowns shut while others scratched and craned their necks. In single file they climbed, in silence they followed the sweep of the staircase; until they gathered on the roof terrace, never to be seen again.
What do you think happened next? Id love your input, leave it in the comments I promise to reply soon.