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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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Friday Fictioneers

Cold Feet

FF 3

His heart trembled like a quake while waiting behind the rusty gate. It took him weeks to muster the courage to come to this place. Beads of sweat trickled down his neck as he calm his nerves for his speech.

“Man up, John. She’s just a new neighbor, a gorgeous one at that. You just have to say ‘Hi!’”

He tried to mumble the words again which always lead to a stammering end. As the clock continued ticking, he became more restless.

On the brink of cold feet, he turned away but heard soft voice from behind, “Are you looking for someone?”

Word Count: 102


Here’s my take for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt.

Friday Fictioneers s a weekly writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using 100 words or less.

Enjoy more stories here. 🙂

Soliloquy

FF 3

Once again I lay in the comfort of the leaves across the prickly green grass, staring at the moonlight. My thoughts sit in the endless sky and wanders through a song of enchantment.

“Why am I here?”

The wind blows softly, sending a shiver gliding down the length of my spine. I stretch my hands, trying to embrace the night. This battle between sanity and madness leaves me tired and weary. I close my eyes as I listen to the wind playing celestial symphonies to my ears while the branches bent downwards.

“I hear you. I’m just a little girl after all.”

Word Count: 102


Better late than never! Here’s for Friday Fictioneers’ weekly prompt.

Friday Fictioneers s a weekly writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using 100 words or less.

Enjoy more stories here.

White Plague

FF 1

Shivering in a sudden ague, he paced slowly as he watched the first frosts set their marks on the cheek of the forest trees, atop the gambrel roof, then down the rough pavement.

He loathes winter. A time when the white plague of coldness would make a massacre of all nature’s glory and turn the trees to naked frames, bleach the bony bare cadaver until the snow covered things up, and remind him how he lost the apple of his eyes.

“Eight years, my love. I still remember the day when you looked me in the eye and I’d feel the warmth that flowers must have felt when they bloom through the snow, under the first rays of the sun. Every single day is winter to me—cold and dead. I miss the sunrays. I miss you.”

He left this merry place of people and balloons and hurried to the graveyard. With heart in despair, he plunged into agony as he withered in the cold white snow before her tombstone.


Better late than never! 😛

Here’s for Friday Fictioneers Photo Prompt inspired by Dee Lovering’s photo. Read more stories here.

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