I write this one day before I begin my 351st hour in yoga teacher training, this time around to deepen my Yin Yoga practice.
“God Almighty, Divine Teacher, I bow to you. Can I come up now?”
“Does vulnerability have a certain charge for you?” A question posed by one of my yoga teachers last week, a question prompted again by a bloody experience in Yin Yoga last night.
There’s always some kinda virus going around the Friday Fictioneers and I’m afraid I caught it this time. Thanks for all the inspiration! My 100-word story is below.
Photo prompt – Sandra Crook
Didja hear? Billy Pete found a torn cap in ‘is fresh stack. Now ‘is baler’s broke an’ god knows what’s stuck in there. Some thief musta got in th’ wrong haystack, th’ dunderheaded cretin. Now lookit me, I don’t need no guns like Old Jonesy at th’ border (bless ‘im), ‘ain’t no guarantee when y’can’t see ’em through th’ hay, an’ don’t need no wild hogs like Sane Wayne neither (them hogs deserve better, don’t y’know). When I get pissed, all I gots to do is light a torch, throw it in th’ hay, an’ them thieves come a-dancin’ outta there, burnin’ like th’ sun, mouths hangin’ open like disco-fevered dolts.
*****
Every week, writers around the world each submit a 100-word story in response to a photo assigned by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Read the Friday Fictioneers’ stories here!
Photo copyright - David Stewart
The sofa was her favorite place on earth. Whenever Nancy plopped herself down on it she would promptly fall into her prince’s arms, a flurry of curls, ribbons, and lace. Grand wedding bells then signaled the start of their happily-ever-after and together they floated into the clouds, sashaying merrily into the sunset.
When the doorbell rang again, Mom called, “Honey, when are you going to get off your lazy ass and answer the door?”
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Rochelle Wisoff-Fields hosts writers all around the world who each week share an original story, prompted by a specific photo, in about 100 words. Lose yourself with the Friday Fictioneers over here!
Photo copyright – Janet M. Webb
She sat admiring her lover’s latest piece and sipping her sangria. As his hand brushed her back, her thoughts lingered to late nights when his fingers traced the curves of her body. Though the kisses had lately drawn an unfamiliar pattern, the strokes upon her skin had stayed as smooth as ever.
For the final time she gazed upon her features as her lover saw them, how he captured her mouth, cheeks, eyes…
Eyes that were not her own, but the almond-shaped eyes of his ex-girlfriend.
“Babe, are you going to drink your sangria or are you going to kiss me?”
“I think neither. Goodbye.”
*****
Every week, writers around the world each submit a 100-word story in response to a photo assigned by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Read the Friday Fictioneers’ stories here!
Photo copyright – Dawn Miller
“Another lamp trader in town, you say?”
“Yes, m’lord,” answered a sorrowful Horace. “Shall I arrange for the purchase, m’lord?”
“Yes. Take all of it. Immediately.”
“Yes, m’lord.” If only a hundred lamps could burn through this charade. Ever the loyal servant, Horace couldn’t bring himself to tell the count that all the light on earth would never replace the sun that was his countess.
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Every week, writers around the world each submit a 100-word story in response to a photo assigned by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Read the Friday Fictioneers’ stories here!
HER SANTOSHA 