From Sonya’s 3LineTales at Only100Words.
You can find the original prompt here. Thank you, Sonya.
photo by Mark Dalton via Unsplash
I normally incorporate the two-and-a-half miles of the Freedom Trail into my early morning run.
My favorite part is running through Charlestown Navy Yard, past Pier 1 where Old Ironsides is berthed.
As I run, my heart swells with pride and I hum “O say can you see by the dawn’s early light…”
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Lucille
Source: Friday Fictioneers sponsored by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple
Word count: 100 words
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Robbie grabbed a breakfast sandwich from the microwave and poured milk into his hot coffee. Hanging over the kitchen sink, he snarfed the sandwich as fast as he could, washing down each bite with a sip of coffee. One glanced at his watch told him he needed to get moving if he didn’t want to be late again.
He paused as he headed toward the door, glancing at his gear piled in the corner of the living room. How long since he had played Lucille? Robbie pulled his cell phone from his pocket and sent a text to his boss.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Mirage
Source: 100 Word Wednesday: Week 77
Word count: 100 words
Image by Bikurgurl
She should enjoy the sunset, but the ice in her drink melted hours ago. She should enjoy the trip, but the passion in her life evaporated years ago. Her days comprised completing items on the list. The purpose of the trip: relax, recharge. Check and check move on to the next one.
Days turned to years filled with rushing and running, keeping her schedule and adding to the unrelenting list. No time to lose, no excuses for dropping the ball. No time to relax, recharge. A life lived in quiet tragedy; a flurry of activity defining existence, concealing an illusion.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Gottcha
Source: FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2018 WEEK #26
Word count: 190 words
Pedro Fogueras pexels-photo-626164 shadow
Margaret placed her hands in the small of her back and stretched. Her morning chores complete it was time to fix the children’s midday meal.
“Children,” she hollered as she reached for the screen door, “Get washed up for dinner.”
The screen door slammed behind her. The kitchen was cooler than the hot sun. Margaret darted around the kitchen, the sooner she finished this task the sooner she could sit and relax before starting supper. She spread seven sandwiches across the table along with seven glasses of lemonade as the children stampeded to their assigned seats.
“Jason? Where is Jason?” silent shrugs answered her question.
At the back door, Margaret called Jason’s name through the screen. The yard was empty. Concerned creased her brow as she stepped into the harsh daylight.
“Jason?” she called, clean sheets billowing on the clothesline next to her.
“Grrr,” Jason growled slapping the sheet from the side opposite of her.
Margaret screamed, and Jason laughed. She flipped the sheet aside, grabbed his arm and pulled him toward her.
“Never do that again,” she said, swatting at his backside as she dragged him into the house.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Top of the World
Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
Word count: 300 words
*** Ok, truth. This story is over the limit, but I couldn’t help it. It wrote itself and I didn’t have the heart to cut a story the muse handed to me. I hope you agree.
This week’s photo prompt is provided by Yinglan. Thank you Yinglan!
Edmund hung his head, his shoulders slumped, and his arms dangled, flopping at his side. He scuffed his feet sending stones bouncing along the trail.
“You ok, Edmund?”
Edmund snapped to attention spinning to face his father, a huge grin plastered across his face.
“Yeah. It’s just taking so long. How soon before we get there?”
“What does your altimeter say?”
Edmund studied his wrist, “Four thousand and thirty-nine feet.”
“And where is that on your map?”
Edmund pulled the map from his pocket. With his father’s guidance, he determined they were a mile from the summit. Stuffing the map back in his pocket, they continued along the trail. Thirty minutes later Edmund saw something flapping at the crest of the trail and ran. His father’s shout of “don’t run,” didn’t change his pace, and he was at the summit before coming to a full stop.
“Woo-hoo, we made it,” Edmund shouted jumping up and down at least a dozen times. He ran to the flagpole and planted a kissed the metal pipe. People at the summit smiled at the young boy’s expression of joy.
“Dad! Isn’t this great?”
“Sure is. Remember, we still have to climb down.”
“I know, but can’t we stay for a while? Look at it,” Edmund flung his arms wide and spun in a circle. He stopped face to face with his father. On an impulse, Edmund flung his arms around his waist squeezing as hard as he could.
“Thanks, Dad,” Edmund breathed into the soft flannel of his father’s shirt, before letting go to stand next to him. He didn’t notice his father’s huge smile or his hand brushing at moist eyes.
Father and son stood in silence surveying the view.
“So, still think you want to climb Everest someday?”
Edmund grinned and nodded.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Now for something a bit different.
In the next few days, I will begin revising my first draft. It currently stands at approximately 50k words and is in desperate need of an ending. Thankfully, it is all in my head.
Searching for some guidance I stubbled upon Timothy Pike, his website Chapter Buzz and the Better Writers Club (which you have until July 15 to join).
His Daily Action Calendar has given me hope the finish line is in the not too distant future.
Check out his current post here for more information..
Today’s story is from a writing prompt posted on the Better Writers Club.
Photo credit: Seosaid on VisualHunt / CC BY-NC
I have watched her for years and yet she doesn’t know. Five a.m. and her alarm clock plays. Gaining volume, it waits for her response. I can tell the day of the week by how long she takes to silence it, throw back the covers and stumble, zombie style, to the shower.
It is a ritual she has practiced, and the steps are automatic. In a fluffy white robe and towel-wrapped head, she emerges from the bathroom and grabs her phone. She deletes cursory emails, saving the ones requiring a response until after her first cup of coffee. Checking the weather app confirms the sun shining through her window. Today will be a sunny, warm spring day.
She dresses, her clothes laid out last night, combs her long hair, letting it air dry and makes the bed. She plans everything, ensuring she forgets nothing. I stare as she checks the contents of her bag; an unnecessary step, but she feels compelled. She flings the bag over her shoulder headed to the door. At the doorway, she pauses, turns and surveys the room. She gives a quick nod and disappears down the stairs.
She won’t return for hours. After stopping for the essential cup of coffee, she has a full day of classes, study groups and individual study time. I have been to her favorite haunts; the hidden nook in the Chem building, the third-floor stacks and the tiny club lounge at the student union. The places she can hide.
I remember when she was younger. She hid in her bedroom reading book after book. While other children played, she created elaborate stories, fantastical worlds, and daring adventures. They transported her beyond this small space.
They are the same stories, worlds, and adventures beating at my brain, begging to be real. I put them off for years, bowing to conformity, to earning a living, and to walking, zombie style, though days on end. I almost believed them eradicated. But a small persistent voice held a precious ember. It ignited the truth I can no longer ignore.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: When She’s Gone
Source: FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2018 WEEK #25
Word count: 200 words
Kai Pilger pixels-photo-462867 Taxi
It took Andrés months to get over her. They met at a charity event and talked the night away before finding a café for breakfast. She captivated him. Over the next year, they met whenever they could manage. Texts and emails and countless late-night phone calls filled the spaces in-between when they planned their perfect life.
One evening Andrés asked her to move in with him. She sat for long minutes before she whispered, “No,” and she gathered her things and left. Too late he realized this was not a girl who just lived with you. This was the girl for whom you got down on one knee.
He had been that guy. Drunken calls in the middle of the night after hooking up with nameless girls from forgettable bars. At first, she talked to him. Then his calls went to voicemail, and he begged her to come back. His texts and emails remained unanswered.
The years passed, and he sometimes saw her on the street or in a cab. He had moved on and work filled his days. Happy now he walked the city streets. A big yellow taxi rushed by and he turned, hoping to glimpse her face.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Going Home
Source: FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2018 WEEK #24
Word count: 200 words
Kaique Rocha pexels-photo-125532 escalator
How many times have I ridden these escalators up and down, Monday thru Friday and sometimes even on the weekends? I’m not sure of the exact count but Deb in Human Resource said my length of service was five years and six months. You do the math; I know it is more than I want to contemplate.
Now, here I stand, staring at my final descent. The box I carry holds the few personal items on my desk: a calendar, a few photos of my family, my collection of coffee cups – one for each day of the week, and wacky and funny gifts from my co-workers. The tangible results of my waking hours for the last five years and six months nestled in one banker’s box. One small box was all I had to show for my hours of dedication, hard work, and determination.
The people I passed eyed me with pity, imagining the worst, imagining I had been “let go.” It left me with a hollow feeling in my chest and a tear threatened to cascade down my cheek. But I wasn’t crying for the obvious reasons. They were tears of joy for I had won my freedom.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Big Trouble
Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers – Week of 06-12 through 06-18-2018
Word count: 160 words
Thank you Wildverbs for our photo prompt this week!
Big Trouble
Mia scrunched her nose and glanced over at Liam the troublemaker.
Every few weeks mother brought them here and told Mia to watch Liam. They would get ice cream when she returned.
Mia reminded Liam about the ice cream often, but sometimes it didn’t matter. One time she chased him around the bench. Another time he raced along the sidewalk turning to stick his tongue out at her. Each time she wrestled him back to the bench.
Today Liam sat still. Mia’s sigh of relief was Liam’s cue to wiggle and squirm his way toward the edge of the bench. She flung her arms around him as he struggled to escape.
Mia heard laughter and mother’s voice.
“You two are so cute.”
Mia let go and Liam jumped to his feet, raced towards the fountain and a second later he was knee deep in the water.
“Oh Liam, this baby better be like your sister.” Mother sighed waddling after him.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Never Again
Source: FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2018 WEEK #23
Word count: 200 words
Jack Gittoes pexels-photo-761543 Concert
Neil stood in total darkness, surrounded by strangers. The crowd swayed with the drumbeat; it pulsed through his chest and radiated out to his extremities. Heat competed with contrasting aromas emanating from the throng. It assaulted his senses leaving him overwhelmed.
A brilliant flash of light accompanied the crash of a cymbal before the venue plunged into shadows again. The glare echoed across his vision and Neil blinked. He no sooner regained his bearings in the gloom than the cymbal clashed, and the accompanying light blinded him once again. The intervals between the blasts shortened until it synchronized with the drumbeat.
The sight of the band emerging on stage pushed a deafening roar from the crowd overpowering the beat of the drum and the clash of the cymbal. Neil clapped his hands over his ears and turned searching for a way out. He bounced against people fighting his way towards the green light and the door beneath it. Neil crashed through as music rushing from the stage propelled him forward. The door shuttered shut; he gasped and sputtered, falling to the floor in a heap.
Later in the safety of his car he deleted the band’s music from his phone.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Jo Hawk 