Photo-Fiction #109

Can you tell a story in 300 words? Here’s the challenge.
Write a fictional piece of no more than 300 words based on this picture. You pick your poison, poetry or story. Please don’t forget to, mention this post in yours, and link back here i.e. include a link to this post in your post on your blog so we can check out your work. Happy writing guys, have fun, I look forward to reading what you all come up with.

Don’t have a blog but still want to submit a story? Do you have an interesting picture you would like to see our participants write on?

Contact me at randomauthormich@gmail.com, or click the Drop me a line tab in the menu bar and submit.

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Photo-Fiction #108

Photo-Credit: Blue mountain mysteries

Can you tell a story in 300 words? Here’s the challenge.
Write a fictional piece of no more than 300 words based on this picture. You pick your poison, poetry or story. Please don’t forget to, mention this post in yours, and link back here i.e. include a link to this post in your post on your blog so we can check out your work. Happy writing guys, have fun, I look forward to reading what you all come up with.

Don’t have a blog but still want to submit a story? Do you have an interesting picture you would like to see our participants write on?

Contact me at randomauthormich@gmail.com, or click the Drop me a line tab in the menu bar and submit.

Stories or pieces submitted in the way much contain the Authors Name and a short bio in the body of the email

Foreign thoughts

In response to Photo-Fiction #83

“Chineyyy!!! Gimme a small fried chicken fried rice!!” The man shouted over the counter despite the shop being empty except him.

I had grown accustomed to the racist slurs and the aggression of “hangry” people shouting at the child behind the counter. I had grown accustomed to the smell of garlic and grease as I toiled over the school books from which I was constantly interrupted.

“One small fried chicken fried rice,” I shouted in mandarin over my shoulder. My mother shouted back from the kitchen. “I’m fine, just trying to finish my homework before the dinner rush.” All in mandarin.

The man eyed me suspiciously, and I ignored him. It was him or someone like him, every day, gawking through the white painted iron bars. I thought nothing of it. Nothing at all until a red glow seeped into my peripheral vision. Nothing until a low growl registered in my hearing. Until the world went crazy as a flurry of fur, claws, and teeth raged against the iron bars. The bars moaning as they bent towards me. The heat of his breath and spittle, on my cheeks as the give in the bars let him get within swiping distance.

It felt like nausea, as I stood there frozen, in fear or terror. It felt like bile rising in my throat. It burned and then it exploded from my lips, blue-white flames that engulfed the thing that used to be the man that ordered a small fried chicken fried rice.

It cried and ran, a streak of burning fur, disappearing into the darkness. Before my mind could panic, the melody of my mother’s stories came back, stories of a proud people, a land of dwindling magic, of an exodus, fleeing progress. I heard fairytales. I heard my truth.

A thief’s comfort

In response to photo-fiction #3

If you were sitting on a beach or overlooking a cove the sound I was hearing would be peaceful. It would be a great therapy to hear what sounds like waves breaking on a rocky shore. To think of the permanence of land against the formless brutality of the sea is a great comfort. That the sea must subside when faced with the rugged surface of the land. Or if you are a bit of an anarchist you would think of how ironic that something so soft and soothing could erode such a mighty medium.

In any case, one would be at peace. One would be comforted by the ebb and flow of the sound. Of the crest and fall of octave after octave of raw energy. You would be comforted, so would I, but for the fact that I am breathless and sweaty. That my legs burn and my chest is tight all while threatening to explode.

It would be a comfort except for the fact that when I slow and the sound begins to vibrate my bones, I know that it is because my executioners are at my heal. It would be a comfort except that I know that the ebb of the roar is only short-lived until the next obstacle slows me down. Only as short-lived as the tiny reserve of energy I have left.

I would be comforted if I wasn’t a poor man who had bested a whole lot of rich ones, making a fortune no one ever intended to be mine. If I wasn’t a more cunning thing that the ones who rob the poor and call it taxes. It will be comfort if I can make it to the port, and the real sea embraces my good fortune.

Photo-Fiction #107

Photo Credit: William Web. Please follow the link and see his other work. I think he is amazing.

Can you tell a story in 300 words? Here’s the challenge.
Write a fictional piece of no more than 300 words based on this picture. You pick your poison, poetry or story. Please don’t forget to, mention this post in yours, and link back here i.e. include a link to this post in your post on your blog so we can check out your work. Happy writing guys, have fun, I look forward to reading what you all come up with.
Don’t have a blog but still want to submit a story? Do you have an interesting picture you would like to see our participants write on?

Contact me at randomauthormich@gmail.com, or click the Drop me a line tab in the menu bar and submit.

Stories or pieces submitted in the way much contain the Authors Name and a short bio in the body of the email

I look forward to hearing from you.