This week we were given one photo and five random words to craft a 500 word or thereabouts story using the prompts.
A reminder of the rules:
The rules are simple:
- You will see one of two prompts each week--either one photo with five mandatory words OR two photos to be incorporated together. Use the photo(s) and prompt to write a 500-word story; all elements of the prompt must be a feature in the brief story you create.
- When 1 photo/5 words is the theme, the 5 words MUST be clearly referenced in your story. Variations on a word are allowed within reason (for example: adding s, ed, ing to the word to be grammatically correct); however, creating a new, unrelated, word is not okay... because it simply isn't part of the prompt.
- We ask that you keep your story to approximately 500 words (give or take). We aren't counting but, please, no 1000-word entries.
- PHOTOS: Photos are the property of the hostess for the week, unless otherwise mentioned. In order to honor the community-purpose of the blog hop and to avoid confusion:
~ Please Do Not share photos and/or prompt words as your own.
~ Please include the photo(s) and reference the blog hop in your post so your blog audience and the blog hop community may all be connected.
~ Please do not include extra photos into your story... Thank you so much for understanding! Let us know if you have questions on this. :)
We do reserve the right to not publish your entry if your submission does not adhere to these instructions... not because we are mean, but because we want to keep this prompt fair for all participants. :)
Have Fun! Take your writing seriously, but let those creative juices flow! Don’t fret/panic/pass out/hyperventilate/lose sleep/run in fear over the blog hop, instead let this be an exercise in letting the imagination run wild while staying within the discipline of flash-fiction—short and compelling!
Here is the photo and the five random words:
Novel, socks, morals, spar, stool
Amelia pushed herself away from the computer, the office chair wheels caught in the nylon carpet; she adjusted her feet and pushed to the other side of the office where she opened the filing cabinet top drawer.
Retrieving the folder she wanted she returned to her station, put her headphones back on and pressed the pedal on the floor to continue the transcript. The folder was headed ‘The Morals of Jonathon Percival.’ The rough notes of her client’s novel filled pages of foolscap paper, the small spidery writing covering the sheets from top to bottom.
She became immersed in the tale, engrossed in Brian’s dulcet tones speaking to her of a lost generation, a dystopian outlook, people shunted to and from work, the conditions of the factories where they only had a stool to sit on, no back rests, no cushions to give them any comfort.
After typing a couple of thousand words Amelia stopped and stretched, wriggling her toes inside her warm, fluffy socks, ensconced in her bedroom slippers, that really was the beauty of working from home, no need to wear fashionable clothes, it was such a saving on her wardrobe.
She went downstairs to make a cup of tea; she took it to the conservatory and looked out of the double glazed windows. The misty view of the countryside in the distance boded well for another nice day in the morning. The only blight on the landscape was that crane in the distance; she could see the spar arm looming out of the mist in a menacing way. The huge drum of coiled piping sat in the nearer field to her, itself a presence of discontent.
She remembered those fields with cows grazing on them, sometimes the farmer would let his sheep roam there in the spring. It was great watching the new born lambs gambol around in the warm days after the dreary winter blues had lifted.
Now, after reading the reports in the newspaper and having it confirmed by her own eyes as they swept across the vista she could see from her window, the building economy was on the up and companies were buying up land from the farmers who were unable to keep their farms viable.
The rumour was that the drainage pipes were the first to go in and then there would be a housing estate built, a few executive houses, people who still had the means to afford a mortgage were already depositing money off-plan.
Amelia shrugged off her slight depression as she returned to Brian’s book and started transcribing his vision of a past or even a future, she wasn't sure yet, according to him he had another six months of writing before he was anywhere near completing his thoughts.
It was nice to be able to transcribe somebody else’s thoughts but she did so wish he would acknowledge that she corrected his grammar. She didn't get paid to be his editor.
Word count: 493