So, this is my first letter from camp! It is wonderful here. Say hello to Brad and Margot for me. No point writing twice. š The food is amazing! Iād get so fat except for all the activities, like 3-leg races. My team has broken the record for fastest time! Kassie was on my team. Iām glad she came or sheād be missing all the fun.
I might not send another letter. Too busy having fun! Iāll help you plant the roses when I get back, Mom. Please donāt do it without me.
Your daughter,
Noelle
Note: If anyone is reading this on a black and white screen, this story may not make any sense. Just saying.
My sister Olivia left to ride the rails when she was sixteen. She only told me, but I was 10 and scared. I tattled.
Too late.
Olivia came back three years, 22,400 miles, and an entire lifetime later. She had the best stories. Mom was furious. Dad wiped away a tear and hugged her.
āStay around,ā I said. āFor me?ā
She nodded, but two weeks later I found the note by my bed.
āThatās who she is,ā Dad said.
āWill she ever change?ā
āSheās like a train,ā he said. ā10,000 miles straight ahead, but not an inch left or right.ā
I am super late this week in posting my story for Friday Fictioneers. There are several reasons for this, including being very busy at work, but one main one is that I am finding Friday Fictioneers stories harder and harder to write. It’s not that I can’t think of a story: I could probably sit down and write a hundred stories in a row for any given picture. It’s just that as time goes on, my standards for myself for originality and quality keep increasing and after 113 100-word stories, I feel like everything has been done. That’s one reason why I play around ways of presenting stories: I feel like I’m stagnating or at least I don’t want to. Sometimes a story that I like comes right to me, but usually it doesn’t and these days, I often agonize about it for days. If you do Friday Fictioneers stories, do you ever feel this way? Is it just me?
copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Paper Dolls
Snip, snip. A line of identical dolls appeared.
Elise picked up one of the crayons from her father.
āMake them colorful,ā heād said. āBring them to life.ā
She left the first one blank; drew a happy face on the second. The third had clothes and hair.
The tenth took all week. Finally, the light glowed off her perfectly shaded face. Her name was Galatea; Elise had ten pages of history for her. She was Greek. And liked chocolate and rainbows.
Elise put down the pencil and Galateaās arm floated up as if waving, blown by an imaginary breeze.
For years, adoption was our goal. Every form signed was another step through the bureaucratic labyrinth, until we stepped out into open air and he was ours.
~*~
āMichael is seeing the school psychologist again today,ā I told my friend Brent over coffee. āHe still starts fights, and fires.ā
āItās hard being a teenager.ā
āDid we make a mistake adopting older? Maybe we shouldāve gotten a baby.ā
āDonāt tell Michael that.ā
āI just feel like weāre back in the maze. I donāt know how to get out this time.ā
Brent shrugged. āThatās parenthood. You donāt get out, you just go through.ā
I am intrigued with story tone, how just a few words can make all the difference to a story. So, for this story, I’m going to let you choose the tone. This story has four endings, all written in white font. Click the text with your left mouse button and drag to block the hidden text and reveal the ending of your choice. Then vote for your favorite.
copyright Ted Strutz
Lighting the Way Home
There is a switch in the basement unconnected to any circuit. I always leave it on, hoping that somewhere, it is connected to a light that will lead Brad back to me from beyond.
*
I am sitting in bed, the silver moon fluorescing the room through the window, when the door opens.
āYou came back.ā I can barely breathe from joy.
āI saw your light,ā Brad said. He kisses me, but his lips are cold and I taste decay.
Adam stood by his tenth story apartment window and stared at the woman across the road, their gaze locked as tight as loversā lips, their expressions as vacant as the honeymoon suite at Hotel Cholera.
Suddenly, two pigeons collided between them. Their beaks locked together and one tried to fly up while the other went down. Back and forth they went, the commotion resembling two mimes having a screaming match in a washing machine.
Adamās mouth twitched.
His phone buzzed.
āHello?ā
āYou smiled.ā
āDang it! How did you not?ā He looked away and blinked his tired eyes.
Merry Christmas to everyone from the Green-Walled Tower! There is no snow touching its ivy-covered sides since this year has been unseasonably warm where I am, although it is still Christmas inside. I have been surrounded by young children and Christmas themes this weeks: thus, this story.
copyright Bjorn Rudberg
Kid Logic
The boys charged up the steps of the old castle, glad to be free of the car.
āThe steps are lava!ā Jack yelled.
āBut theyāre green,ā Henry said. āTheyāre like little Christmas trees. Maybe there are tiny people there who decorate them at Christmas.ā
āAnd Santa delivers presents, riding in the Catbus.ā
āAnd then a dragon comes out of the ground and fights the Catbus and the people hide in the Christmas trees.ā
āYeah, they climb inside ornaments and use them for their houses.ā
At that moment, Batman ballerina ran between them, crushing innumerable imaginary Christmas trees under her feet.
You have reached a quiet bamboo grove, where you will find an eclectic mix of nature, music, writing, and other creative arts. Tao-Talk is curated by a philosophical daoist who has thrown the net away.
The Green-Walled Tower 