NONE LISTEN

Copyright: Sandra Crook

We’re gathered together today in an old farmhouse near a Civil War battlefield. Our hostess is the gracious and talented author and artist, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We’re here to discuss our original stories for the week as the Friday Fictioneers. The challenge for this group is for each of us to write a story with no more than 100 words. It’s supposed to have a beginning, middle, end, and follow the picture prompt for the week. This week’s prompt was supplied by Sandra Crook. Thanks again, Sandra.

To read the other stories from the group members, just click on the little blue frog in the blue box.

The link for the other stories is as follows:

http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2015/03/11/13-march-2015/

Genre: Speculative Fiction

Word Count: 100 Words

NONE LISTEN by P.S. Joshi

Nobody’s ever cared. I’ve tried to tell’em, but they don’t listen. It’s been so long. Why won’t they listen?

I was runnin’ across the field carryin’ my old gun, and somethin’ hit me. All I know after that is I saw my body layin’ on the ground near a big stump.

There was us boys in the gray and the boys in blue.

Some men from a nearby farmhouse buried us. They was talkin’ about a cemetary, but there’s never been one. This skirmish musta’ been forgotten. Looks like this is where we’ll stay buried. No one knows.

SURVIVAL

 

This is my contribution this week to the challenge, Monday’s Finish the Story  hosted by Barbara Beacham. Every Monday, Barbara supplies a new picture prompt along with the first sentence to be used for the story. The original story to be written should have only 100 to 150 additional words. I’ve bolded the first sentence given with the picture prompt. Be sure to click on the little blue frog in the blue box to read the other stories.

The link for all other stories is as follows:

http://mondaysfinishthestory.wordpress.com/2015/01/26/mondays-finish-the-story-january-26th-2015/

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 8+1+150=159

SURVIVAL By P.S. Joshi

She was unaware that she was being watched.

She was a stunning gray and her mate was the dominant male. She carried his pups, among them, the future leader of their pack. Today, though, she was one of the hunters like all the rest.

They had gathered outside the cave at the start of the hunt, lifted their muzzles to the winter sky, and howled into the cold wind. Their breath came forth in clouds, chilled wind carrying it away.

“Look, Bill, said Walt Emery, isn’t she majestic. I’ve been studying this pack since last November and keeping a journal.

“That male in the lead is her mate. The others will follow and all go after the moose up ahead. They chose that moose because he’s old and slower than the rest.”

The pack now closed in. They had caught the strong, gamey scent of moose and tracked him. He knew they followed, but was tiring, slowing.