Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing challenge. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join in on the fun.
Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poem) that uses the word gather, or any other form of the word (gathers, gathering, etc.).
Here are the other guidelines:
Make sure your piece is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or the word processor you use.
Write a title with the genre in the first line. (Example: Off the Trail, Fiction)
The title does not factor into the word count.
Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!
Special thanks to John Lightle for providing “44 Birds in an Old Green Chevy” for our writing prompt.
John Lightle is a Texas writer, poet, and photographer who spends many hours sitting on his woodpile contemplating. When away from his frame shop, he schleps his artwork among area art shows. The job takes him across the countryside, occasionally overseas, photographing the quiet resolve found within the golden hours.
They gathered. It was the way. When the sun dipped below the horizon on the fifteenth day, they gathered. As they assembled, the roar of thunder bounced off the walls of the ruined abbey. They summoned a collective breath, exhaling simultaneously. The dark surface stirred. The beast awoke, ravenous, expectant.
After weeks of cancer stolen appetite, my grandmother was able share Thanksgiving dinner with the family. It was her last meal. At every holiday gathering since, my dad set a glass of red wine for her on the table. This year, I will pour two glasses, and toast them both.
Now that is one hell of a story. Gritty and gruesome. Thanks a bunch for dropping in and sharing, Jimmy! (Also...if you ever expand on this one, please let me know.)
We heard the call in our hearts. It pulled us from sleep, beds, houses. To the woods we ran, through the cold and dark to the clearing. Some laughed, some sang Hosannas. We were chosen!
Then the woods were full of eyes. Another call, but not for us.
The whole town congregated around a fresh grave overlooking the stream.
“Never was a man more loved than Sheriff Goodheart,” Pastor Hardy said. “He was a man of justice but also grace. A true servant to the fine people of New Hope. Let’s sing.”
The five of us frolic in the pecan orchard, picking pecans while grabbing ass and teasing each other. One dime a bucket is what we were promised, but it’s not about that. This is our time, us cousins. I feel for my little brother, not yet included. Next year.
Kindred Spirits, fiction
“Let me guess…not one for the turkey and stuffing?”
“No,” Talia responded. “Not really.”
“Me neither.” The librarian handed the books over one at a time.
The girl gathered them up. Headed for the door.
“Drop in for pie, at least!”
“I’ll pass.”
The man removed his bookmark and laughed.
What Remains, Poetry
Take what you want from me.
I offer it to you, willingly.
My gifts. My conquests. My flaws. And my missteps.
Gather them up like a wad of refuse, for they are meaningless.
Burn them.
They are past.
Now gather me, and what remains.
And love me.
As I am.
The Lake (flash fiction)
They gathered. It was the way. When the sun dipped below the horizon on the fifteenth day, they gathered. As they assembled, the roar of thunder bounced off the walls of the ruined abbey. They summoned a collective breath, exhaling simultaneously. The dark surface stirred. The beast awoke, ravenous, expectant.
Holiday Tributes, memoir.
After weeks of cancer stolen appetite, my grandmother was able share Thanksgiving dinner with the family. It was her last meal. At every holiday gathering since, my dad set a glass of red wine for her on the table. This year, I will pour two glasses, and toast them both.
Off Atlantic, poem
You pick me up
on 4th Street
and after hugs
drive us to a restaurant off Atlantic
where we gather
glorious memories
from thirty years’ sleep.
We dust them
with cloth napkins and
season them
with fresh curry.
We giggle the dusk down,
girls again,
our voices
just the same.
HERITAGE, PROSE POEM
I gather my ancestors around me, a tribe that spans 1,200 years. Viking blood rages in my veins.
I don’t forget my generations of kings and nobles, warriors and crusaders, my humble farmers, fishers, and immigrants. I honor them all.
Only through their great courage and tenacity, do I live.
After (Micro)
This is where we gathered, after the ride back from the cemetery whose name I always forget
and sat on small couches, a chair, floor to talk about the woman who left this world, wordless,
too soon. Nothing like the way she entered. And grieved on in story and silence.
Gathering Memories, fiction
I hated going to my Aunt’s for Thanksgiving, but there was no choice. He made me go.
“Someday you’ll thank me,” my dad said, “For all the memories.”
I sat between my cousins on the couch, all of us miserable and bored.
Beside us was a pillow that said ‘Gather.’
Boundaries, Fiction
“Come?”
“No!” Do-not-disappoint overrides his silent proclamation. “What can I bring?”
“We’ll be forty-four a-flutter, fueling for our trip. Can you manage four oranges and four tangerines?”
“Yes” fell… where “no” wanted to stand.
“Four and four.” (Gathers courage.) “Then I head south… solo. It’s time to stretch my wings.”
Family Gathering-poetry
Why do we do this?
We gather here in what, in any other time,
Would seem too imposing,
Too interruptive of our orchestrated
Lives.
Now, though, we take this time, make this effort
To regain that which distance has displaced.
We gather to love.
It’s messy, stressful, disruptive,
And necessary.
An Unseen Soul, Poem
Without a home, she wandered the streets,
This day, as souls gathered 'round,
She kept looking, shuffling her feet,
Until a feast of love she found.
Laughter, melodious joy.
Tables adorned with abundance, grace
Relaxed, she shared her tale, no longer coy,
Each morsel savored, a smile on her face.
Happy Friday, Justin! Thanks for another 50s adventure :)
The alternate spaces between (Poem)
There's a crowd gathered,
quare, here me in
plain as me am
out round put square-leaved tea
retreatin' undertow boil befor
ascending a sand-circled trunk; burieyed lineage
simultaneous signals like hydra-toed pulsate
intone, intoxicate with Aeolian praising
high and tart and featuresold, futureless
'Three is a magistereal number,' says she.
Daredevil - Fiction
The tourniquet was strips of shirt, gathered around the end of his now missing arm with a length of white rope becoming progressively crimson.
His vision dimmed, he guessed he would not survive. He tried, in a growing web of shock, to remind himself he lived on his own terms.
When I am gone, Poem
gathering my words
making an offering of
flowers, poems, color
i wonder if they'll come
i can't wait, i must go
but if they don't
i would still have been here
leaving...
not a mark just some words
not a sign just a symbol
not a trace just an impression
-reena kapoor
Now that is one hell of a story. Gritty and gruesome. Thanks a bunch for dropping in and sharing, Jimmy! (Also...if you ever expand on this one, please let me know.)
You Are Gathered Here Now, CNF
"You've gone out on foot to the far places, the ends of the earth, the four corners of the world from which the winds blow.
You are gathered here now in machines that make time and space your servant.
'Good job! Take the rest of the week off - Happy Thanksgiving!'"
Offerings (Horror)
GATHER
We heard the call in our hearts. It pulled us from sleep, beds, houses. To the woods we ran, through the cold and dark to the clearing. Some laughed, some sang Hosannas. We were chosen!
Then the woods were full of eyes. Another call, but not for us.
FEED
The River (Fiction)
The whole town congregated around a fresh grave overlooking the stream.
“Never was a man more loved than Sheriff Goodheart,” Pastor Hardy said. “He was a man of justice but also grace. A true servant to the fine people of New Hope. Let’s sing.”
“Shall we gather at the river…”
Lookout (Fiction)
We’d been surveilling their gathering place for about a week. Their comings and goings were consistent, which made this afternoon a surprise.
“Get IP on the phone.”
“Wh-”
“No fucking questions. Phone now.”
We lost a lot of folks that day. I’m mostly over it, but my hands still shake.
Hunters and gatherers --Journal
The bitter cold awaits me and my injury is not yet healed. Still, I must go out there teasing my destiny so I can provide sustenance for all.
I'm a Neanderthal and the Sapiens who were my friends yesterday, they're seeking to kill me today. Hard core life, this.
The Insect Cemetery, Fiction, Horror
The door creaked open;
like a wooden wolf howling at a forgotten moon.
The hut at the bottom of the garden
sat abandoned; filled with dust.
The bodies of wood lice, spiders and ants gathered together.
Insect cemetery.
In his absence, something had grown.
He should have tidied more often.
“flowers, poems, color”: I love how these three little words burst with living energy. “i wonder if they’ll come”: Ah! What a light touch.
Grandmother’s
The five of us frolic in the pecan orchard, picking pecans while grabbing ass and teasing each other. One dime a bucket is what we were promised, but it’s not about that. This is our time, us cousins. I feel for my little brother, not yet included. Next year.