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, poem, or work of CNF) that involves rain. Bring on the downpours and drizzles! Let’s see a deluge of stories.
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: Bandit, Fiction)
The title does not factor into the word count.
Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!
Special thanks to John Lightle for providing “Saturday Afternoon Depot” 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.
It was only fitting that on the day of his funeral the skies opened up. As the trumpeter played “Taps” and umbrellas flipped inside out from the whipping wind, I knew without a doubt he was smiling, laughing down at us – soaking it all in.
(Note: this is an older "fifty" I wrote a few years ago.)
Rain falls on splintered wood and bent grass. Rain floods gutters and grounds kites, clears lawns and confines boys, girls, and dogs to too-small houses where they wait, noses pressed to double-paned windows fogged by warm breaths full of pent-up energy and impatient hopes. Young eyes watch falling rain turn ditches to mirrors.
“Days after my body is cremated, some of my atoms as water vapor will condense into liquid and return to the earth to be swallowed greedily by plants and animals alike as rain. The smallest particles of me living in, living on.”
The rain was coming down in sheets as we awaited the train. We hadn’t seen our boy in three long, stressful years. He’d been fighting overseas. We couldn’t wait to hug him in our arms. That’s what every parent wants when connecting with their kids after such a long time.
The rain hit the street outside so hard that it splashed back up into thousands of watery butterflies. I ran outside with my children, all of us barefoot, and we yelled and laughed, catching the rain in our mouths. That was back when it was safe to drink the rain.
They say Eskimos have thirty words for snow. I've often wondered if that's true. I look at the rain pooling out on the driveway, rainbow stains of oil sweeping across the pavement, and wonder how many words I can come up with for rain. I give up after three words.
He sloshes over the threshold and stops inside the door, dripping puddles. “Shit, sorry.”
“What are you doing outside right now?”
He chuckles. “I thought I’d walk over and say hi. And the sky exploded.” He reaches up, squeezes the water from his hair, looks at me, and smiles. “Hi.”
----
I made it! A day late, but still! Thank you so much for the shout out, Justin. The fire looks oh so cozy in here. 🔥🔥🔥
Stayed up too late again. I'm blurry. This muscular morning rain doesn't help. Two coffees doesn't help.
This rain is strange, each drop a thinner version of gone people. My grandpa oozes toward me, smiling, holding a soaked bagel. Bold or shy, Virginia Woolf is undressing. Yeah, right. Keep dreaming.
I left, carrying my mother—all seven pounds of her—in the forest green reusable tote bag kindly provided by the cremation services representative, and the rain began, a heavy stampede of rain, heavier than it had been all day, and lightning, and the thunderous wrath of Thor’s hammer itself.
“Why are we hiding here in the rain while our enemies feast in comfort?” Brythan said, seething.
“Don’t hate the rain,” Tykka replied. “It falls without thought for mortals. The rain is impartial. Unlike our families, it hates no one. Instead, it offers all life, regardless of who we love.”
Dude, Im going strong on this weird germinating gem! I just wrote another part "Virginia Vomiting";trails and trials are rolling out with that pre-full spring lavender tinge over all the trees e starting to "bud-in:".Yes, we have sit-ins; forests have bud-ins with practically free admissions (and, in some places, free emissions providing there is not an overabundance of factories and teenagers). I can't thank you enough, so this will have to do.
Ernie Brills absolute favorite fiction and poetry books. (Ill finish this tomorrow since I have to get ready for a local open mike where Im one of the features readers.I get to read for TWENTY minutes, talk about deserved luxury. Write On.
Thanks, Justin. This was way more fun than I imagined. I worked on it from about 6am until now- 717. But then and again, mornings more and more are my favorite times to write.
NOTE to you and all. May I recommend three novels for your reading pleasure and writing inspiration.
My Name Is Red- by Oran Pamuk ( Nobel Prize winner from Turkey). A challenging and daring kaleidiscope of a love murder mystery search story with characters that have names of colors and animals, ie Chapter one HORSE and chapter two TURQUOISE. Unbelievable and probably one of the best novels Ive read in the last thirty years.
Tent of Miracles- Jorge Amado. A wild rambunctous tale about underground organizers for a better education for the underddog.
Waiting For Nothing- Tom Kromer. This slim novel was written on paper bags and bible tracts during the great American depression ( the economic one, not your maniic family history). Searingly laconic, the brevity makes Raymond Carver and Ernest Hemmingway look like Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The novel's dedicatiion reads: "To Jolene, who turned off the gas."
Soaking It In, Fiction
Uncle Joe loved the rain.
It was only fitting that on the day of his funeral the skies opened up. As the trumpeter played “Taps” and umbrellas flipped inside out from the whipping wind, I knew without a doubt he was smiling, laughing down at us – soaking it all in.
(Note: this is an older "fifty" I wrote a few years ago.)
Deluge, Fiction
Rain falls on splintered wood and bent grass. Rain floods gutters and grounds kites, clears lawns and confines boys, girls, and dogs to too-small houses where they wait, noses pressed to double-paned windows fogged by warm breaths full of pent-up energy and impatient hopes. Young eyes watch falling rain turn ditches to mirrors.
PS--Great pic, John!
Last Words, Fiction
“Think of this,” Mom whispered.
“Days after my body is cremated, some of my atoms as water vapor will condense into liquid and return to the earth to be swallowed greedily by plants and animals alike as rain. The smallest particles of me living in, living on.”
“Heaven?” I asked.
ORDINARY DAYS, prose poem
I find my joy in the rain, in salt air, in a quiet, orderly life.
Yet each day I grieve for human failure. Such spiritual poverty -- such epidemic ignorance and pointless violence.
The sting of these ordinary days mutes in the mind all the simple delights.
Was it always so?
Finally Home, Fiction
The rain was coming down in sheets as we awaited the train. We hadn’t seen our boy in three long, stressful years. He’d been fighting overseas. We couldn’t wait to hug him in our arms. That’s what every parent wants when connecting with their kids after such a long time.
The rain hit the street outside so hard that it splashed back up into thousands of watery butterflies. I ran outside with my children, all of us barefoot, and we yelled and laughed, catching the rain in our mouths. That was back when it was safe to drink the rain.
Happy Birthday | Creative Non-fiction
It was pouring outside. “Dad… I can’t believe you’re ninety.”
“Thanks honey, I can’t believe it either.”
Dick, ninety-five, sat next to his brother. Both were in WW II. I attempted in vain to envision what they went through.
With a smirk, Dick sighed. “I remember… when I was ninety.”
Unsolicited Opinions, Fiction
As the bride started down the processional, so did the waterworks.
"Rain on a wedding is good luck"
"Tell that to the bride's makeup"
"We don't know how it will turn out"
"...rain doesn't do anything so let's not say it does"
"Party poopers gonna poop, beliefs set a tone."
Clouds Break, Fiction
They shivered; the rain had discovered their hiding place. The clouds that had been hunting them were outside now, and they had burst.
"Ain't no end to this." He looked at his partner, solemn but smiling
Smiling, because he knew that when the clouds cried, the light would follow.
Called, Fiction
Drops tap at Greta’s window.
Insistent.
Persistent.
Far too close to use the word distant.
“I hear you. Enough already!”
“But… We want you to come out and play with us!”
Feeling wanted is a very, very hard feeling to ignore.
Slicker, boots, umbrella, leash.
“C’mon four-leg. We are wanted.”
They say Eskimos have thirty words for snow. I've often wondered if that's true. I look at the rain pooling out on the driveway, rainbow stains of oil sweeping across the pavement, and wonder how many words I can come up with for rain. I give up after three words.
Hi, Novel Excerpt
He sloshes over the threshold and stops inside the door, dripping puddles. “Shit, sorry.”
“What are you doing outside right now?”
He chuckles. “I thought I’d walk over and say hi. And the sky exploded.” He reaches up, squeezes the water from his hair, looks at me, and smiles. “Hi.”
----
I made it! A day late, but still! Thank you so much for the shout out, Justin. The fire looks oh so cozy in here. 🔥🔥🔥
Feeling Like The Pounding Rain, Poetry
Pouring thunderous rain
Left my cake out
On the patio, gotta clean it again!
Oh well, sweet runny mess
Of blue and orange frosting.
Trying not to think of unhappiness.
Texted not-so-good news.
How to cope with thunder
As I crouch by the window and muse.
Reacting silently, I’m praying…
Stayed up too late again. I'm blurry. This muscular morning rain doesn't help. Two coffees doesn't help.
This rain is strange, each drop a thinner version of gone people. My grandpa oozes toward me, smiling, holding a soaked bagel. Bold or shy, Virginia Woolf is undressing. Yeah, right. Keep dreaming.
Above & Beyond | Creative Nonfiction
I left, carrying my mother—all seven pounds of her—in the forest green reusable tote bag kindly provided by the cremation services representative, and the rain began, a heavy stampede of rain, heavier than it had been all day, and lightning, and the thunderous wrath of Thor’s hammer itself.
Will the next FbtF be on May 12th?
My schedule's been "weird", and I keep missing the prompt day. 😬
Impartial, Fiction
“Why are we hiding here in the rain while our enemies feast in comfort?” Brythan said, seething.
“Don’t hate the rain,” Tykka replied. “It falls without thought for mortals. The rain is impartial. Unlike our families, it hates no one. Instead, it offers all life, regardless of who we love.”
Dude, Im going strong on this weird germinating gem! I just wrote another part "Virginia Vomiting";trails and trials are rolling out with that pre-full spring lavender tinge over all the trees e starting to "bud-in:".Yes, we have sit-ins; forests have bud-ins with practically free admissions (and, in some places, free emissions providing there is not an overabundance of factories and teenagers). I can't thank you enough, so this will have to do.
Ernie Brills absolute favorite fiction and poetry books. (Ill finish this tomorrow since I have to get ready for a local open mike where Im one of the features readers.I get to read for TWENTY minutes, talk about deserved luxury. Write On.
Thanks, Justin. This was way more fun than I imagined. I worked on it from about 6am until now- 717. But then and again, mornings more and more are my favorite times to write.
NOTE to you and all. May I recommend three novels for your reading pleasure and writing inspiration.
My Name Is Red- by Oran Pamuk ( Nobel Prize winner from Turkey). A challenging and daring kaleidiscope of a love murder mystery search story with characters that have names of colors and animals, ie Chapter one HORSE and chapter two TURQUOISE. Unbelievable and probably one of the best novels Ive read in the last thirty years.
Tent of Miracles- Jorge Amado. A wild rambunctous tale about underground organizers for a better education for the underddog.
Waiting For Nothing- Tom Kromer. This slim novel was written on paper bags and bible tracts during the great American depression ( the economic one, not your maniic family history). Searingly laconic, the brevity makes Raymond Carver and Ernest Hemmingway look like Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The novel's dedicatiion reads: "To Jolene, who turned off the gas."