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 somehow incorporates the accompanying image.
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: Blink, Fiction)
The title does not factor into the word count.
Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!
Special thanks to John Lightle for providing “The Bullet on Front Street” 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.
I love the way the rhythm changes mirror the train approaching, going past, and leaving into the dark. And that whistle at the end, whooo! Really nice poem :)
Me, too. I never thought of death sending someone back. That is usually not the way it works. I like the idea of being rejected by death... somehow comforting.
Darkness overwhelmed him, all too much. The nagging voice inside his hollow soul persisted, cajoling. ‘Go on, you pathetic waste of time. Do it’. The insistent rumble, thunderous, calling him towards a point of no return. The lights pierced the gloom even as he turned away from them. ‘Not tonight’.
Such a hurtful epithet, calling one's self "a pathetic waste of time". I would rather feel like anything else. A powerful inner conflict here! Here is a one-minute piece echoing your last line: https://sharronbassano.substack.com/p/not-today . You might like it.
Once this godforsaken depression is over and I find a real job, I’ll be the one sitting in that first-class compartment, wearing a fancy suit and eating steak in the dining car.
Not today.
And tomorrow, I’ll be hopping another freight train looking for any work I can get.
The Train Hopper, Fiction
Milo hopped aboard the westward-bound freight train under the cover of darkness. He slipped inside a boxcar. Moonlight glimmered on his face.
“Hey,” a seasoned, smoky voice called from the shadows. “Where you heading, kid?”
“I don’t know.”
“No? Well, where you from?”
“Nowhere.”
The man’s voice cracked. “Me too.”
(Note: I originally wrote this story and published it back in December 2020.)
A fine opener for a longer piece, Justin. These two characters could get up to a lot of mischief.
Thanks, Sharron! Maybe someday I’ll revisit these characters.
Thank goodness it didn’t end Simpsons style (with a sponge bath).
Hahaha! I’m thankful for that, too.
A glorious photo, John, open for so much interpretation. I saw a speeding train in it.
Thank you Justin!
CHIMERA, poem
In the bleak of night, a streak of light hurtles toward me.
It throws me back with a sudden smack of displaced air
and a deafening hiss.
Stumbling along the rumbling rails, how I long to board that train,
that chain of speeding clatter! Destination doesn’t matter.
Let me on!
Lovely poem, Sharron! The internal rhyming is really catchy. I feel for the speaker and can relate to her sense of longing!
Thank you, Justin. Excellent photo!
Scrumptious wordplay in this poem! I love it!
Thanks. More like work than play on this one. ha ha ha Glad you liked it.
I love the way the rhythm changes mirror the train approaching, going past, and leaving into the dark. And that whistle at the end, whooo! Really nice poem :)
I aimed for that rhythm. It was harder than it looks. Thanks for you comment, FJ! Your interpretations are always spot on.
Ha ha, I'm sure it was. But you made it *look* easy, and that's all that matters, eh?
The Tunnel, Poem
In the tunnel's depths,
a man surrenders to velocity,
his grip trembling on the wheel.
Peripheral lights become spectral entities,
alien beings uttering words in a
high pitched incomprehensible whine.
A collision of worlds, his reality merges with
the ethereal, blurring boundaries.
In the tunnel's haze,
he glimpses the unknown.
Wow, Caro! This is so atmospheric and suspenseful. Stunning work. One of my favorites of yours!
The Tragic Tale of Little Jimmy, Fiction
He hadn’t been able to ride the train since.
He remembered the leaves on the station’s glass roof, and the roar of the train approaching, like a metal lion.
The football was old and flaky. Not worth it. But little Jimmy insisted on getting it back.
The ball stayed there.
Love that comparison of the train/metal lion. Great story, Chris!
Thanks Justin!
Oh dear. Haunting! Wonderfully crisp, vivid imagery: all of para two, and then the flaky ball, not worth it. What a small powerhouse of a story!
Thank you Tara!
Timing (Fiction, TW: suicide)
He stepped onto the tracks with closed eyes. The train roared closer. So close. They screamed! But a bony hand pulled him back.
He opened his eyes and saw a scythe reflected in the flickering rush of windows.
‘It’s not your time,’ Death told him.
He turned and walked home.
What a vivid story! The bony hand, the scythe’s reflection...brilliant work, Jon!
I like this role for Death, and the authority of the bony hand!
Me, too. I never thought of death sending someone back. That is usually not the way it works. I like the idea of being rejected by death... somehow comforting.
ooooooooo, Jon! that bony hand.... creepy!
Interesting prompt - great capture.
Dodging the Bullet (fiction)
Darkness overwhelmed him, all too much. The nagging voice inside his hollow soul persisted, cajoling. ‘Go on, you pathetic waste of time. Do it’. The insistent rumble, thunderous, calling him towards a point of no return. The lights pierced the gloom even as he turned away from them. ‘Not tonight’.
A heavy story with a hopeful ending. Powerful work, Barrie. Here’s to defeating those nagging, incessant voices!
Not sure where it came from but always 'hope'. Thanks, Justin
What's your name?
Barrie.
Such a hurtful epithet, calling one's self "a pathetic waste of time". I would rather feel like anything else. A powerful inner conflict here! Here is a one-minute piece echoing your last line: https://sharronbassano.substack.com/p/not-today . You might like it.
That is excellent writing.
Thank you, Barrie.
Looking forward to reading more of your words, Sharron
Thanks, Barrie. Subscriptions to 🍁Leaves are free if you are not subscribed.
I’m in! Thanks
I love the surprising meaning of “dodging” in the end. May the character outlast those nasty voices!
I agree ... ending with hope for him ... always siding with 'hope'
The Barrier (fiction)
The monolithic barrier silently mocks us.
Another neighbour shouts from their side, confirming this impenetrable enigma is endless.
We wave our mutilated hands - permanent reminders not to touch the wall when the light flashes past.
As dusk falls, townsfolk gather for tonight’s mesmerising phantasmagoria: the anomaly‘s only redeeming feature.
There’s a bleak and haunting quality to this one, Stephen. Maybe even dystopian? You hooked me and pulled me right into this world. Well done!
Like the Shinkansen. Fiction
"Man. I'm flying!" The quardrail's a blur. It looks like the Shinkansen.
I've never gone this fast down Breakneck Grade, even in my car,
much less on my toboggan skateboard, at night.
I should watch the road, and slow down, maybe even bail out.
No. I got this! - "Uh👀Oh!?%#&^@@#"
Ooof! I hope the speaker is okay after a little time in casts and on crutches. Stay away from Breakneck Grade!
Yikes! Hang on!
Seconded! Sounds absolutely terrifying!
The Silver Bullet Rolls On • Fiction
Once this godforsaken depression is over and I find a real job, I’ll be the one sitting in that first-class compartment, wearing a fancy suit and eating steak in the dining car.
Not today.
And tomorrow, I’ll be hopping another freight train looking for any work I can get.
Excellent, Mark! I really enjoyed your story. Thank you for sharing!
https://stirlingnewberry.substack.com/p/the-bullet-on-front-street
Excellent, Stirling! Thanks for sharing!
Thank you for the prompt.
The Light; Poem
The light.
The light by which we see.
By what light do you see the world?
By the direct, harsh, unforgiving light of the direct sun?
Or by its soft, shadowed, shapable, reflection from the moon?
Do you want to see all, or only some? And make up the rest.
Note: These are the first lines of a poem I wrote not too long ago. They come out at exactly fifty words, so what the heck!
Brilliant work! Thank you so much for sharing your poem with us.