Hop on #TuesFlashFicTrain Week 2!

This showed up in a fortune cookie for me once!

I can finally say it’s week two! Woo hoo!

First things first, be sure to check out last week’s winning post, by Stephanie Ayers, before tackling this week’s prompt, as you’ll have to continue the story she started!

Now, prompt time!

If you follow me on Twitter, you might have noticed that I tried a new Zumba routine this week. It kicked my ass, but I intend to try it again later this week. In keeping with the idea of trying new things, this week’s prompt is to continue last week’s winning story, but to have your protagonist do something they never thought they’d do. This could be trying a food they previously thought was gross, or maybe doing something they might be afraid of. It could even be something they thought would be easy but turns out to be more difficult than they anticipated (like me and new Zumba routines). Interpretation of the prompt is entirely up to you! The most important thing, though – have fun with it!

Remember, continue last week’s story, keep it under 400 words, and submit your response in the comment section below. Don’t forget to include your twitter handles and/or other social media links for promotion! Submissions close Wednesday at 11:59PM EST– tell your friends!

Questions, suggestions? Check out the rules in more detail and/or drop me a line!

As always, think happy thoughts!

Image Credit: Image found via Google Image Search on quotehd.com

5 thoughts on “Hop on #TuesFlashFicTrain Week 2!

  1. If only I’d come home sooner.

    I wandered the empty rooms, memories snapping before my eyes as though pages of the photo albums Mom had kept on the coffee table.

    Dad’s chair with his remote at hand. Mom’s china displayed in perpetual newness in the over sized hutch.
    The dining room table, ragged centerpiece bookended by the salt and pepper shakers I’d sent her one Christmas.

    It had come to this. Clearing their lives away, packing their bits and pieces into bland cardboard boxes.
    Each bit laid away, each piece folded and stored, chiseled at my strength.

    Memories of two people I knew, yet never knew.
    Familiar items that meant everything and nothing.

    My room, almost as I’d left it. Patches of darker paint on the sun faded walls where I’d peeled away posters, long since discarded.

    On the bed an unfamiliar quilt made by mother’s hands. Hands that rarely held me, yet so carefully stitched each square into place.

    Red and blue checkered fabric here, that came from the new dress for my first day of kindergarten
    Different shades of denim scattered throughout saved from multiple pairs of jeans. The center square, the shiny iridescent pink of prom. Around the edge, strips of soft fabric stamped with pastel bunnies recognized from old pictures as my baby blanket.

    I carried the quilt past the crowd of boxes awaiting the moving van.

    Twenty minutes later I stood in front of a door clutching the bundle tightly. I turned the handle with shaking hands.

    She sat in front of the widow. Late afternoon sun highlighted the yellowed gray of her uncombed hair.
    As I approached her chair, she turned. Pale blue eyes met mine with confusion, then settled on the riot of color in my arms.

    She gently touched the fabric, her hands smaller than I remembered. Her eyes focused as they returned to my face. A smile began to bloom as she stroked my cheek with the same tenderness she had afforded the quilt.

    I wished I had come back sooner.

    Renee L.Tennis-McKinley

    The blogs


  2. I closed the piano softly. Something drew my attention to the room just beyond-Mother’s sitting room. A small bed took up most of the space, but it was the covering that drew my eye. A bright red quilt, handmade, spread across is haphazardly, as if someone had rushed out of it just that morning.

    Impossible. Father had passed on two weeks ago. How could it look so freshly slept in?

    I moved across the floor unaware. Portraits decorated each wall, a shrine to someone’s childhood. I didn’t recognize the people within them. The signature on the bottom, a harsh black slash against an otherwise peaceful scene, reminded me of my mother’s. My thumb flicked over the corner, the dried paint rough under my touch. A stab of pain shot through my abdomen. So much I never knew about my parents. I had no memory of Mother painting anything ever. I looked closer. The faces matched names in my head, and it became clearer at each glance. I moved closer to the one hanging over the small never-used fireplace. Red and yellows shouted from the canvas, and a mother and child held hands as they walked away from the carnival, each bearing an ice cream and happy smiles. Stunned, I stepped closer and almost fainted when reality claimed my mind.

    “Momma?” a little voice piqued from behind me. A mess of fat, auburn, roly-poly curls tumbled around a small freckled heart-shaped face. Sleep lingered in her hazel eyes.

    “Bug,” I called, holding my hand out to her. “Come and see.”

    She stood between my arms, her thin weight pressing against my body. “That little girl looks like me.”

    “She does.”

    “Who is that woman with her?”

    My throat caught, choking me as tears cascaded my cheeks. My heart burst open and pain stifled me. I sat down on the bed, surprised.

    “Your grandmother.”


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