Free Writing Fridays #043
Your 100 Word Story
REMINDER: Collaborative writing with me is the FIRST Friday of every month. See you again on April 5th. Weekly prompts can be found by turning ON #Pentober52 from your subscriber settings here.
IMAGE PROMPT
Tell me about one of the tenants who live in this building. Maybe it’s someone who’s lived there all their life. Or someone new moving in. Perhaps the landlord is clearly up to something… 😉
You don’t have to write your story today!
Free write all weekend long!
MY 50 WORDS
Add your own by copy/pasting it in the comments or hit reply to this email.
They said it would start on the 1st of March and start, it did. It was just flurries at first. Innocent enough to a child. But to adults everywhere, it was a sign that they were out there. It would never stop they said. Everyone would be trapped or worse.
WRITE YOUR OWN 100 WORD STORY
Write exactly 100 words. Not 99 or 101. The Word Count Police are tracking!
Genre? Writer’s choice! So long as you give us all the thrills and the feels.
To Fic or to Non-Fic? You decide. What matters most is that you’re satisfied with the output.
Copy/paste your words in the comments, then share on your own Substack, and maybe, share to social media!
A Note on Substack Notes | Click the 🔄 “Restack with a Note” and copy/paste your story for added reach and growth.
In tiny Woodbury, an oddly massive hospital looms, void of doctors, nurses, and beds. Locals, curious, venture to Mainhaven for medical care. Woodbury's relic is boarded-up, with a forbidden basement that lures adventurous kids. They unearth eerie, rusted tools reminiscent of horror films. Legend whispers that a century ago, the colossal structure was the state asylum, harboring bizarre events. Patients, lost in time, vanished mysteriously. Rumor suggests one transformed into the town's mayor, proving unexpectedly adept. In the shadows of Woodbury's past, whispers of a sinister era persist, casting an ominous veil over the unsuspecting town.
Landlady (flash fiction)
The scrawled note on the elevator read ‘Out of Service’. Droplets of rain turned the tiled floor treacherous. He had to run the gauntlet though the flickering bulb offered hope. Her door was ajar. His youthful nostrils discerned boiling cabbage but the name of the cloying perfume evaded him. He’d been snared before. Obliged to sit on the chaise longue with her ageing bony claw scrabbling at his thigh. Her desperate nasal whine, a flimsy housecoat revealing too much but less than she intended. He shuddered, nervously fingering the roll of twenties. “The rent, dear, we could make an arrangement”.