Okay ladies and gents, here we go. The very first round of the Finance Your Fire #microfiction writing challenge.
The word is fire (surprise, surprise).
The challenge: Write a microfiction story of max 350 words in a genre of your choice and use the word fire, one way or the other (the title doesn’t have to be fire as long as the word is used in your story). Publish this story on your blog and link to this post (or drop me a comment in this post and I will add a link to your story).
You can publish anytime as long as you do it before June 15th, 2019 (I have chosen to let this first round run for quite some time. I may change this in subsequent rounds).
Just for the record, your story does not have to be about FI/RE (for those among us who pursue that), but it is not forbidden either 😉 Encourage your inner story teller and be creative!
Click on the images to read the stories. I will update these links as submissions come in. Enjoy reading!
|SavingNinja||Indeedably||Finance Your Fire|
|Weenie@Quietly Saving||Cashflow Cop||A Black Penny|
By the way, I am planning to include the artwork from your post. So I’ll read your story and steal your artwork…if you have it 😉
Final note: This is not a competition. You join for the fun of it. Having said that, if there are enough submissions I will think of a way to get people to vote which one they like most. Any suggestions on how to organize this would be welcome.
Passionately burning for as long as its fuel remains un-perished, the candle stands atop the table. The table at which he and the girl, his young daughter of twelve, silently process their simple meal made of rice and the meatless sauce he cooked. He stares at her, thinks she looks like her mom, his late wife. Her eyes, bright like blooming bluebells in early spring, conceal pain he knows. No word has come from her mouth since her mom died.
Whispering in their own language, the godforsaken stretches here on this distant moon make their intent known. Intruders will perish. He remembers the arrival. Their hopes. The word futile springs to his mind. They perished alright, one after another. Heart-broken. They only understood when it was too late. When the tiny dot that was planet Earth burned too low. When it failed to warm their souls.
He turns his head and looks at the landscape. Barren. He then looks at his daughter again. She is his fuel he thinks. She may never speak again, but she keeps him warm. She is his fire. He will not perish.
‘Shove that up your ass stupid moon!’ he shouts.