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Wednesday, 11 March 2015

The Webs We Weave


 
The hot venison filled his mouth with saliva. He washed it down with another swallow of lager.
He rubbed his hands together in front of the fire, thinking of sea-green eyes. They had creased with pleasure as the golden fabric flowed through his hands.
The little man let a giggle escape his lips. Tomorrow the plan would be complete. He could almost feel the weight of the baby in his arms, the same eyes staring up at him. Leverage.
A piece of dry pine became his partner in a jig. He slurred, to the frozen forest, “Rumpelstiltskin is my name”.

 

Each week a group of writers look at a picture given by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and write a story about it. Then we pare it down to 100 words. It's a lot of fun. See other entries here.

10 comments:

  1. Dear Kim,

    On my job I often feel that I'm being asked to spin straw into gold. You've done just that with your story. nicely done.

    Shalom,

    Rochelle

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    Replies
    1. Ha! True. Thanks for the great photo prompts - they keep the mind ticking over.

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  2. We don't often get this story from his point of view. Nicely told.

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    1. This comment has been removed by the author.

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  3. Wonderful. I enjoyed reading it.

    ReplyDelete

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