May 21, 2014 Original Short Stories
Welcome to my 100-word story contribution to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers! This is an online community of writers who post 100-word stories based on a photo prompt provided on Rochelle’s blog. This week’s photo is courtesy of Erin Leary
PHOTO PROMPT Copyright – Erin Leary
Defenseless
©May 21st, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
It was a fence. I didn’t like it.
We had moved to the country. I didn’t worry about school and the monsters anymore.
I had a huge field of my own, a puppy, and fresh air.
But here was also a fence. I started moaning and butting my head against it.
The fog lifted. I continued butting.
Some sheep wandered over to watch.
Awakening in a white room, I saw a white-coated man.
“Is the fence gone?” I asked my mother, who held my hand.
She nodded. Her eyes were wet. I wondered why.
I closed mine. I felt happy.
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P.S. Question for my Friday Fictioneers colleagues: How do I get the InLinkz icon to show up below my story, like some of you have done? Do I need to subscribe to InLinkz?
I put the url here, in any case:
http://new.inlinkz.com/luwpview.php?id=401321
Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, autistic child, Fences
May 20, 2014 Original Short Stories
Regret
Or: Slam the Door Quietly
(A Short, Short, Short Story)
©May 20th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
What Shankar remembered from his day was this: The Goddess had been with him for a while.
Shankar lost his temper in a meeting that afternoon.
That was not nice.
He had been in a happy mood all day, and was in a pleasant frame of mind entering the meeting, but it took a turn, where he was pointedly (if cluelessly) ignored, while the “in-group” faced each other, each bolstering the other’s ego. He tried to insert his voice into the general discussion, because, in fact, they were trying to reach a decision about a tedious, if important matter, and all of their voices were to be heard, or so it was expected. So, he tried — and failed.
He began to fume. At one point, one of the chief offenders, Julia Dascoli, made a “Hold! Stay!” gesture to him, as if putting him on hold, while she went on, holding forth, just as he was trying to clarify an issue they were discussing. As if in passing, she said, “I’m sorry,” and turned to her yay-sayers.
His ears became hot.
Don’t get mad, he said to himself. They’re clueless, they don’t know what they’re doing, in the same way that the privileged rich in the dominant group does not really know it operates from a place of privilege. You know that, surely. Stay cool. Hold on.
He’d done this before, because it was TOO much effort to let them know that they were wrong in doing this. Besides, not one of them forgave easily, especially the chief offender. It cost too much to go against them, so he had gone along, saying nothing much.
Today was different, though.
He had been ignored, talked over, snubbed and condescended to by his power-mad peers once too often, and too openly, for him to take it any more.
He finally had enough. Getting up pointedly, he walked to the door. Julia, a power-broker if there ever was one, said, “I said I’m sorry!” Yes, she had, at one point, after she’d waved away his question, but she had NOT said it as an apology. She had been dismissive, and had turned away, after the so-called, putative “apology.”
That was what made Shankar snap. He said in his coldest, hottest, hardest, most grating voice, “DO NOT EVER SNUB ME EVER AGAIN!” His eyes blazed like a demon’s; he certainly felt demoniac. His ears felt hot, and he sparked mad anger in the direction of Julia and her minions, all united in their condescension.
They started to sputter, like a bunch of flustered tea-kettles on the boil.
Shankar was past mollifying and “making nice.” It took a lot to push him to that place in his head.
Flashing pure rage at all of them, all still spluttering, he grated harshly, “STOP!” They stopped and stared, stunned.
The Goddess was with him.
Then, he walked out, and slammed the door. The sound echoed in his ears.
That was the “not-nice” part. The Goddess shook her head, sadly.
Now, sighing, he knew he had to think it over and go back and “regret slamming the door – but can we talk?”
He felt obstinate, adamantine. He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to tell them all a few home truths about themselves.
Would that help? Of course not!
But it would feel good, if only for a brief moment. What had he to lose? They didn’t like him, so?! Ah, but they wouldn’t get it, anyway, and wasn’t that what he wanted? For them to “get it,” apologize, or, at least, start over? Yet, he knew, from having worked with them for so long, that they would never get it. Not even if it happened to them.
That last thought stopped him. Why bother, he thought. He went back to work, shuffling papers blindly.
The only thing that consoled him was that within decades, all of them, including him, would all be dead, relegated to the dust of history.
Hurrah, he thought darkly. He didn’t feel jubilant, though.
Next time, he thought, next time, I won’t slam the door.
He picked up his briefcase, looked out the window, saw the sun streaming in, and said aloud to the empty room, ‘Time for a cappuccino.”
The Goddess waited in a corner of the room, willing the universe into a more stable state around her beloved Shankar.
Things sometimes get in a flux and that’s we need a calm hand upon the waters.
Shankar left work, and took care not to slam the door.
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Tags: #Original Short Story, #Stubbornness, angry outburst, clash of personalities, door-slam, exclusive behavior, pride
May 18, 2014 Original Short Stories
Dark Matters (A Short, Short, Sort-of Science-Fiction Story)
©May 18th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Calling it a storm would not be enough, DaMaGenie1! thought. It would have to be called “The Storm of the Multiplex Universe.”
DaMaGenie1! had been brewing it expertly for billennia. After all, she had nothing else to do.
She had been born from herself in the depths of a new universe, formed from hydrogen and helium, and, of course, with the usual smattering of oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, silicon, magnesium, neon, iron, sulphur and so on (see chart, courtesy of nasa.gov ).
And then, since she’d been feeling queasy ever since, she collapsed, scattering her elements around her. Wailing, she withdrew into a shell, and drew a circle around herself, forbidding all contact.
Other stars near her found themselves deeply attracted, and paid her homage. She did NOT want them. They flowed towards her, and were never heard from again. She had absorbed them all.
And they died in ecstasy, sinking and sinking in an irregular orbit forever in a howl of light around her, but the rest of the universe could not see them. She laughed, pouring forth darker and darker matter, chewing noisily on the remains of her shining self.
DaMaGenie1! was lonely, that’s what was the matter. She knew it, but she didn’t care.
She created her minions, Dream and Nightmare – and she called upon them, and they came before her, humbly.
Give birth to life! she commanded them harshly. They nodded, mute and resentful at her tone, and went away.
It took them a long time. They hated each other, you see, even though they were twins. And yet, because there was no one else, they came to each other, seething with hatred and burning with unexpressed rage. There was no edict forbidding them their coupling, since there was no one else.
Billennia continued to pass. DaMaGenie1! burned within, with a cold, unrelenting passion, colder than the coldest imaginable thing, still crying in grief and loneliness. The Universe spun around on its axis, getting bigger and bigger, and growing more and more of her siblings, who seemed not to notice that she’d ever been there.
DaMaGenie1! watched, unwinking, coiled, ready to strike. Then, she realized that she could do something. She needed to brew something.
And while she brewed it, she watched stars and planets form. Finally, she noted something on an obscure little planet, which was revolving around an insignificant sun (she disdained it, for she recognized that, despite its strangely quiescent glow which seemed submissive, it was like a bantam rooster, crowing loudly in its little corner, and mounting the darkness. Dream and Nightmare stood aside. They had done their work. It pleased them to see what was coming from it. For a moment, they were unified in a truce).
DaMaGenie1! saw Life. It smelled good. She leaned over and took a deep whiff. Flowers and fruit, dirt and leaves and grass, and babies and young animals, and trees and water and rain. She was pleased.
And then, she saw Death. This made her cry out again. Her rage re-erupted. She recognized it. It was a piece of her that had broken off and made its way into Nightmare, and thence, into this new-formed thing that smelled of leaf-rot and wood-rot, of flesh-rot and grief.
DaMaGenie1! had left off brewing for a while. It was hard being herself, and she had been tricked by her own desire.
Now, she renewed her work. Her brewing became frenzied. She was going to make the “The Storm of the Multiplex Universe,” and it would be of epic, epochal, cosmic proportions.
It was ready now.
DaMaGenie1! opened her mouth wide, and took a big swallow.
The Universe went quiet.
Then, it vanished. And so did she.
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[NOTE: I was inspired by Arthur C. Clarke’s short story titled “siseneG” and an Isaac Asimov short story titled, “The Last Question,” although, of course, my story is different!]
Tags: #Original Short Story, #Ouroboros, #Science Fiction Short Story, dark matter, self-reflexive story, vanishings
May 14, 2014 Original Short Stories
Sheep and Nipples
©May 14, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Welcome to my 100-word story contribution to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers! This is an online community of writers who post 100-word stories based on a photo prompt provided on Rochelle’s blog. This week’s photo is courtesy of Sandra Crook. 
I lay in bed, counting sheep.
A car appeared amidst the sheep. Its rear bumpers were visible. I tried to hail it. Nothing happened. The sheep pressed forward, urgent and militant, in my direction.
I reminded myself that I was trying to get to sleep.
The sheep came closer, backing me into a corner of the image.
I tapped at the edges of my mental image, but it remained resolutely two-dimensional.
Sleep never came. Sheep poured in, though.
Beside me, the baby stirred and made sucking noises. I awoke. Sigh.
I shall never use lanolin on sore nipples again, ever.
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, #Sheep, 100-word short story based on photo prompt, lanolin, nursing story, sore nipples
Feb 12, 2014 Original Short Stories
Guitar
(See story prompt below my story)
©2014 Vijaya Sundaram
February 7th, 2014
Being a single mom isn’t bad, thought Swapna, riffling through the shirt-pile. I get to choose anything I want for Santosh. Luke can’t stop me. Luke, who had controlled her every move, and whom she missed, despite her relief when he had left her and their son.
Don’t remember!
She moved on to a Spiderman-themed sleeping bag. Santosh will be thrilled with this!
She approached the man at the garage door.
“This is great – your son must be too old for it now, huh? I don’t see a tag. How much is this?”
“Five,” he answered, turning to arrange something.
Inexplicably hurt, Swapna shook herself.
“Could I leave it here? I’m still looking,” she said.
“Sure,” he replied.
She moved around, found a red, unscratched Schwinn bicycle. Fifteen dollars! She wheeled it next to the sleeping bag.
The man was watching her. Watch away! she thought.
Then, she spotted the guitar, leaning against the garage door.
“You’re selling that Gibson?” she asked, incredulously.
“No, I changed my mind. That belonged … Are you done?” he asked.
Curious now, she turned to open her purse.
Movement near the window drew her attention. Someone had sat down near a photograph of a teenaged boy holding the Gibson.
Silently, Swapna handed over twenty dollars, wheeled the bicycle with sleeping bag on it, and stashed both in her trunk.
As she pulled away, she looked at the man. He had picked up the guitar, and was holding it tight.
Her throat closed.
(250 words of text, including my name, but nothing else.)
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Story Prompt for the final session with Michael Downing:
There are two principal characters: A buyer and a seller. The location is a yard, the property of the seller, where that person is having a yard sale, a garage sale, some sort of home sale. How the buyer found out is … not really important.
This is the story of a completed transaction. Among whatever else the seller has on offer at this sale, you must name three items: a bicycle of some kind (something that has wheels), a musical instrument or music-playing device, and a sleeping bag.
What you know about the seller is that recently, within the last year, a child of the seller’s died. This stuff the seller is selling belonged to the child.
The buyer and seller have never met, and know nothing of each other. Neither the seller nor anyone at the sale mentions the child, the death or the cause of death.
By the end of the story, your goal is that the readers understand the loss of the seller brings us to this moment.
Limitations:
Past tense
No more than 250 words.
Third person limited to the buyer. (the only omniscience belongs to the buyer – third person, however).
Tags: #Loss, #Original Short Story, Buying and Selling, Father and son, Garage Sale, Guitar, mother and son, Story Prompt by Michael Downing
Feb 12, 2014 Original Short Stories
Thanksgiving
(See story-prompt at the end of my story)
©2014 Vijaya Sundaram
January 31st, 2014
Rob and I are driving to Maynard, racing to get there in time for Thanksgiving supper with his folks, something I always dread, because I’m vegetarian and they’re not, and I’m complaining to him about this charade that happens every year, when I see that I’m driving straight at a man who is standing on the road, swaying, covered in blood, but I don’t know how to stop, when I hear a horrible thump, and someone flies into my windshield, his face in front of me, eyes wide open, mouth open, blood pouring from his head, and a scream is filling my car, but I don’t know whether it’s his, mine or Rob’s, for Rob is telling me to drive on, and I do so, screaming hysterically.
Three hours later, at the police station, after I’ve answered all the questions, confirmed the date on which I have to appear in court, being assured that I probably won’t be charged for a hit-and-run, I’m drinking a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee kindly offered to me by someone, and my heart is returning to its normal rate, even though I know it’ll never ever be the same again, because I just killed a man, for God’s sake, when Rob says in what he thinks is his joking voice, “Mother will be upset, you know. We’re always late, and now we’ll never be able to make it up to her.”
I think of the dead man and burst into tears.
_____________________________(250 words, including my name)____________________________
Here are the details of the prompt for this technical exercise:
TECHNICAL EXERCISE 2
The challenge is to write a two-part story.
Scenario:
Part I.
There are two people, a driver and a passenger, in a car moving along a dark road. It is very late at night or very early in the morning. The two people know each other rather well. They might be friends, blood relatives, romantic partners, or work colleagues.
The car hits something, and both people realize that the car hit a human being—and that person is dead.
The driver slows or stops the car.
The passenger persuades the driver not to get out of the car and to drive away from the scene of the accident.
Part II.
Part II begins at least a week after the accident, but as much time as a year may have passed since that night. Let the reader know how much time has passed.
The two people are together. Maybe they are still in a relationship, or maybe they are not. You have to establish where they are and why they are there.
Something happens—this might be as apparently insignificant as a gesture, a sound, or a spoken phrase, or it might be a more dramatic event—that reminds both of them of the accident.
Write the story. Assume your readers know nothing about the characters or their situation when you begin.
Limits
- No more than 250 words. Yes, that includes both parts I and II.
- Part I must be at least 125-words long. (Along with your name, please include the word counts for both parts I and II on your story.)
- Use first-person narration. Both parts of the story must be told by the same character, either the driver or the passenger.
- The narrator must use the present tense to tell both parts of the story.
- One more limit: Part I must be a single, perfect sentence—that is, the sentence must adhere to the conventions of standard grammar and syntax. And forget about semi-colons; they are not needed.
Tags: #Original Short Story, 250 word short story, Creative Writing Exercise, Flash Fiction, Michael Downing, Micro-Fiction, Thanksgiving
Feb 11, 2014 Original Short Stories
So, this is the set of instructions and prompt that we were given for the first story. Scroll down below for my story, based on these assigned limitations:
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
(Via Michael Downing)
Here is the scenario:
There is a woman in a room. There is a door, a window, and a chair in the room. A man comes to the door. He says, “We’ll be with you in a few minutes. Don’t open the window.” He leaves. He returns. The window is open.
The assignment is to write a story that begins after the man returns. Do not assume that readers know anything about the scenario. That is, you will want to let readers understand that the man previously told the woman not to open the window. Your story begins as the man returns and sees that the window is open:
The technical requirements are these:
–No more than 250 words.
–Past tense.
–Third person (limited or omniscient—and if that distinction is not meaningful to you, don’t worry about it; the idea of third-person narration is simply to use a narrator who is not a character in the story)
–Use only monosyllabic words. (Really.)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
My Story:
The Thing That Flew Down From The Wall
Vijaya Sundaram
Anne had been there for a while. Her hands were clasped, knees pressed close. She was not used the wait. Her coat was placed on the back of the chair. Her heart was loud with real fear.
From the square of light at Anne’s back blew in drifts of snow, as she grew more and more cold.
She was scared, for she had just seen a thing that could not be real. Yet, here it was, large as life. And it had done what she had been told not to do.
She found her voice. She screamed.
A tall, dark man rushed in. Scorn curled his thin lips.
“Why did you do it, Ms. James? I asked you to sit there, and not let in fresh air!” he snapped. “Yet you did. Why?”
She tried to speak, but fright had made her jaw clench.
He walked to the back of her chair, and shut out the snow and cold air. His eyes mocked her. “Well?” he asked.
Now, she found her voice. Fear died away. A strange calm was in her now.
“But I did not,” she said. “If you want to find out who let in fresh air, don’t look at me. There’s a thing you have not seen. When you see it, you will scream. I don’t need your job. Good day.”
As she walked out, a huge, black thing flapped and flew down from the back wall.
He screamed, as it plucked out his eye.
________________________(250 words, including my name)_______________________
Tags: Flash Fiction, Michael Downing, Micro-Fiction, Story-Prompt, Third-Person Limited
Dec 9, 2013 Original Short Stories
Tags: #Couplets, #Original Poem, #Procrastination, chores, Ditty, panic, putting off, tasks, Work
Oct 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Straightening Up — A Short Love Story
©By Vijaya Sundaram
October 22nd, 2013
The day had been bad. A butterfly fluttered in her breast feebly, the last throes of love.
She stumbled up to her apartment, fumbling with the keys, turning the lock, opening the door, shutting it, falling to the floor.
How much feeling is too much?
Her breathing shallow, she took a few steps into her kitchen.
All around her, the evening hummed. Street noises floated up. Somewhere, the elevator groaned and shuddered to a halt. Somewhere, far below, a truck snorted and lurched, tires skidding. Somewhere, ocean waves crashed against escarpments. An acrid smell pierced the air, heavy with smoke and sunset.
She leaned over the sink, her vision blurred and moist. Reaching into her cupboard, she picked the china mug which she had bought many moons ago in the company of the person she had just left. It had pretty patterns all around it — and it reminded her of being a young girl who went for pretty, inconsequential things, simply because they pleased her. She turned on the tap, and filled the mug, then sat down at her little kitchen table and stared through the tall glass kitchen window down at the street below.
The clock steadily ticked one eternity after another. It echoed in her head and made her neck stiffen, and made her grit her teeth.
Everything in her life spelled futility and despair. With two brothers and a sister firmly ensconced in upper-middle-class mobility and self-assuredness, she knew she was doomed. No one seemed to understand that she saw through all of the illusions around her.
Wherever she went, she saw hollow bodies filled with dreams that had turned sour, and where they weren’t, because they were children, she saw what might come.
Because they all pointed to death.
Yes, yes, true, there might be meaning, and there might be hope, and there might be love and laughter and light and all the rest of it, but that’s not what she saw. She didn’t see the face of it all. She saw the back of it all.
And then, she saw it all topple into an endless black hole, into the spinning space inside the event horizon.
Her head was a hollow place. She longed to forget. What did the poet write in his over-dramatic hysterical piece about a bird that had wandered into his home? Ah, yes, respite, respite and nepenthe. That was what she craved.
She downed the water, and walked into her bedroom. Ah, the familiar mess — clothes on the bed, clothes piled high on the armchair, clothes in danger of creating life forms on the floor. Despite herself, she smiled grimly. Despair and futility was all very well, but there was one unassailable fact that was always true in her life — laundry that awaited her.
It doesn’t do to be untidy. Being in despair and being in a mess shouldn’t be synonymous, she thought.
She set about folding the clean clothes and putting them away in neat stacks in her dresser. She piled the dirty clothes into the laundry hamper. She picked up books (in stacks under the clothes) and placed them lovingly and attentively back on the shelf. She picked up a bowl of congealed oatmeal which she’d left in a hurry in her bedroom that morning before setting off to her editorial desk at work. She made a face at the cold mess of oatmeal, ate it anyway, then rinsed the bowl and placed it in the dishwasher. She rinsed the stacks of dirty dishes in the sink before placing them in the dishwasher. Adding the dish-washing liquid, she started the dishwasher. The hum of it soothed her and straightened her back a little. Humming tunelessly along with it, she walked around, picking up things, cleaning surfaces, running the vacuum lightly over everything. She went into the bathroom, and scrubbed the sink and wiped the floor with a mop. She picked up bits of hair and put them in the dustbin. She straightened up all her bits and pieces of toiletry. She cleaned the toilet till it sparkled. She scrubbed the tub till it gleamed like a newly whitened tooth.
She straightened her bedroom, and turned on the lights one by one. She lit a delicately scented candle (not overwhelming, just a hint of lemongrass and perhaps, lavender), and turned to the big picture window.
She saluted the world ironically.
Then, she went back to her bathroom, drew a hot bath, and stepped into it, luxuriating in the warmth. At least I can wallow in despair while I wallow in comfort and warmth, she thought emptily.
She toweled herself dry, while listening to the strangled gurgling of the bath-water as it swirled down into the underworld. Musical, though unfocused, thought her critical mind. She rinsed and wiped down the tub, washed her hands, sprayed some rose-water around her in a mist, dried her hair, and put on a robe of pale yellow silk.
The whole time, her mind stayed empty. She tried not to think of anyone, least of all, a certain person whom she had resolutely not thought about the whole day.
Then, after putting on a CD of Charlie Haden and Pat Metheny titled “Beyond the Missouri Sky,” she made her bed with clean and fresh sheets. She piled the contents of the laundry hamper into the washer, added detergent and turned it on. While she waited for the clothes to wash, she made some phone calls, canceling services. She went over her bills carefully, and made online payments on all of them. She checked her bank-account, and transferred all of her money to her mother’s account.
The washer stopped. Good. She took her clothes, put them into the dryer, and set it for one hour.
Then, she rummaged in her work-bag, and checked to make sure that she had a certain letter she had typed earlier in the day in her presentation folder. She had it. She looked it over for errors. Damn! There was one. She took a blue pencil and circled it, and wrote one word over it – Sorry. She placed the letter in an envelope, and sealed it neatly, propping it between the salt and pepper shakers.
She took out a book by her favorite author and started to read. An hour in, she heard the horrendous squawk of the dryer signaling the end of the cycle. She sighed, put the book down and went to get the clothes. She folded the last of them and put them away neatly.
Her mind was completely empty. Somewhere, a butterfly fluttered within her, but she felt quite distant from it.
She went to the bathroom, found some pills that she had set aside, and washed them down with water.
Then, she went and lay down in her bed, covering herself to stay warm. She craved warmth. It was all that remained in her now-diminished list of needs. There was one more.
She hesitated. Came to a decision. Made one last phone call.
A voice answered, somewhat cranky and tired. She said, “Hello? Goodbye. Thank you. Sorry.” Then, she hung up, and laid her head on the pillow. She was comfortable. She had eaten and drunk. She had put away her stuff, and had cancelled her services. She had taken care of any debts. She was done.
She closed her eyes and waited for tears to come. None came. Good, she thought, no regrets.
How much feeling is too much?
A butterfly fluttered into the stars and burst into a million points of light.
Darkness spread its wings and flapped hard, and covered everything, but the points smashed their heads against it, as they struggled to break through, finally streaking out like lines of escape, carrying with it the smothered scream of a butterfly trying to breathe.
And so, her love struggled, frail and brittle, against the huge, crashing wave of doubt and despair, as everything drowned in its wake.
Some of the dust from the disaster floated around her, supernovae of sadness.
“I loved you,” whispered the dust.
The darkness answered, “But not enough.”
Suddenly, the telephone rang. It rang and rang and rang. A little while later, a door opened.
There was a fluttering in the room. The candle still burned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Life, #Love and Death, #Original Short Story, despair and hope, love and life
Jul 31, 2013 Original Short Stories
Following one of my favorite bloggers, Helena Hann-Basquiat, I ended up at a blog I’d never seen before, and was inspired to contribute to Friday Fictioneers time, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
This one involves writing a very short story (100 words) that is based on this picture below. There are many wonderful stories to be found, if you follow the link.
Here it is, exactly one hundred words after the title bits (hyphenated words seem to be counted automatically as one word here):
Help! He’s Covered in Bees!
(As homage to my very favorite Eddie Izzard)
©By Vijaya Sundaram
July 31st, 2013
A man wearing stiletto boots teetered up to where sweet-smelling clover bloomed.
He was the son of Khloris, the Greek goddess of flowers. Briefly, he had flirted with the idea of being a mortal. Now, sickened by a dying earth, he wanted to leave.
He opened his impossibly red-lipped mouth and called up to the Immortals. A buzzing began. On the horizon, a dark cloud appeared.
A madly humming horde of bees converged upon him.
A passerby began to scream in horror, “Help! He’s covered in bees!”
Waving, the stiletto-ed man rose into the air and disappeared into the clouds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: 100-word short story, Bees, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneer, picture-prompt-based story, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields