Warmup Wednesday!

Directions: Write a scene or an entire story of 100 words on the nose (no more, no fewer), inspired by this photograph. No judging. All fun. (Normal Flash! Friday guidelines regarding content apply.)
Don’t forget to add your Twitter handle & link to your blog, pretty please.

And a few words on how your week’s going, please! Also, what is your favorite month of the year?

 This week’s Warmup Wednesday challenge: include someone who wishes to speak but can’t.

Scarecrow. CC2.0 photo by Steve Snodgrass.

“Scarecrow.” CC2.0 photo by Koichi Hunter.


6 thoughts on “Warmup Wednesday!

  1. Lineage

    You have made me, shaped my very being.
    Have I been created in your image?
    Do I look like you?
    Are you my mother?
    My father?

    If I could feel, I would feel like, like I should be able to move my pieces.
    For as long as I have been here,
    and you can appreciate that I am uncertain how long that has been,
    any movement I have made
    has been as subtle as the wind.

    I stir when the faint breath of wind ruffles me.

    Amidst the sheaves, my head sightless, toque-shrouded,
    my empty heart wheezes amongst the fallow.

    100 bits of stuffing knocked out of me

    May seems to hold the most hope for me. As for my week, our Federal election has ended and Ottawa is now Camelot…of a sort.

  2. Name: @dazmb
    Current status: Debating whether to chuck it all in and become a flamenco dancer.
    Favourite month of the year: January, but only if it’s silently folded into itself under a blanket of pure white, virgin snow.
    Words: One hundred arid, husks of straw.

    Title: Listen to your scarecrow

    This field has been tilled for years, until it’s almost barren.

    But spring optimism and commitment to his craft rouse the farmer from his bed.

    Last year’s stubble is mixed with hopeful earth. The taste of it hangs in the air.

    And, as thoughts take hold, a familiar, sprouting tickle at my feet.

    ‘Look up’ I shout. He does not.

    ‘Come see me in darkness’ I yell. He will not.

    At the field’s edge, the mocking laugh and eye of a ravening crow.

    The farmer’s rough hands are empty.

    But the night sky is full of the words he’s sown.

  3. @drmagoo

    Sold into slavery at three, and raped at five, Maria hadn’t grown up a prostitute because prostitutes get paid. Her legs had been mangled so she couldn’t run, and her eyes had been pierced so she could never identify those who had tortured her. And when she was alone, she would touch the scars in her mouth where her tongue had been. Taken so she could never talk, it was just another hole to these demons made flesh. But she remembered the sun, and song, and the wind in her hair. Someone would surely speak for her. They had to.

  4. Goodbye, Springtime
    100 words

    The itch rasps steel wool under her skin.

    Scritch, scratch, scritch…

    Aliya crouches in hay bales where they won’t find her. (Please find me!) Dried alfalfa confounds the bloodhounds. Their bays loop through gap-toothed timber.

    Scritch, scratch…

    “Try the house!” a man’s voice barks.

    She opens her mouth. (I’m here!) Dry grass disgorges from her throat. Smears the color of autumn leaves crumble across her floral dress. Nothing stays spring-innocent forever.


    Straw stuffs out childish squishy-ness. Straw bodies aren’t damaged by broken glass–but Aliya won’t have to worry about hurled bottles anymore. Straw hands took care of that.


    Moving in a week and a half! We maneuver our last few days around packed boxes. The bean is certain moving means we’ll be leaving some of her “buddies” behind and has responded with bed-wetting. I’m going poor coin-oping the bedding.

  5. A Letter of Condolences

    Sarika nodded at the priest’s words of comfort. She glanced outside to where a scarecrow her son had made stood in the vegetable garden. She nodded again, staring at the scarecrow while her hands continued crocheting mechanically.
    Take the letter back with you, she wanted to say. Tell God to give Henry back to me.
    But there were no words, so she nodded again. Her hands ached, but she needed to stay busy. Her hands faltered. She needed something to take her mind off of everything. Perhaps a new pattern, she thought. In the green Henry always liked so much.

    Words: 100

    This week I’m still working on my NaNoWriMo prep as well as a few blog posts. And I’m busy crocheting some gifts 🙂 (As usual my story turned out to be sad, though…)
    My favourite month is probably August – when the weather becomes a bit warmer and the world starts to wake up after winter.


    Can’t believe she’s gotten away with it.

    Me stuck here… middle of an alfalfa field… she’s running scot free.

    All Dorothy’s fault. She weren’t the sweet, innocent girl Aunty Emm thought. Conniving little ruffian.

    Sure, the tornado was true. But that story about the house blowing away … a magical land… Who would believe such a tale?

    Just because I had bright red hair … my head hadn’t yet grown into my ears… t’was no reason for Dorothy to harass me like she did. Little witch.

    Now, I’m not name callin’. T’was a witch in the story. It was Dorothy.

    100 words. https://rogershipp.wordpress.com/2015/10/21/oz-the-scarecrows-story/

    Favorite month? July- love the fireworks, the picnics, the friends

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