The Life Of A Battery

It's Friday Fictioneer time. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the cute photo prompt. Here's my 100-word flash fiction. Try it!

THE LIFE OF A BATTERY
By Beth Carter

AAA watched wide-eyed as Mom opened the batteries and dumped them into a big jar. For once, we won’t have a disastrous Christmas without batteries.

“Ouch” AAA whispered as she clanked against 9Volt.

Mom turned out the lights as the batteries elbowed for room.

“Stop snoring," said D.

“Quit shoving me," said C.

“Why’d you wake me? How’s a curvy girl supposed to get any sleep,” said D.

“You’re just jealous of my slim figure,” said AA.

“Ditto,” added AAA with a smirk.

“This is gonna be a long night. Where’s my Prozac?” added D.

“Shhh. How’s a battery supposed to get any sleep?” asked 9Volt.

Nearing THE END

I'm curious. When you near the end of a novel, do you rush to finish or slow down to savor every word? I'm the slow-down type. I almost feel like I'm losing a good friend and can't bear for the book to end. I reread passages, put the book aside for a few days, and even go back to refresh my memory of certain scenes. The only exception to this is when I'm reading a suspense or thriller. The fast-paced action and wanting to know if they catch the bad guy (they always do) makes me speed up.

However, when I'm writing a novel, it's the opposite. I can't WAIT to type "The End."

How about you? Do you rush to finish a novel or slow down?

For A Cold Day

Okay, I'm really late for Friday Fictioneers (so here's my Weekend Writer) offering. As always, we're challenged to write a 100-word story (or haiku) based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for this week's beautiful photo. Since I'm so late, I wrote a haiku and a flash fiction piece. Enjoy and please leave links to your stories in the comment section.

SOUP DAY

By Beth Carter

Think I’ll stay inside.

Pinging, lacy crystals form.

Soup sounds best to me.

THAT ISN’T SANTA
By Beth Carter

Six-year-old Dennis pressed his nose against the cold window. Ice pinged against the glass and lacy water froze on the pane. He stared into the dark sky and squinted, rubbing at the crystals to no avail.

“It’s time for bed, honey. Hurry or you’ll miss Santa.”

“But, Mom…”

Emma rubbed Dennis’ new buzz cut, then warmed her hands inside her red, fluffy robe.

“You know Santa won’t come until you’re in bed.”

“But.”

Emma pointed. “Look. I see him. He’s almost here.”

Dennis glanced back out the window and frowned at his mother.

“Since when does Santa drive a car?”