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 Post 1569. Wednesday 19 July

Friday Fictioneers

I should have done something, but I didn’t. I put myself first and I’ll live with my decision for ever more.

I told myself I’d imagined it. Imagined a muffled noise coming from the boot, imagined the car shudder. There were several people in the car park, but two men stood out. They turned and stared in my direction. I shivered. They started moving towards me. That’s when I decided to walk away, do nothing.

I avoided newspapers, radio, and television for several days. I didn’t want to know if someone was missing; someone I could have saved. I’ll always wonder, never know.

* by the way, UK boot = US trunk!

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Kent Bonham for the photo.

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Post 1568. Tuesday July 18

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

As I climbed the grassy slope a songbird whistled me a merry tune and a rabbit stopped and twitched his nose. The sun played hide and seek with fluffy white clouds.

A brightly coloured butterfly fluttered around me, and as I walked it followed. I sat to rest a while and it settled along side me. When I continued on my way it kept me company. I stopped and held out my hand; it sat on my little finger. It was as if it knew me; knew me in days gone by maybe. Not as a butterfly but as a friend long departed. Now a friend returned.

It became darker and suddenly my friend was gone. I felt rain drops on my face as though someone above was shedding tears.

They say the sun will shine again tomorrow. I will return to the grassy slope. I hope my friend will too.

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers where this week's photo is kindly supplied by J S Brand

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Post 1567. Sunday July 16

Sunday Photo Fiction and Sunday's Whirligig

I liked it. It was perfect.

‘The Monk’s House, what a lovely name’

‘More like a monkey house’ my wife muttered pointing at the bamboo poles holding it up.

Look, three wooden kisses on the front’ I said. ‘That’s a sign’ 

‘Hmph,’ she went.

We clambered our way to the back garden. ‘A pond’ I gleefully chuckled. 

‘It's got slimy green skin on it’ she said.

‘It just needs stirring’ I suggested. ‘Why that face?’

‘Even the tree’s leafless’ she complained.

‘It’s winter’ I said.

‘It’s spring’ she yelled.

‘Listen, a blackbird’ I enthused.

‘That’s a car alarm down the street’ she mumbled.

We went inside. Okay, it was a mess, but nothing hanging a couple of my paintings and buying a few bits from Ikea couldn't sort out.

‘You can't put a cup and saucer together, let alone sofas and bookshelves’ she laughed. ‘As for your stupid paintings…’

‘The bath’s filthy’ she said.

 ‘Well, clean it’ said I. I bit my tongue; if looks could kill.

‘The fireplace is dirty’ she moaned.

‘Well, erm… I’ll clean it’ I said.

I live in the Monk’s House now. An aptly named place for a single man.

The photo at Sunday Photo Fiction comes to us courtesy of Mike Vore.

The given words at Sunday's Whirligig are bath, bamboo, hanging, dirty, wife, stirring, paintings, leafless, skin, blackbird, monk and fire.

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Post 1566. Thursday July 13

Six Sentence Stories

He gently strokes the score, and as his fingers caress the notes, the melody plays in his mind.

Once, these fingers danced upon ivory keys; now they can but barely grip a spoon.

Closing his weary eyes he sees a rapturous audience, hears enthusiastic applause.

Now, ninety years old, those joyous days are nothing more than a distant memory.

He places the score on the piano and returns to his chair.

A tear rolls down his cheek as his grandson plays the piece he’d made his own all those years ago.

For Six Sentence Stories where the cue word is Score

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Post 1565. Wednesday July 12

Friday Fictioneers

A walking stick, an empty bird cage, an unwashed tea cup. She used to sit here, beside the window. Look, some photographs on the sill. Pictures of children. A little girl holding a certificate, another dancing. A boy in a wheelchair. On the floor, a letter. It’s from the village school; just a few sentences. Get well soon Mrs Hodges, it says, and below, lots of names; big, small, wobbly, neat, the way kid's signatures are. And kisses. Lots of kisses.

I hope we’ll meet again one day Mrs Hodges. You know; up there. So I can say thank you. One day.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and Janet Webb for the picture.

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Post 1564. Sunday July 9

Sunday Photo Fiction

Dick the Vic came into my pub the other night, or the Reverend Richard Dixon to give him his correct name. He had his son with him – the Reverend Dick’s son! His name is Ian and it was his eighteenth birthday. It was time for his dad to treat him to his first ‘legal’ pint.

‘A pint of frothing ale landlord, please’ Dick said as he handed me a tankard. It was his present to Ian. I filled it and handed it back.

‘One Corinthians thirteen eleven’ he bellowed in his finest pulpit voice as he held it aloft. Every head in the bar turned in his direction. First, you must read this son’ he shouted, pointing to an inscription on the vessel.

Ian cleared his throat.

‘When I was….’

‘Louder son'

Ian took a deep breath and started again.

’When I was a child, I spoke as a child, understood as a child, and thought as a child. When I became a man I put away childish things and…drank beer’!

Everyone in the pub raised their glass and shouted ‘Amen’

For Sunday Photo Fiction where the pub in the photo is an establishment I am familiar with!

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Post 1562. Wednesday July 5

Friday Fictioneers

What's happening to me. Words once flowed from my mind in an endless stream. Now they don't. I just sit here fiddling with pens, screwing up paper and bending paper clips. We used to go a club on Mondays and sit in a circle reading stories we'd written. Or was that Tuesdays? We did, didn't we? Yes, I remember standing in the centre and reciting a poem. That was me, wasn't it? Or was it you?

It's Thursday tomorrow I think. I hope so because we do something special on Mondays. We go to a club. Don't we? Or is that Fridays? 

Sorry, do I know you?

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Claire Sheldon for the photo.

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