Monday, March 27, 2017

.


Post 1488. Monday March 27


Week 9: Write a letter to your significant other or future SO.






Sorry about this, but I won’t be able to make the wedding Saturday. I’ve been offered a ticket to a Lady Gaga concert and they are like gold dust. They are saying she might go topless!

Can you let the guests know? Tell them to hang on to the presents until we decide on a new date.

Could you also tell the travel agent? Those honeymoon tickets cost a fortune and we don’t want to lose the money. Tell them we are just delaying for a while.

Speak to you soon

Love

 




Sunday, March 26, 2017

.


Post 1487. Sunday March 26

Sunday Photo Fiction



'One hundred and sixty steps' he yells That's all.

I hesitate. Look over my shoulder.

'What are you waiting for?' he screams. 'Your life is finished there'.

And I so I leave.

One hundred and fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven…

'A better life awaits you here' he promises. 'You can start anew'.

Is he right?

One hundred and twenty-one, twenty, nineteen …

'Almost half way' he calls. 'Faster. Faster'.

'Come back' cries a voice from the past.

Sixty-one, sixty... sixty...

'Why have you stopped?' cries the voice in the future.

I set off again.

Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven...

'Almost here, a few steps more' he says.

Will the grass be greener, am I being stupid, was it so bad, am I being greedy, will I regret it, shall I, shall I?

Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…

'One step more' he gleefully says.

I hesitate. Look this way and that.

'Why are you weeping?' I ask the past 'Why the menacing laugh?' I ask the future.

What shall I do

I decide.

Two, three, four, five, six, seven…

One hundred and fifty-three steps to go.




Inspired by Jules Paige's picture at  this week's Sunday Photo Fiction










Saturday, March 25, 2017

.



Post 1485. Sunday March 26

The Sunday Whirl
Sunday Scribblings 2

Today is Mothering Sunday. Originally it was a religious festival in which Christians celebrated the Mother Church, but over the years has taken on a new meaning and become Mother’s Day similar to that in America in all but date.



‘It’s a lovely day Mother' said Harold. ‘All those long wintry months are behind us now. Just look at the sunshine lighting up the distant foothills. Can you see?’

‘Do you know what today is? It’s Mothering Sunday and I have something for you’. He placed a box of chocolates on the table beside her chair. ‘They are your favourites Mother, the velvety ones you like so much. And here, a card’ He put it on the mantelpiece alongside a little vase of wild spring flowers he'd picked early that morning.

He fetched a tray from the kitchen. 'I have made you some tea mother. Earl Grey. I steeped it for two and a half minutes just as you taught me’ He placed a silver strainer across a flower adorned china cup, and poured. He added just a little milk and one cube of sugar. Not too sweet. Just the way she liked it.

We are having a venison stew for lunch. I’ve put in some red peppers and a little paprika to give it a smokey touch.

He plucked a linen handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket and dabbed his cheek. 'I miss you, Mother’ he said to the empty chair, clutching a casket to his heart.







Today’s given words at The Sunday Whirl are cask, foothills, velvety, stew, red, sweet, adds, smoke, touch, sunshine, months, long, and cask(et)

At Sunday Scribblings 2 we have just one word, wild.

.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

.


Post 1485. Thursday March 23

Six Sentence Stories




Ernie loves nothing more than to stand in a crowded street pointing skyward, and as everybody stops and gazes up at nothing at all, walk away!

Another of his favourite games is to glue a coin to the pavement and sit on a nearby bench; it’s worth ten pence to sit and watch people’s frustrated attempts at picking it up.

He is a bit naughty sometimes, like when he walks up to someone who is eating sweets from a packet, says ‘look over there’ then quickly pinch one!

Only the other day he went into a public toilet, lifted a loo seat, stretched some cling film over the bowl, lowered it again and walked away.

Yesterday as he walked down a crowded street he saw several people pointing skyward. He stopped and looked up, not noticing that everyone was dashing off, and got bonked on the head by an out-of-control drone!


For Six Sentence Stories where the cue is Point


.


Post 1484.  Thursday March 23

Friday Fictioneers



At the manor, a log fire crackled before a food-laden breakfast table. Maids fetched and carried, servants moved discreetly. Outside, a chauffeur readied a gleaming limousine for his master's trip to the factory. 

His workers tugged their forelocks as he walked twixt clanking machines, a handkerchief pressed to his face.

Times were good.

*

At the decrepit tied cottage, a chill wind whistled through broken windows. Five scruffy urchins played on the filthy floor. Their mother, large with child, struggled to feed them. Hopefully, her husband would earn a shilling today to buy food tomorrow.

Recently a child died and was buried in a pauper’s grave. They couldn't pay a doctor.

Soon their eldest would be six and sweeping chimneys at the manor.

Times were dark.


Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to J Hardy Carroll for the picture.











.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

.

Post 1483. Tuesday March 21

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers





A know a guy called Stuart. He calls himself Styler because his hero is Steven Tyler, but whereas the Aerosmith play stadiums, he shrieks and strums in the street. He’s tried to get the look right; hairy, baggy shirts, mile long scarves and skinny jeans.

I was walking down a scruffy backstreet. It was blustery. Rubbish bowled along the pavement. Stuart – sorry, Styler came walking towards me leaning into the wind, hand on head. “Hi Sty”.  I went to shake his hand. He took his hand from his head, and suddenly his hair took off and flew down the street!  I turned to see where it was heading (pardon the pun!) and it saw darting back towards us with four tiny legs poking out of it! Just behind, an old fellow was tottering along. “Tinkerbelle, heel girl”

I don’t know what was funnier.; Styler’s expression, his never-before-seen shiny bald head, the hapless dog owner, or the animated wig. Styler suddenly took off in pursuit of his crowning glory. I haven’t seen him since. I wonder if he got it back!




Inspired by Sunayana MoiPensieve's picture at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. 


Monday, March 20, 2017

.

Post 1483. Monday March 20


This week are writing to someone we hurt.



To whom it may concern

I’ve lived with the guilt for forty years. I still wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat, thinking about it.

I was the person that ran into you on my bicycle in the park at two forty-seven on the afternoon of August the sixth 1977. I sent you flying backwards into the middle of a family’s picnic splattering them with sticky trifle and cream cakes. I veered into a rose bush and went head-first into the pond splashing a torrent of dirty water all over you and the picnickers. I startled a swan which leapt out of the pond flapping its wings knocking you senseless. The children started screaming, the father cursed and the mother burst into tears. I dragged my bike out of the water and rode off as fast as I could.

Sorry!


Ahhhh, I feel better now!


.