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Post 1556. Sunday June 24

Sunday Photo Fiction

Before starting I feel I must thank all of those that read my recent 100-word story 'An Empty Bottle'. In eleven years of writing on this blog, never before has one of my little tales received so many visits! Thank you also for the dozens of encouraging comments you left in its wake.

A child picked up a little acorn and planted it on a grassy bank. Soon after a sturdy sapling reached for the sun, soaked up rain and steadfastly resisted the wind. In time became a mighty oak. Over the years it looked on as successive generations came and went.

Children climbed branches that played host to birds which wove intricate nests amid the twigs and leaves. Hearts were carved into its bark by couples declaring their undying love. Squirrels scampered up and down carrying cargos of nuts whilst brightly painted woodpeckers rat-a-tatted hollows in the mighty oak’s massive trunk.

From the coldest winters to the hottest summers, it took everything in its stride never failing to produce a canopy of green with every new spring and a palette of extraordinary colours in autumn.

But recently it’s received a threat, for the field which has been its home for a hundred years is to become home to a hundred new dwellings.

A child picks up a little acorn from beneath the fated tree and plants it on another grassy bank. Over the next hundred years, it will grow into a mighty oak that his children and his children’s children will climb, lovers will carve and creatures make their home.

For Sunday Photo Fiction where the picture prompt is provided by Eric Wicklund

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Post 1555. Sunday |June25

The Sunday Whirl.

Before starting I must thank all of those that read my recent 100-word story 'An Empty Bottle'. Never before has one of my little tales received so many hits! Thank you also for the many encouraging comments that were left.

The night was over in the single blink of an eye. I may have snatched some sleep, I don’t know. I’m so excited. I crawl from my tiny tent, its tattered fabric fluttering in the wind. Will it remain rooted here? I’m not bothered, I’m not here to rest.

Just look around. There are thousand here. Laughter fills the air. A few wander aimlessly about, some sit hunched holding their heads, no doubt vowing never to get drunk again, but they will, and not just drunk!

It’s starting to rain. Now it’s lashing down and the dust under my feet is turning to mud. Listen, a huge cheer is going up. After all, who wants a festival without mud?

The crowd is moving. Come on. The queue is curving right around the camp site and then into the arena. Nearly there.

The sound of guitars being tuned, drums being bashed and mikes being checked is resonating across the field. One two testing, one two!

It’s almost time. Are you ready?

Suddenly the sheer volume is driving all other thoughts from my mind. I’m swaying, I’m swinging, I’m spinning, I’m singing. I look stupid, but I don’t care. Nobody does!

Festival….enjoy!

It's Glastonbury Festival weekend and at The Sunday Whirl, the given words are - snatch, single, tattered, dust, spun, lash, drunk, rooted, sheer, curve, blink, and sly. I used all but one.

I saw Sly and the Family Stone at a festival once. There you are, the twelfth word used!


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Post 1554. Thursday June 22

Six Sentence Stories

Maureen threw a coin into the well and made a wish, for earlier that day she learned she was to bear a child, and she desperately wanted it to be a girl.

She was told to expect a son but she didn’t believe them so when a baby boy arrived she was distraught and soon after her marriage fell apart.

*

Jackie threw a coin into the well and made a wish; she wished she was a  boy.

At school, she was different from other girls; she had no friends and led a lonely existence, so much so that one day she could take no more tragically took her own life.

*

The nurse drew back the white sheet and Maureen stroked Jackie’s ice cold cheek.

“I’m so sorry son,” she whispered.

For Six Sentence Stories where the cue word is Well.

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Post 1553. Wednesday June 21

Friday Fictioneers

She was first in line at the docks, first on board and first to reach the bar.

Champagne, please. A large glass Miss? No, a bottle.

As the ferry headed out to sea she stood on the stern deck, glass in one hand, bottle in the other watching the wake tumble away. Sombre thoughts, painful memories, her reasons for living were roused by the buffeting wind. 

Please join your vehicles, a voice said.  One by one, the cars left the ferry. On the stern deck lay an empty bottle, a shattered glass and a set of keys. Down below, just one car remained.

For Friday Fictioneers which is hosted by Rochelle. Thanks to Ted Strutz for the picture.

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Post 1552. Sunday June 18

Sunday Photo Fiction

I don’t miss much. Eagle-eyed, me. I should become a spy. I’d sit outside a café reading a newspaper with two holes cut in it to peep through. I could watch people’s reflections in shop windows. I could climb on roofs to get a good view; but then again, I don’t like heights.

What fun it would be to wear a false beard and moustache or pop a wig on my head! And I could have one of those big magnifying glasses!

I’d listen in to people’s calls and intercept their mail. I’d phone suspects with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, and put on foreign accents. I’d have a little camera in my collar and a tape recorder in my hat!

I’d hide in wardrobes and under beds to see what mischief people are getting up to!

I could pretend to be a chauffeur and listen to secret conversations, or a cleaner so I could search through filing cabinets. I’d take photos of secret documents and take down numbers and addresses. 

I might even dress as a woman! Perhaps not!

Yes, I’d love to be a spy.

My little bit of silliness was suggested to me by this week's picture at Sunday Photo Fiction.

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Post 1551. Sunday June 18

The Sunday Whirl.

I have used the twelve words in the order they were given in the preview. 

They are -  whistle, touch, wheel, word, gnaws, ring, prints, apart, broken, echo, thread, and fall.

Something whistles an eerie tune.

I can’t see it, can’t touch it but I feel it. It speaks. It yells. It’s telling me not to go. But I have to go. Now.

The wheels spin on the gravel and I career down a track. It's words gnaw away at my brain. Faster, I must go faster.

My phone rings, I ignore it. I splash through a stream, engine screaming, and climb a muddy bank.

My tyres leave a print. Will it follow my tracks? Soon we will be miles apart. We will, won't we?

Soon I’ll begin to repair my broken spirit, soon.

Still, its words echo round my mind. I try not to listen. I don’t listen, but still, they are there.

 Suddenly nothing make sense. Help me thread together my thoughts.

Oh no, please no. It’s steering me, controlling me. Up and up we go. Is that a drop I see before me, a precipice?

Everything is getting slower, slower, I’m going to stop. But I don’t stop. Instead, I fall and I fall and I fall in slow motion.

Is this a dream?

Please tell me it's a dream.

Please.

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Post 1550. Saturday June 17

Sunday's Whirligig

I saw an angel yesterday – don’t laugh, I did!  Where? On top of the church tower of course. She sat with her legs dangling down. Why are you grinning? I didn’t imagine her.

I was out running....now what?  I need to run now and again because it’s good for my knees and if you don’t take me seriously I’ll bend you over one and give you a good spanking! That’s better, thank you.

As I was saying before you rudely interrupted….what was I saying? Oh yes this girl, no, this angel was smiling at me and….what do you mean ‘how do you know she was an angel?’ Because she had a label on her back saying made in heaven - duh. Of course she was a bloody angel.

So I waved to her....what? Yes, I had been to the pub.....oh I give up.

My Whirligiggle uses all but one of this week's words -  running, again, knee, girl, bends, way, legs, angel, where, smiling, thank and father.

I can use the remaining one to remind my kids that it's 'Fathers' Day today!

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