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Post 1616. Sunday October 15

Sunday Photo Fiction

Between 1788 and 1868, approximately 162,000 convicts were transported from England to Australia by the British government. Many were deported for petty crimes; others were political prisoners. Most stayed in Australia with some rising to prominent positions in Australian society. Approximately twenty percent of modern Australians are descended from transported convicts.

It is the fifteenth day of October, in the year of our Lord eighteen seventeen. I am shackled below deck, just one of two hundred and eighty other pitiful souls. Through a gap in a hatch, I gaze at billowing sails as the wind of change transports me to a new life.  I see black clouds change to white; they no longer threaten me. My wretched existence thus far lays dead in the water. I am hungry for a future where the sins and wicked deeds of my past are left behind. A convict, yes, but a spirit freed.

Regrets? Yes. But I will never forget, for my memories will serve as a constant reminder of what is important to me in the years to come. 

A new day, a new life, a new me.

As you may have observed I have wound back the clock on this week's photo prompt at Sunday Photo Fiction!

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Post 1615. Thursday October 12

Six Sentence Stories.

She lives alone in a little wooden shack nestled deep in the middle of the forest, isolated from the frenzied existence of townsfolk and at one with nature and the creatures of the undergrowth.

In this place, everything she needs and all she desires surrounds her, and she covets the silence; no need to speak for there's no one to hear.

One misty moist morn she stands in her doorway, entranced by droplets of dew sparkling on slender blades of grass and dancing upon quivering cobwebs.  

Her eyes are drawn to a hazy apparition rippling midst the aged oaks; a spirit perhaps for spirits are said to dwell among these trees.

Mesmerised, she drifts outside, barefoot, head held high, arms outstretched then glances over her shoulder before fading away into the hoary miasma.

The end, a new beginning, who knows?

This week's cue at Six Sentence Stories is Spirit

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Post 1614.

Friday Fictioneers

Whenever someone visited Joan’s home, her mynah bird yelled  'Hello gorgeous - fancy a good time?' She mentioned the problem to her priest who also had a mynah bird, only his just said prayers. A meeting was suggested; maybe his bird would have a positive influence over hers.

Joan took her bird to the priest's house where the holy mynah was deep in prayer. True to form hers shrieked  'Hello gorgeous - fancy a good time?' The priest’s mynah chuckled so he walked over to the cage and said 'What’s so amusing?' His mynah looked to the heavens and said 'My prayers have just been answered'!

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and to Douglas M Macilroy for the picture.

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Post 1613. Tuesday October 10

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 136

As a child, he would sit on the towpath and wave to passing barges loaded with heaps of coal and piles of timber, dragged along by enormous plodding horses. He was fascinated by the brightly painted flowerpots and kettles scattered along their roofs, and sagging lines of washing fluttering in the breeze. How he envied the urchin children that ran around the decks without a care in the world.

He longed to become a bargee when he grew up, a grimy-faced captain with rolled up sleeves proudly guiding his boat and family along meandering narrow canals. But it wasn't to be.

Barges no longer silently ply their trade along the waterways of rural England. Now they travel the rivers, horses replaced by throbbing diesel engines belching clouds of smoke.

He still sits on the towpath, but now just holidaymakers float past oblivious to the fact that generations lived and toiled where they now enjoy their wine and fine food. He no longer waves.

Word count 163

Thank you Priceless Joy for hosting, and Barb CT for the picture.

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Post 1612. Sunday October 8

Sunday Photo Fiction

Boring boring boring. I mean, spending all day every day with a load of beige Egyptian relics doesn’t sound like much fun does it?

Fred only had one work colleague. Florence. And she wasn’t even a person, she was a feather duster. They walked around together every morning before opening and titivated the exhibits. He liked to tickle the pharaohs nose then go aaa-choo! He would flutter Florence's feathers over a busty beauty's boobies then stick his tongue out at its stony-faced expression. Sometimes he would turn a storyboard upside down to see if anyone would notice. They usually didn’t. The few people that did wander around looked as bored as he was.

There had to be something else he could do, something more fun. He asked Florence what she thought, but she wasn’t much help, but he did promise to take her with him if he left.

I’m pleased to report Fred has now moved on. He’s a different person and has never been happier. He is now... drumroll... a caretaker at the local mortuary and he’s taken Florence with him! Well, he needs someone to talk to, and they love tickling the corpses noses

Word count 194

This weeks photo prompt is provided by Kathryn Forbes

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Post 1612. Saturday October 7

Six Word Saturday @ Travel With Intent

Click on pics to enlarge and improve!

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Post 1612. Thursday October 5

Six Sentence Stories

‘It gone mistaire, it gone’ he shouted so I asked him what had gone and he said ‘Carrot... fluid.’

I asked if he’d lost his carrot juice and he said ‘No mistaire. Cadge it open, carrot fluid away’.

My befuddled expression told him he was failing to communicate so he had a go at role play by flapping his arms and squawking ‘bastante polly, bastante polly!’

My limited knowledge of Italian told me that bastante meant pretty, and polly meant..well, polly - pretty polly, so his carrot was a parrot, the cadge was a cage and the bird fluid… I mean flew away!

He suddenly pointed skyward so I diverted my gaze in the direction of his digit to see a parrot rapidly descending but unfortunately, it chose that moment to excrete some poop which splattered on my cheek.

‘Bastante Polly’ it shrieked; bastante wasn’t the B word I was thinking!

The cue at this week's Six Sentence Stories is Fluid

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