Sunday, December 04, 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction

Posted Sunday December 4


The air was so cold that every breath was painful. It was as cold as a winter’s night could be. I walked down the twisting lane heeding every step less I slip on the ice beneath my feet. Either side the grass on the banks stood rigid, white, frozen. Barren hedgerows glistened silver in the moonlight, and distant trees wove a border of black lace below a grey winter sky.

I trudged into the village. Six disgruntled ducks stood motionless on the frozen pond unable to reach the water beneath a surface of leaden ice. All was quiet but for the dull sound of my footsteps.  I saw the shadow of a man, head bowed, deep in thought. It was mine.

As I rounded a bend a golden glow lit the street before me. Quietly at first, then more loudly the sound of merriment and laughter filled the air. I had arrived. I pushed open the heavy oak door and at once my spirits rose amid the sounds smells and warmth of the ancient inn.

“Mine's a brandy landlord, and make it a large one!”





My tale was inspired by this week's chilly picture at Sunday Photo Fiction


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The Sunday Whirl

Posted Sunday December 4 2016




I popped out to my car to collect a stack of files. Before I went to bed I had to prepare for another boring anatomy class at uni. The door closed with a loud clunk behind me. Strange I thought. I staggered back dropping a couple of the student’s folders as I went; I really should have made two trips!

I tried to open the door, dropping a load more files in the process , but it wouldn’t budge. I pushed and heaved, but nothing. The deadlock was on. How? I didn’t lock it and my keys were indoors. I could just make out chattering from inside. But I live alone. I walked to the window and peered through a gap in the net curtain. The main light was off. Odd. There were bright shafts of torch light creating weird wandering patterns on the floor. Suddenly the beams shot upward illuminating a dozen ghastly faces, their bulging eyes staring straight at me. They started screeching.

The doctor says I imagined it. I didn’t though. Honestly, I didn't. You believe me, don’t you? He won’t let me leave. I’m not even sure where I am.  There are weird people wandering around. I don’t like it here. Let me go. Please? Please? Let me go.



Written for The Sunday Whirl where the given words are chatter, dead, door, back, heave, screeching, reload, files, anatomy, light, net and patterns.

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Saturday, December 03, 2016

Sunday's Whirligig

Posted Saturday December 3 2016




For goodness sake stop whinging you silly  old fool. You are not going to die (cross fingers behind back)

Ninety-five is nothing these days (double cross fingers behind back) Languidity comes to us all as time goes by (is that actually a word?)

All this nonsense about the autumn of your life, your aching back, your suffering - oh how you are suffering (place back of hand upon brow and speak in a theatrical fashion)

Obviously, the loss of your wife was a bit unfortunate but there’s no point in longing for the past. Life goes on (hopefully) and there are plenty more fish in the ocean (like that old trout down the pub last that hinted she was ready and willing to be netted!)

Come on ‘ole mate, you are exceptional... for your age (whoops, shouldn’t have brought the age thing up again, best change subject)

Right, we going down the Red Lion. It’s your round by the way (I don’t like leaving a session when it’s his round next, you may never get it!)

Come on pal, don’t pretend you are dozing off (give him a nudge) Hey matey, don’t fall asleep on me now (give him a gentle shake ) Albert  fella’ come on. Albert, wake up....Albert....Albert...Albert!  Oh blast.



For this week's Sunday's Whirligig  where the given words are languid, autumn, coming, loss, exceptional, outline, hinted, back, more, die, suffer and longing,


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Friday, December 02, 2016

FFfAW


Posted Friday December 2 2016









It grieves me to put these words to paper but write them I must. No longer can I conceal my deceitful ways. Shed no tears, rather rejoice in the knowledge that you are saved from living in the shadow of my despicable and devious behaviour.

She read no further and tossed the letter aside. A smile, the first for many a long day broke across her face.

Time now to settle her debt with the lascivious creature she had employed to firstly seduce him then threaten to expose his shady deeds. lt was well earned, for their wicked scheme had proved eminently worthy. At last, she could shed the shackles of their tedious marriage and release the flibbertigibbet within her; join the bohemians and dance the boards for the titillation of gentlemen under the bright lights of the city beyond. She was free.



















Inspired by this week's photo from Louise at The Storytellers Abode  for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 









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Sunday, November 27, 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction

Posted Sunday November 27


Transparent Trevor I called him. He couldn't keep a secret from me, no way. All I had to do was look into those pale blue eyes of his and I’d have a pretty good idea what he was thinking; well, most of the time! His eyes were like the windows of his mind and I could see right through them.

Trev was never the same after Jane, the love of his life passed on. He stopped going out the house. I reminded him once that it was still his round at the pub. But he didn’t go to the pub anymore.

Little by little his eyes became hazy; I couldn’t see past them. It was like looking at a cloudy sky and a setting sun. I wonder what he was thinking? And all Trev saw was a cloudy sky and a setting sun. For him, every day the sun set a little earlier. Each day he would wake at sunrise and stare from his window as the world went by. Then the sun would set. The next day the sun would rise then set a little sooner; the next day sooner still. 

Sunset, sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset......sunset




Inspired by this week's photo prompt at Sunday Photo Fiction


Saturday, November 26, 2016

The Sunday Whirl

Posted Saturday November 26



The movie wasn’t that scary. As horror flicks go, it was quite lightweight. Trouble is, my friend Rosey can’t really handle anything more disturbing than Bambi so I guess I only have myself to blame for the mess. There's the sticky popcorn she flung all over my cream carpet when she jumped and the mouthful of red wine she sprayed across my glass coffee table when she screamed. Add to that, the river of brown currently making its way down my white wall. My fault again I suppose for leaving a pot of chocolate mousse on the floor. She was suffering having just seen a giant speaking spider on the screen so I paused the film and told her to sit by an open window and vent for a few seconds. On the way she trod on the corner of the tray propelling the mousse skyward.

She drives me mad, but that’s a small price to pay for having such an amusing and entertaining friend. (I thought I’d better say that in case she reads this and gets cross with me for telling you about it!)



I wrote this for The Sunday Whirl where this week’s given words are film, tray, handle, add, sit, vent, window, mess, pot, law, drive and spray. I used all but one but there’s no ‘law’ against it!





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Sunday's Whirligig

Posted Saturday November 26






I sometimes sit in the churchyard, for despite the silent army of gravestones standing to attention to honour the dead, the place is alive with sounds, smells and movement.

Sunday I watched as the faithful few filed into the ancient building. From the open door, I heard the tuneless singing  of songs of praise and the rattling valves of the wheezing organ. I listened as they mumbled along to the liturgy. I wandered in and the priest passed me swinging the censor, the smell of incense filling the air. Somebody tried to stifle a cough. A head turned toward me illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. We smiled. I wandered back outside.

A kid rushed past me. ‘Ready or not here I come’  A  tousle-haired head bobbed down behind a tomb. I used to hide there.

I cast a furtive glance to my right where a lady knelt beside an overgrown grave. With a tiny pair of scissors, she clipped at the weeds whilst dabbing tears from her cheeks with a lace hankie. I knew her years ago. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to thank her. But I couldn’t so I blew her a kiss as she ambled away.

Yes, I sometimes sit in the churchyard. Not because I seek peace and quiet; I get plenty of that. I just like to know what is going on above the ground. 




For Sunday's Whirligig where the given words are  valves, church, coughs, weirdness, liturgy,  kids, smell, heads, dabbing, swinging and scissors 

I didn't use weirdness but I guess it perfectly sums up what I have just written!


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