Thursday, October 19, 2017

.

Post 1620. Thursday October 19






Reginald Fletcher, Retch to the locals, always took part in the annual Yard of Ale contest at the Runt in Tun public-house,  every time coming last; the contest just wouldn't be the same if he came anywhere else!

He’s passed on to the great pub in the sky now but they still talk about the last time he took part.

Picture the scene; Retch hoisted the lengthy vessel to his mouth and with a slow gulp gulp gulp began to drink it’s frothing contents.

Sixty-eight seconds later he finished, and he let out a massive ‘huff’ the force of which sent his false teeth barreling down the glass tube, becoming jammed partway down.

Despite the best efforts of his friends, Retch’s gnashers refused to budge and they remain there to this day.

This evening before this year's contest takes place, they will be raising their glasses to the yard of ale horn complete with Retch’s teeth on the shelf above the bar.


This week's cue at Six Sentence Stories is Yard.


.

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

.

Post1618. Wednesday October 18

It's raining, thank you for sheltering me. I climbed you as a kid, remember? I fell once and broke my arm! I always tell you my secrets, they’re are safe with you. My first love and I carved our initials in your bark; look, they’re still there.

In summer, you shade me. In autumn, you roll out a golden carpet and in winter you stand naked and proud, you old show off! Then it’s spring again and you turn bright green.

You were there for those before me; you’ll be there for those who follow. But today it’s me you shelter.





Thanks to Rochelle for hosting, and to Sandra Crook for the photo.




 

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

.

Post 1617. Tuesday October 17




I should have seen the writing on the wall. He’s no good they said. Look what he did to her they said. That was their own fault said I. He loves me. How wrong I was.

You’re safe now they said. A safe house, he can’t trouble you now. But they lied. They bloody lied because he’s here. I can see him through the crack in the closet doors. He's over there, see? There, wandering to and fro, fro and to, a crowbar clenched in his white-knuckled fist.  He’s going from one room to another, up the stairs and down again. Room to room, room to room, this way and that, that way and...this.  My heart is beating, he’s getting closer, my heart is throbbing, he's snarling, I’m dizzy, he’s reaching for the door, I’m..I’m..I’m….

It’s a safe house they said. You're safe now they lied.

121 words.


This week's photo is by Gant-Sud.



Sunday, October 15, 2017

.

Post 1616. Sunday October 15


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!

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

.

Post 1615. Thursday October 12



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

.

.

Post 1614.

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.


Tuesday, October 10, 2017

.

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.