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Post 16. Tuesday January 1616

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

When he was a child he had a plan; a plan to take him to where he wanted to be. But his goal was like buried treasure at the end of a rainbow. With every step forward it moved one step away.

He asked his grandfather for advice. “Lad,” he said, "to reach life’s goals you must run when you can”. But he ran too fast stumbling along the way leaving a trail of failures in his tracks. “Walk if you have to” he’d said. But he walked with head bowed passing so many of the opportunities that life offered him. “Crawl if you must,” his grandfather said. He crawled, he pleaded, he begged, but beseeching gained no favours.

When his grandfather passed away, black clouds of despair covered the blue sky of hope. The last words he’d uttered echoed in his mind. “Never give up lad” he’d said. With that, a rainbow appeared. He gazed heavenward. “I won’t let you down Grandad” he yelled.

This week's picture is provided by @any1mark66

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Post 1615. Sunday January 14

Sunday Photo Fiction

I froze. My blood ran cold. I would never see Mummy and Daddy again. I should have said sorry for breaking the head off my sister's doll and blaming it on her friend. I should have owned up to hiding my other brothers favourite toy soldier. I’d miss my rabbit. I’d miss seeing Bill and Ben on the television tonight and pizza for supper tomorrow. My teddy would miss me. Who would look after him?

I had this book about a jungle. There were pictures of scary animals and one was a huge leopard. I always rushed past it, it really frightened me. And there I was facing one in my own back garden. Daddy said they only lived in zoos here. Why did he tell me a fib? Why was I looking into the eyes of one now? Every night before bed, I had to say my prayers. Something about keeping me safe. So, surely Mr God would shoo the leopard away. But he didn’t. It came closer and closer.

Just then Daddy came out into the garden. “What are you doing here you big fat pussycat?” he laughed. “Mrs Thomas was wondering where you had gone to!”

Word count 199

This week's photo prompt.

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Post 1614. Thursday January 11

Six Sentence Stories

As the faithful few conclude their random rendition of All Things Bright and Beautiful, Miss Pargiter mops her brow after enduring another battle with the wheezing church organ.

Standing in his pulpit, the Reverend Caruthers silently surveys the congregation which braces itself in nervous anticipation. "Beware the temptations of the flesh" he suddenly hisses, then as the veins in his forehead bulge, he explodes, spitting like a venomous snake. “Fornication, drunkenness; let not Satan determine your destiny for the wages of sin are certain death”

Farmer Fred visibly shrinks whilst three rows back, Postmistress Poppy's cheeks glow crimson.

After ten minutes of pointing, thumping, and ranting, the sermon is over and Miss Pargiter valiantly attempts to accompany the final rousing hymn, Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin.

The cue word at this week's Six Sentence Stories is Wage.

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Post 1613. Wednesday January 10

Friday Fictioneers

He suspends a silky thread from a corner of an open window. Crouching unseen, he patiently waits for a breath of breeze to carry it to the other side. It moves, and waves then floats up and across. Perfect.

Slowly, painstaking, he starts to weave his web. Round and round, up and down, in and out. Once done, he admires his work then awaits his unsuspecting prey. Minutes pass, more minutes still. Then from nowhere an unsuspecting insect flies into the web's sticky centre. Panic-stricken, it struggles to break free. Thrashing, spinning. But to no avail.

Dinner is served!

Word count 99

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting, and Victor and Sarah Potter for the photo.

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Post 1602. Sunday January 7

Sunday Photo Fiction

The Chief Inspector cleared his throat as he tapped his glass with a pen. “Here’s to a happy and well-earned retirement Bill” he shouted.

“Inspector Wise” his colleagues yelled banging together their tankards, showering themselves with beer.

“Good riddance!” yelled a jokester to rapturous applause.

William Wise built a career admired by those who worked with and above him. Hardly a case he took on was left unsolved; except of course the last one, his biggest yet which was to remain a mystery.

Later that night, he booked into a bed and breakfast in Dover. He sat with his new passport in one hand, a large malt whisky in the other and a satisfied smile on his face. “Welcome to the world Sam Smart” he muttered. Tomorrow he would head for the docks, the ferry and a new life.

Word count 123

The picture at this week's Sunday Photo Fiction features Castle Street in Dover.

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Post 1601. Thursday January 4

Six Sentence Stories

I came across this piece when I was reading back through my blog this morning. I wrote it eleven years ago. My, how time flies!

Exactly one year ago I set up this blog which was odd because to me folk who used computers as a hobby rather than for work were anoraks, nerds!

It started when I decided not to send holiday postcards but instead, keep a diary and once home, type them out, add some snaps and distribute them.

They went down well, and someone suggested I publish them on one of those bloggy things, then one thing led to another and before long I found myself making stories up.

Now like bloggers the world over, I think in prose and every situation in which I find myself becomes an essay in my mind, carrying me away into a world of words, sentences and paragraphs; I’ve become a nerd!

My first tales were pretty poor and all my efforts during the first couple of months have long since been deleted, but one year on, I am still tapping away on my keyboard at every opportunity and my sleeping hours get shorter and shorter.

So what will the next year bring, will I still be blogging in January 2007; who knows?

This week's cue at Six Sentence Stories is Start

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Post 1660. Wednesday January 3

Friday Fictioneers

As this is my first post of 2018 I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you all ...

Bonne Année! Gleðilegt nýtt ár! Heri ya mManigong Bagong Taon! Waka mpya! Buon anno! Gelukkig Nieuwjaar! Xin Nian Kuai Le! けましておめでとう, 0 San Nin! Fai Lok! ¡Feliz Año Nuevo! Mutlu yıllar! Sťastný nový rok! Godt nytår! Hyvää uutta vuotta! Godt nytt år! Szczesliwego Nowego Roku! Feliz Ano Novo! S novym godom!

...or in other words... A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Oh hello! She’s got me hanging out the washing again. She’s obsessed with cleaning you know. Yesterday she washed the washing machine because it’d had dirty clothes in it. Last week she complained this garden looked dirty. It’s made of dirt I said!

She even accuses me of being dirty. Me...dirty! “Wash your hands, take off those mucky clothes, get your muddy shoes off the upholstery, when did you last change your underwear? You’ve got a dirty laugh and a filthy mind”

If I outlive her, I’m insisting one song be played at her funeral. Mud, mud, glorious mud! All together now…..

 Thanks Rochelle for hosting and Roger Bultot for the photo.

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Post 1659. Thursday December 28

Six Sentence Stories

She sat in silent stillness reading her book, bathed in light from a lamp at her side. It was quiet, so so quiet and with every turn of the page, the story of suspense and terror gripped her more and more.

She shuddered and tugged her comfort blanket tight around herself and tighter still, so absorbed was she that she didn’t hear the door click open, and was completely unaware of someone watching her from the gloom of the hallway.

He began to creep closer to her, closer and closer, then without a sound reached across and flicked the switch plunging the room into sudden total darkness. She gasped as her book fell to the floor.

He touched her arm; she could feel the warmth of his breath on her ear, then he yelled…

...BOO!

This week's cue word is 'suspend'. I have taken the liberty of altering it slightly to 'suspense'. Am I forgiven?

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Post 1658. Wednesday December 27

Friday Fictioneers

He slid his last remaining chips across the baize to square nineteen, just as he did every Friday. He watched the roulette wheel spin in one direction as the ball rolled in the other.

Such was his life, always going against the flow in the hope that one day, just one day a twist of fate would land him where he yearned to be.

Once again he went home penniless and would remain so until next payday when he would do it all over again. One day surely the roulette wheel would become his wheel of fortune and nineteen his lucky number.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Ted Strutz for the photo.

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Post 1557. Sunday December 24

Sunday Photo Fiction and The Sunday Whirl

It had been busy a busy night at The Cross Inn despite the winter snow. John turned out the lights and headed upstairs. Through the window shone a star, the brightest he’d ever seen. For a moment he relished the silence, you could have heard a pin drop, but a split second later there was loud banging on the door. He reluctantly went back downstairs.

Standing ankle deep in the snow stood a young man bearing a terrified expression. “My wife’s having a baby,” he said “The ambulance couldn’t reach us so I was trying to get her to the hospital myself, but we got stuck in a drift. Do you have a room we can use? Please?”

John had no spare rooms, but he saw the desperation on the man’s face, “Bring her in" he said. ”You can stay in the storeroom”

A baby boy was born. Somehow, news of the birth rolled out across the village. Several locals approached the pub hoping to see the new child. They brought gifts; a gold bracelet, scented candles, and sweet smelling flowers.

That was longs ago. The village still looks the same as does The Cross Inn. But something feels different. A place where something wonderful must have happened.

This week's given words at The Sunday Whirl are - star, pin, lights, wonder(ful), roll, lane, approach, gutter, line, spare, split, and release, of which I've used most!

Thank you, Sunday Photo Fiction for the picture.

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Yesterday I became one of the half a million people to visit the Christmas Market held annually at Winchester Cathedral. I then queued for one and a half hours to make sure I got a seat in the Cathedral for the Service of Carols and Lessons. Despite being the longest nave in any cathedral in Europe it still only seats just over 2000 people with a few hundred more standing so not everybody gets in! I go every year despite it now involving five hours driving there and back!

May I wish each and every one of you happiness and joy over the festive season.

Click on pics to enlarge

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Post 1655. December 20

Write...Edit...Publish

Imagine if you will a crowded street. People pass by seemingly unaware of the busker standing in a doorway playing an accordion. He stops, stands motionless for a moment or two bearing an expression of terror, then staggers forward and turns. A flash of light bounces off a steel blade protruding from his back and in seconds his white shirt blushes blood red. He collapses into a heap, like a puppet with broken strings, the instrument beneath him wheezes a tuneless groan. The onlookers gasp.

                                                                             

The curtains swept across the stage and there was a stunned silence for a second or two followed by an eruption of spontaneous clapping. It was the interval and the audience made its way to the gilded bar where glasses clinked and chandeliers sparkled; a roomful of amateur sleuths each with their own theory as to whom committed that dastardly deed. Was it the man with the dog or the boy in the hoodie? Could it have been the lady in dark glasses or the beggar with the white stick? A shrill bell rang time, and they made their back to their seats in eager anticipation of the outcome of this grisly tale.

An hour or so later the man with the dog, the boy in the hoodie, the lady with dark glasses, the beggar, and a reincarnated busker joined hands for their final bow, basking in the glory of appreciative applause. Then the audience shuffled their way from the warmth of the auditorium into the chill of the street beyond.

Close by, an accordion player was squeezing a jolly tune. Suddenly his fingers stopped dancing on the ivory keys and he tumbled to the pavement. The departing theatregoers turned and stared, for as one mystery ended, another was about to begin.

As the Bard wisely said, all the world’s a stage.

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