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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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I look forward to reading your thoughts on my piece.

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Post 1654. December 20

Friday Fictioneers

Every day, just before opening my cafe I would hear the tap-tap of her umbrella on the window.

‘Hello dear’ she would say as she walked in and hung her knitted hat and brolly on a hook.

She always did that!

She would study the menu for ages before calling me over. ‘Dish-of-the-day and a nice cup of tea dear’ she would say.

She said that every time!

One day, last February when I delivered her meal, she was sleeping.

She never woke up.

Her knitted hat still hangs on the hook. It’s not my cafe anymore, but it’s still there. I like that.

She probably would too.

Thank you, Rochelle, for hosting and Björn Rudberg for the photo. I helped myself to just one of the hats!