Sugar is a Crowd for Salt and Pepper

FridayFictioneers

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PHOTO PROMPT – © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Sugar is a Crowd for Salt and Pepper

‘I have something important­ –’
‘Not now,’ said Carolyn, and flashed her new Breitling watch. ‘Meet me at Le-Petite around five.’ She cycled away and tinkled her bell.
‘Still waiting,’ toned Maurice. He lifted my cup. ‘Another coffee?’
‘No.’ I paid him and stared out the window.
Carolyn’s Diamond watch niggled me.

We worked out at weekends in Bros Gym, where people ogled her glowing appeal.
Lately, without an explanation, she would disappear for days. No calls.
Was it my business? I dare not ask.
But today! She was never late.
I was going to New York. Would she come along?

Does Money Buy Love?

https://rochellewisoff.com/2020/10/14/16-octobetr-2020/#like-11840

This week’s Friday Fictioneers from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Read more contributions, use the link.

https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/d7f4bbe9f782440e9167a1602727dcb9

PHOTO PROMPT © C.E.Ayr

Does Money Buy Love?

With women, I am a sucker. 
I bought Doreen a penthouse and a Porsche Cabriolet. She fell for a Gigolo.

Marylin was lovely with a taste for blue diamonds.

She gave them to a boyfriend in Amsterdam.

I have everything, but finding love has left me hollow and lonely.

Strolling with Carolyn along the jetty was bliss.

‘My colour is pink,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s for sale.’

A disappointed shudder trembled through my body, and I let go of her hand.

She pointed. ‘That’s what I need to buy, a basket for my bicycle.’ 

I kissed her hand. ‘You should.’

Selkies’ Ceremony – Return to the Sea.

Rochelle’ Friday Fictioneers.

This week I have adopted a mythical idea from Scottish folklore.

http://PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Selkies’ Ceremony – Return to the Sea.

It was the same after every ceremony, but John was glad of the work.

‘How did it go last night?’ he called into the restaurant.

‘Oh John,’ said Morag. ‘Our women were beautiful with glowing complexions and gleaming hair.’

‘Looks like a lot more kelp this time.’

‘You should have been here,’ said Morag. ‘Our families washing in on the high tide with the skins.’ 

‘I understand you leaving with work shutting down.’

‘They played the flute and lyre; so soft, so emotional. I was in tears.’

‘I’ll miss you, Morag.’

‘Aye, I am sorry, John. My ceremony’s on Wednesday.’ 

*****

Photo from Clan Rollo https://sites.google.com/site/clanrolloonlineallthings/home/magical-scotlan/selkies

Mental Block – Schrödinger’s Genie

Photo Ketut Subiyanto from Pexels.com

The front door letter box rattled, and I heard a dull thud as something hit the mat. I rushed and picked up the small parcel. Turning it over a few times, I read my name and address, but there was no return address.

Inside the packet, I found a rectangular block of a polished piece of oak. There was no obvious lid, and I wondered if it was a musical box or a curiosity toy. I tried turning and twisting it. It seemed to be a solid wooden brick, so I gave it a shake, then dropped it onto the kitchen table. I drummed on it with by fingers and then knocked with my knuckles to see if it was hollow; I heard something shift inside.

‘Stop!’ shouted a voice. ‘Oh, please stop.’

I looked around. Did I just imagine the wood speak? I turned it over and tapped it on the table.

‘That’s enough,’ screamed the voice, then it whimpered. ‘Please help me.’

I gave it another good shake and put it down on the table, really not knowing what to expect.

‘Stop, stop, please just stop,’ it cried, ‘you’re making me dizzy.’

‘What’s going on?’ I said, looking around and out the window just in case I was being observed.

‘Please let me out.’

‘How?’ I felt ridiculous. ‘Where’s the lid?’ Some prankster was probably listening, and I played along. ‘If you tell me how to open it, then I’ll get you out.’ I wasn’t sure what the point of the joke was, or where it was leading to.

‘Once I am free,’ it said, ‘your every wish will come true.’

 ‘Ah! So, you are a Genie trapped in a box,’ I said, still sceptical and looking around for some trickster. ‘It’s just my imagination.’ I muttered.

‘Ah, very good,’ said the voice, ‘you are getting close.’

‘I’m going mad, I must be delirious,’ I felt a moment of rising panic. ‘I’ve no idea what’s happening here.’

‘Think, think of an idea. Use your imagination and soon, we will be free.’

‘We! Is there someone else with you?’

‘No. I mean us, you and me. Please, get those grey cells working, procrastination is not an option.’

I gave the shiny oak another good shake and heard it giggle. It started knocking from inside the wooden block.

‘Stop it. Please release me,’ it cried. ‘Remember, I am the secret to your future; your fortune.’

‘That’s it, I’m getting my saw,’

‘Wait!’ shouted the voice. ‘For a hundred years I’ve waited, but if you damage the wood, you destroy the spell. A curse will fall on anyone who damages this box. The secret to your future will be lost forever.’

‘Then how can I open it. Where is the catch to release a lid?’

‘Oh, why do you want to come into the box? Trust me, there is no way out.’

‘So, what is the secret to my future, tell me.’ I grabbed the box and shook it. ‘Tell me. I’ll get a chisel and split you.’

‘No use,’ the voice coughed. ‘Destroying me breaks your chance of any good fortune.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ I said, ‘I’ve no idea how to get you out.’ I was becoming frustrated and bored with the dilemma. Was I talking to myself again? It had been going on for weeks, and every day I struggled to maintain my sanity.

‘You know the answer,’ said the box, and it laughed. ‘Ha, ha. Time is running out. Find an idea. Think, just think.’

I sat for hours admiring the perfect sheen of the polished oak, and its dark and light hues along the grain. It would make a great paper weight or door stopper, but then it would mock me each time I looked at it. My future, my good fortune apparently my sanity, all depended on an idea of freeing the Genie trapped in a knotted wooden block. How ridiculous.

I threw the wood into the fire and watched as it burned; the flames were a crystal blue and dazzling white. I decided the responsibility for my future and fortune would be my making and independent from some magical idea trapped in a box.

That night I went to bed feeling frustrated and angry at my impatience for not solving the problem that may have freed the Genie. Would he really fulfil my fantasies and dreams? Perhaps it was a missed opportunity.

Regardless, I slept well and in the morning the rattle of the letter box woke me with a jolt. I fell out of bed and hit the floor with a dull thud on the carpet. I tried to get up, but knocked my head on a wooden ceiling. It was dark. I felt as if I was being carried and shaken, then I realised I was in a box. 

Suddenly the answer to my future and fortune was clear; if only I was wise enough, if only I could “think outside the box”. Was it too late?

Dreaming of Hollywood

This week I have posted a piece of poetry, a villanelle.

It reminds me of sitting in a hot, dark bar in San Salvador wondering why was I there. At the time, the country was in turmoil with rumours of a civil war.

Cottonbro – Pexel.com

Dreaming of Hollywood

When we met in September’s heat one lonely night.
They were playing soft Jazz in the Bertolt Brecht bar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She licked her sulky red lips, her dress smooth and white
She asked me to drive her somewhere, anywhere not far
When we met in September’s heat one lonely night.

The jazz switched to Latin and couples were holding tight
I said let’s Salsa and away from drinking at the bar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She uncrossed her legs, her bare thighs flashing in the light
What happened here? And she caressed my facial scar
When we met in the September’s heat one lonely night

I said, it’s a reminder over a woman I lost in a fight
We could go to a room, she smiled and I lit up my cigar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She purred, and asked me politely to pay for her flight
As she spoke of her dreams of being a Hollywood star
When we met in September’s heat one lonely night
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

The Curse of a She Wolf

Friday Fictioneers – hosted by Rochelle Wisoff Fields

Read all the stories  HERE

The wonderful Dale has given us a picture of a garlic string to stir our imagination and taste buds. I understand that the greatest benefit from garlic is to eat it raw in salads. Does anyone really eat the cloves raw?

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The Curse of a She Wolf

Radiant with the beauty of eternal youth, Silvia enchanted a fluttering of men like lavender surrounded by buzzing bees.  Four of her husbands died of broken hearts and the fifth during a moment of rampant ecstasy, and she howled pitiless that night. It was her curse to devour the passion from the souls of men.
In Vulcan, the women called her ‘She Wolf’ and fortified their homes with strings of garlic.
Late afternoons, wearing fine leather and furs, she would ride her sleek stallion to lure a lusting youth.
By midnight, her mourning and howling would haunt the mountain villages.

Every Child Deserves a Mother

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers

This week’s picture reminds me of Ernest Hemingway’s six-word story;

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Every Child Deserves a Mother

Damn, how Malcolm preferred the office than coming home. He kicked a box out of his way. The City garbage strike was a health hazard.
Then he saw it. Hell! Mary has flipped. Another of her tantrums since the IVF failed, and for the last time. Dr Nolan said it was pointless.
Malcolm suggested adopting a baby girl. No, she wouldn’t listen to him.
In the flat, the aroma of baking eased his tension as Mary pecked his cheek in a gregarious mood.
‘Oh, Malcolm. I’ve decided to adopt.’
‘Then, why throw out the chair?’
‘Because Charlie is three already.’

Gateway to Adventure

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Friday Fictioneers

Click here for more story contributions.

I always admire the skill and patience it takes to handcraft art that produces aesthetic pleasure and brightens up our lives. Even more so when the item is an antique with a checkered history. This week’s picture reminds me of wandering through street flea markets and searching in curiosity shops for nothing in particular.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Gateway to Adventure

Carla, me and Joey loved Old Hickory’s shop. We spent Saturday afternoons enchanted by the curiosities. To us, every item oozed a magical secret.
Old Hickory frightened us with murderous tales of the polished pirate’s chest. Full of gold. He grinned. Inside is a world of dangerous dreams, and he laughed like Bluebeard himself.
One day, lifting the creaking lid, we took a peek, and heard Hickory cough and spit in the backroom.
No, we said, but Carla climbed inside looking for adventure. Don’t tell, she giggled.
For years now, Joey and me, we have stood outside praying for Carla.

The Night Game by Jennie Boyes

The Night Game by Jennie Boyes.

This morning, I enjoyed reading this story, by Jennie Boyes.

The POV is that of a child, Fridel, who try’s to make sense of the events taking place in her village.

Fridel’s mother is suffering from depression from the loss of her son Bert and blames The Mare and other mystical spirits.

Fridel starts to suspect that witches are to blame and in her own way (you decide) takes action to rid the village of them and the Mare.

The narrative gripped me from the beginning and drew me into the naive thoughts of Fridel. It was clear to me, the reader, what was going on. However, the adults were unaware how their explanations of spirits and evil witches influenced Fridel.

You can read the story here: The Night Game

Honky-Tonk Inheritance

Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The picture reminds me of the book, Huckelberry Finn.  The wooden fence prompted my memory.

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Honky-Tonk Inheritance

‘It looks kind of grey, it wants painting.’
‘Yep, Grandpa was colour blind, it didn’t matter to him.’
Sally-Anne wasn’t sure about this legacy and expectation. It needed a lot of maintenance.
Grandpa was a Christian and provided a home for orphaned children of every race. Fifty children grew up here and all have prosperous concerns in the town and attend the Gospel Church, yet they are reluctant to help.
Grandpa wanted a new  hostel for teenagers providing educational activities.
‘I don’t think anyone cares, Sally.’
‘Oh, they will. I’ll say, what this town needs is a honky-tonk northern bordello.’