Sentimental Bric-a-Brac

Gifting items to Charity or Second Hand shops gives you a satisfactory feeling that the once treasured piece will find a new home. Better than it going to the rubbish landfill site. Although, buying something else to fill that space, kind of defeats the idea of having a clear out. I have known someone who has regretted giving away an item then spends days looking for a similar replacement!

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to John Nixon for the Photo-prompt.

Read more Stories HERE

PHOTO PROMPT © John Nixon

Sentimental Bric-a-Brac 

I called him Grandad since he would come by and ask the same question.
‘Is it here, yet?’

Occasionally, I invited him in for tea and biscuits. He told me his wife brought it into the shop when she was angry with him, because he went fishing on their first anniversary. She passed recently, and he wants it back.

‘Someone will return it.’ He seemed convinced. ‘They always do.’
He would not say what it was. How was I to know?

‘Is it here yet?’
‘Maybe tomorrow.’

Now, I haven’t seen him for months.
Perhaps he found it at home.

The Curse of Calico Jack

Calico Jack was the nickname given to John Rackham, a pirate who stalked the Caribbean seas.

For this week’s Friday-Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle, I have added my flavour in a mixture of fiction, myth and fact. So thank you Brenda for the engaging photo prompt, I can taste the fresh pineapple and feel the warm breeze.

More Friday Fictioneers’ tall tales, HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox

The Curse of Calico Jack

Grandma Louise sells pineapples and nutmeg from a shack, where she distils molasses rum. At sunset we swat mosquitoes, and sip from chipped glasses, as she laughs about her pirate ancestors. 

She knows the whereabouts on Barbados of a casket pilfered from Calico Jack by his lover, Anne Bonny. He cursed her to hell as he dangled in Port Royal, and she vanished like a silk scarf in a Caribbean storm.

Grandma won’t reveal where Anne’s ghostly soul lies and the fate of the Spanish plunder.

She just smiles, sipping rum, and nods to her pineapple fields and nutmeg trees.

The First Sentence

This week’s Friday-Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle felt a touch claustrophobic for me as I prefer some natural light. The picture reminded me of a basement where the writer had been banished until something productive was produced. My theme for this week.

All other stories from the group are available HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The First Sentence

I murdered five people in my basement. Backed into a corner, my victims stumbled to their death unwittingly. Did I feel any compassion for them? Strangely, I worried myself asleep with utter sadness.

Susan was the youngest, a pretty corporate lawyer; I fell in love with the way she cocked her head and gave a smug smile.
Jack! Well! An obnoxious obese taxi driver now rotting in several landfill sites.

I craved the psychological tension, the excitement of twisting my victims’ lives with unresolved conflicts and agonising passions.

My best seller.
If only I can fix my troublesome first sentence.

My Mother is MISSING

I am pleased to share a brief surprise; more and more people are reading my book, and its Amazon rating has climbed up the charts. 

Last year, I gifted three copies to the local library, and my reward was a PLR payment (Public Lending Rate). Although not an enormous sum, I accepted this as a recognition of having produced an entertaining novel, and people were enjoying the story.

On completion of my writing course with the Open University (UK) I drafted this book as confirmation of my progress of the writers’ craft. This book took ten months to complete, writing in the evenings for three hours on and off. I had a lovely editor who kept my motivation on track, as I almost tore it up for burning.

Will I write another one? People tell me I should. 

If only they knew the determination and work involved? However, the enjoyment of writing is my best reward.

Solitary Rose

Thank you Rochelle for the writing prompt, a picture submitted by a favourite blogger of mine, Dale Rogerson.

More stories from Friday Fictioneers can be found HERE.

Solitary Rose

We argued over a trivial extravagance, and Glenda stormed out.
I’m going to Cardiff, don’t call me. She slammed the front door, and plaster fell from the ceiling in the hall.
The children said nothing. After school, we had a two-week holiday in the Pennines and returned to an empty house.
Clare asked when Mum was coming home.
Soon, I said, and choked on my despair.

Late from work, I saw the solitary rose. My heart raced. 
Sorry, said Glenda.
It’s okay, I said. How’s Cardiff?
George still loves me.
Jealousy, grounds for murder, I thought, and hugged her tightly.

Dandelions at Night

Dandelions at Night

Mary went to close the bedroom curtains, and looking through the window, she saw her neighbour wandering around in his garden. She glanced at her clock. It was almost ten o’clock at night, and a bit late for planting or pruning. Perhaps he was looking for slugs, it was the sort of thing he might do. Poor Mike, for the past year, he had struggled on his own as isolation didn’t suit him.

In the moonlight, the garden was a monochromatic scene where detail merged into the shadows. She saw Mike was now on his knees, digging with a trowel.
Mary closed the curtains. She would take a hot drink to him and have a neighbourly chat. Everyone likes some company and a gossip, since living on your own isn’t easy. 

Outside, a breeze rustled the branches of the sycamore and blew her dressing gown loose. She pushed open the side gate and closed it with a nudge from her bottom. In her bare feet, she tiptoed across the grass and stood behind him.

‘I know you are there,’ he said and continued digging.
‘Hot chocolate.’
He stood up. ‘Mary! you’ll catch a cold.’
‘It was the wind.’ She passed him both cups and pulled her flimsy gown together and fiddled with the straps.
‘This is lovely,’ he said.
‘Hot chocolate,’ she said, and sipped her drink. 
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit late for weeding.’
‘Oh, I can’t stand digging out the dandelions when they are in full bloom.’
The knot in the straps of her dressing gown slipped loose. She sipped her drink.
‘The flowers close up in the dark, so I dig up the plants when they’re asleep.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘Mike, why don’t you come over for a nightcap when you’re finished?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I still need to close the shed.’
‘You do that.’ She closed her gown. She took the cups and ambled across the lawn. With a backward glance, saw him watching as she pushed through the side gate with her hip.

In her living room, she slipped a small log onto the fire and then fetched two glasses. She still had plenty in the bottle of her 12-year-old Macallan to encourage him.

She sat down on the sofa and waited.

Children’s Lives Matter

This week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt by Rochelle is an abandoned building that may have once been a lively place. Read more contributions HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Carole Erdman-Grant

Children’s Lives Matter

Her dream for this ruin was a restaurant as a picturesque stop on the journey into the mountains. Marlene squeezed my hand.

Derelict! My heart sunk like my bank balance flushing down the drain. This renovation project was Marlene’s childhood dream. A notion she started in the school playground, gazing at the view of the surrounding rocky peaks.

She led me through the burnt-out shell, and I heard children laughing and singing.
Marlene sang along, with tears rolling down her cheeks.

Let’s not do this, I shook my head.
Yes! I want a memorial, she said. To remember my dead classmates.

Orbiting the Moon

After reading Linda’s (Granonine) story on Friday-Fictioneers I recalled a piece of poetry I wrote sometime ago, for a specific reason.

Let me know if you enjoyed reading it or otherwise.

Photo from Pixabay.com

Orbiting the Moon.   (James McEwan)

Mother stood gazing out of the window
As I walked along the gravel garden path.
She looked through me as if I was hollow.
But I smiled and waved. I saw her laugh.

We sat on the veranda having tea with scones.
She asked where I had been all these years,
Were you lost in space searching for stones?
I can’t remember, she said and wiped her tears.

I passed her the album, pictures of our family. 
My children as babies then going on to school.
Who are these people? I can’t see them clearly,
Ah yes, she said, your father. The stubborn fool.

We walked to the park and sat by the lake.
She told me she was proud of her beloved son,
The first Scots astronaut who promised to take
Her sightseeing to the stars and orbit the moon.

Is it time to go? she said and held my hand.
I pulled up the blanket to fend off the chill.
How long will it take and where shall we land?
She rested on my shoulder and slipped away,
So peacefully, and silent.
Like the sunset sinking behind the hill. 

Adventure Beyond the Horizon

Thank you to Bradley for a lovely peaceful post-card picture of Hawaii. I can imagine the words, ‘I wish you were here’, written by him while spending a holiday break and enjoying the scene.

More Friday Fictioneers stories can be read HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Bradley Harris

Adventure Beyond the Horizon

I feel the morning peace and warmth of spring, and tranquillity of the waves lapping in the cove. Yet!–it is the horizon that torments me. I am jealous of the floating clouds flying free through the sky from over that line of no return.

My father scrambled up this beach in rehearsal for hell on earth, and I cannot imagine the exhilaration of soldiers disgorging from landing craft and speculating with death, with unwavering conviction.

My inertia wallows on this soft grass as Isabel’s ultimatum invites me to decide.

In solitude, I seek courage to cross over the line.

A Matter of Taste

This week’s prompt from Rochelle is a lovely painting of typical dining table condiments.
I hope I have added some spice with my story.

Read more stories from Friday Fictioneers HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

A Matter of Taste

How much?

The value is in the symbology. 
The famous artist is making a passionate plea to his lover.

I don’t understand. What does it say?

Focus on the condiments, they are always complementary.
The spicey, romantic flirtatious pepper by the flickering candle has an offer of an honest commitment.
See the full clear glass of lemonade.

The sauce is a promise of abundant passion and substantial wealth.
Sensible salt is pondering indecisively (half full glass) between a dying flame and the squeeze of the silky-smooth future.

I expect she said no.

Why?

There’s a pepper top on the salt.