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.
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 in 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Rochelle’s selection for the Friday Fictioneer’s prompt is a colourful picture by Na’ama Yehuda. The flowers remind me that spring is here, although the winter chill occasionally blows down the street to ensure I never forget my coat.
A beautiful and colourful garden can brighten our mood. Especially for us, who can see and appreciate the various flowers.
There is a small garden nearby designed and planted with plants, giving off powerful scents to stimulate our sense of smell. I have taken my inspiration this week from the idea of flower scents.
There are more Friday Fictioneers stories to read, HERE.
Come on Dad. My daughter, Tilly, griped my hand and pulled me around the garden. Listen. She turned towards the sound. It’s a bumble bee. The honey-bee’s hum is softer. Smell the tulips. That means it is May because I can’t smell the daffodils anymore. Mind the steps, she tapped them with her stick. Can you hear the bluebells? She reached for the flowers and took a deep breath. Beautiful.
Tilly is a wonderful woman; On Sundays, we meet in the gardens. Her Labrador leads her around the flower beds, where she touches the flowers and breathes the air. Beautiful.
This week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt by Rochelle is an abandoned building that may have once been a lively place. Read more contributions HERE.
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.
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.
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.
Thanks to Dale for the lonely winter scene, which is this week’s prompt selected by Rochelle. I am keeping my fingers crossed that the cold weather is over for this season, and looking forward to our annual day of sunshine in Scotland. Okay, maybe two days in July.
You can connect with Rochelle, click HERE, and read more stories connected with the picture prompt; HERE.
Convivial Wintry Chill
Good morning, a blue sky and glorious hot sunshine. I can’t resist sitting out in only my shorts and never mind the sun cream. Usually, I get a tanned face on the ski slopes, but today I am going for a full body glow, never mind the cold.
Samantha used this chair on picnics and trips to the beach. Ah, happy, wonderful summer days with tomato and ham sandwiches, Victoria sponge and mouthfuls of Pinot Grigio. Our boys splashed to tease and torment Buster, barking frantically.
I miss Samantha. Oh, why?
Tomorrow, I will burn this chair, with its memories.
This week we have a very busy street scene photo-prompt, thanks to Rochelle.(click to visit).
More of our Friday-Fictioneer’s flash stories are available to read HERE.
Vigilante Street Cleaner
They retired my badge last month. The Chief thanked me for my long loyal service, and the city gave me a pitiful pension for the years I patrolled the sidewalks. Over time, I deplored how our streets became meaner.
Well, I am a free man; rise late and drink lattes at Antonio’s café. I enjoy the warm, bright days. Hell! I never noticed the glass tower block before.
The shoes are my message. See, I collect them in the dark when bedlam stalks the alleys. Their owners sleep life off in the morgue, and tomorrow there will be another pair.
Mary-Anne wondered what the people were like. Were they civil and kind? Or cruel, with hordes of slaves captured during brutal Empire expansionism?
The Roman Empire split, the West in Mediolanum (Milan), which became unwieldy and expensive to control, and the East in Constantinople. The Visigoths and later the Vandals contributed to the fall of the Western Empire.
A blood blister had burst, and Mary-Anne took off her sandal. The trip around the ruins was hot and laborious, and the tour guide’s descriptions were macabre.
How thankful that such murderous savagery did not happen nowadays.
Thank you Rochelle for keeping the Friday Fictioneers community inspired to write our set of flash fiction. The variety of stories presented indicates the wide imagination that prevails among us. Click HERE for more stories.
This week’s photo-prompt of a rusted grill in front of a door has sinister implications for me.
Tatiana is beautiful only at night, since the sunlight burns her skin.
In the Brecht Bar, her melancholy melodies inflame the passion in the minds of lustful drunks. It is with these hypnotic charms she turns strangers into raging rampant beasts, who with a puckered invitation follow into the dark alley. There, Tatiana embraces their aroma of sweaty testosterone and clasps her mouth on their neck, and sucks to leave a hickey. Strangers disappear every week.
The rusted grill protects Tatiana, so she may sleep throughout the day. She does not fear the garlic breathed villagers who carry sharpened stakes.