Thank you, David, for your photo prompt for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. I can imagine sitting in the hotel having breakfast watching torrential rain thunder down outside and thinking -it looks like another day at the indoor pool or playing cards. So much for a day on the beach-.
Olivia screamed in laughter as they dashed through the rain and fluttering confetti into the limousine. Everyone cheered from under their umbrellas. Their photographer abandoned the garden and riverside shots instead took indoor pictures around the reception hotel’s flora.
They left promptly, only to be delayed at Gatwick before their flight took off to Antigua for ten days on hot Caribbean sandy beaches.
Constant lashing rain from the tail end of hurricane Fiona kept the newly weds tucked up in the honeymoon suite. ‘I’m sorry about the rain,’ he said. She kissed him. ‘It’s my fault for marrying you, Noah.’
This week’s prompt of oil lamps brings back the times I did not trim the wick properly and ended up with soot inside the glass. Done the right way, the lamp gives off a wonderful glow and as you huddle around it for a little heat and comfort, you can’t help wondering what is lurking in the dark corners of the room.
Visit the Friday Fictioneers host, Rochelle, by clicking on her name. More stories from the group (why not join in) are available HERE.
On the first day of Autumn, our family traditionally holds a thankful togetherness around the oil lamps. A reminder of a humble journey from the harsh dust bowl to our prosperous orange groves.
Grandma told me she burned down the old house, spat in the wind and kicked the foreclosures man’s arse. On the edge of a prayer, she drove their wagon west with a broken husband and a deserted, pregnant daughter huddled among the measly fodder.
Today, I sit holding hands with Dorothy and our children as we remember their spirits and hear inspirational laughter from our wonderful grandmas.
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.
Thank you Rochelle for keeping the Friday Fictioneers community inspired to write our set of flash fiction. The variety of stories presented (click HERE) indicates the wide imagination that prevails among us.
This week’s photo-prompt of a stone-walled barn by Lisa Fox, indicates a certain pride by the builder. I can imagine the rustic lifestyle and a storage barn for animals or just chopped wood.
Dreams with the Stars
At first it was a small dirty cowshed. At night, we would look through the holes in the roof to find Betelgeuse. My twin sister, Annabelle, dreamed she would be rich and live in a chateau.
This made father laugh. When he rebuilt the barn, he declared it the castle of Queen Annabelle. Hold on to your dreams, they will come true, he declared to us.
We held hands beside the barn and remembered father’s words. ‘His spirit is the inspiration of my dreams,’ said Annabelle. Her diamond rings glittered like Orion’s belt, but this barn was still her castle.
‘There’s one. Oh, it’s gone.’ The crocodile dived, creating a cloud of silt.
Caroline detested John’s profession of photography. He stopped her from going to the golf course with Jenny. Lovely, soft Jenny. You’re my wife, John had demanded. Together, we are going croc hunting. Yes, their problem; together was everything he ordered.
From the boat, she trailed her hand in the water and thought of Jenny. Sweet, warm-hearted Jenny. Oh, the bliss, when she massaged her legs and kissed–.
‘Look, another one.’ He leaned over the side, snapping away.
‘Careful! You’ll fall in.’ She grinned, rocking the boat.
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 stories from other contributors, here.
Dolphins are Guardian Angels
I admired the parrot fish shoal dashing past, then wham! The impact dislodged my facemask; my flippers were clamped in the teeth of a shark. I struggled my feet free, readjusted my mask and mouthpiece, and swam to a coral buttress. I watched John climb into the boat ten metres above.
The excited bull shark circled and raced towards me. I was trapped.
I heard a screech of whistles and clicks, and a dolphin struck the shark’s underbelly. The pod harassed and chased the menace away.
My saviours escorted me to the surface, and to the safety of the boat.
John’s birthday surprise left her speechless. In shock, Lynda climbed into the balloon’s basket; her shoes caught on the step. Her mind was screaming for excuses. Why did he have to sell his motorbike?
Lynda screwed her eyes closed and gripped the rail as if fused to the metal. Sweat dripped over her brow, and champagne bubbles churned in her stomach.
The engines’ roar and the swaying movement made her legs tremble.
‘Look,’ shouted John.
She peeked and saw her Mum waving. She relaxed and thought, this is okay. The balloon juddered; she vomited her champagne and caviar over John.
‘Okay, you must stay together. Promise,’ said Maggie. ‘The pie’s in the oven.’
As a child, she loved playing in the woods, but Massie and Albert were little, at least they had Buster.
When the apple-pie was ready, she went to call for them.
‘Albert, Massie, come on in,’ she called walking into the woods. ‘Buster.’
She saw the dumped fridge and gave it a kick. Typical!
Massie shouted, ‘Hi Mum.’
Buster began barking on top of the fridge.
‘Where’s Albert?’ She pushed the dog aside and opened the door. ‘Albert!’
Massie’s lip trembled. ‘He stayed home on his computer.’