Tag Archives: Short Stories

Every Piece a Memory

Rochelle Wisoff- Fields.  Friday Fictioneers.

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Photo by Sarah Ann Hall

Every Piece a Memory

Early morning when I am alone I think of you.
Do you remember when we argued in the flea market, and I bartered furiously to please you. My reward, a glowing smile and a hug like mulled wine on a frosty day.
You saw ‘must have bargains’ and I told you I couldn’t carry any more, you pecked my cheek. I was annoyed lugging them through the Underground. Now, every piece is a memory together, each one a moment when we talked. Each you begged for, and whether you won or lost, your collection grew with our unfathomable love.
I miss you.

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Last night I dreamt of Carmen.

Carmen. 100 word Wednesday

Good morning sunshine, you make my heart sting.
Cycling along to meet Carmen waiting by the falls.
My darling Carmen what secret do you have to tell?
I’m coming, cycling as fast as I can, I’m coming.
Please wait, I’m coming, I’m cycling as fast as I can.
What is it? What do you have to tell me, waiting by the falls?
I’m coming, cycling as fast as I can, I’m coming.
I see you smiling, crying. What is it? Keep away from the falls.
I’m coming, cycling as fast as I can, I’m coming.
I am cycling as fast as I can, tears rolling down my cheeks.
I wake, let me sleep, let me cycle. Every night Carmen waits.
I cycled as fast as I could.
Good morning sunshine. You make my heart sting.

 

Character Absorption

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Image Credit Brooke Lark

Character Absorption – 100 Word Wednesday

“Mary sobbed, more dreadful news from Vietnam, and she switched off the radio. She dried her face, now she would make the same breakfast she had once shared with Abe.”
Elizabeth slammed the novel shut. ‘Wait!’ she rushed off and returned to the garden with pancakes and strawberries.
Like Mary, she tasted the sweet softness and warmth of chocolate, the cool refreshing juice from the strawberries and she wiped Abe’s lips with a napkin – Would they ever see him again?
“Mary’s hair, blown by the hot prairie wind, flapped around her face. She watched a dust cloud race across the plain and screech to a stop by the porch. A solemn faced priest and a soldier came towards her. She gasped.”
Elizabeth gulped and spilled her coffee turning the last page.
“It was Abe. Mary threw herself into his arms. The priest gave a small cough.”
Elizabeth sucked a strawberry through her lips.
““Mary Charlene Baxter, will you marry me.” Abe held out a glistening ring.”
Tears rolled down Elizabeth’s cheeks and mingled with the chocolate sauce dripping from her chin – ‘Yes’ she screamed.

 

 

Short Story – New Appliance

New Appliance

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ArtsyBee from pixabay.com

Mary finished cleaning the kitchen sink and she gazed out of the window at the dull dark clouds. Rain was on the way and everything seemed miserable as if her whole world had a screw loose, and she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

The fridge motor switched on and interrupted her day dreaming, its humming sound took on a rhythmic beat of da daa . . .  dum dum and she imagined herself in a Viennese Waltz cavorting with a tall Austrian Hussar and so she twirled and turned across the floor.

The hoover in the corner perked up. ‘May I have the pleasure?’ said Mr Dyson.

‘Delighted,’ said Mary and curtsied. She took the hoover by the handle, and they swept around the kitchen dancing to the music.

The sound of the fridge rumbled on as rain washed against the windows sounding like soft violins, the slow-cooker gurgled in delight and the kettle whistled as a flute. The washing machine shuddered out the bass of beating drums and the Dolce Gusto joined in with a whoosh, whoosh, sending aromatic plumes of percolating coffee into the air.

Mary skipped and spun, swinging on the arm of her handsome Mr Dyson as she moved around her tiny ballroom. From the clock, a cuckoo sprang out and trumpeted like a hunting horn as the timer on the oven played an allegro bleeping in consonance with the kitchen orchestra.

The house front door slammed. The music stopped. Mary dropped the hoover into the cupboard under the stairs, it groaned. She walked into the hall.

“I am shattered,” her husband said, “I’m completely worn out.” He gave her a gentle peck on the cheek and slouched into the living room where he slumped onto the sofa.

‘Did I hear our white goods singing?”

“No,” said Mary shaking her head, “besides that’s racist.”

“What!” he said.

“They are not white goods.” Mary undid his jacket.

“I’m too run down to argue.” He kicked off his shoes and laid back.

“We refer to them as appliances these days,” she said. She reached into his trousers’ pocket and pulled out a long flexi-cord that she then plugged into a battery recharging pack and switched it on.

“Ah . . . that’s better,” he said and closed his eyes.

Mary returned to the kitchen and made a call on her mobile.

A loud voice answered. “Mr Wong’s Magical Electrical Emporium, what can I do for you?”

“Mr Wong, it’s Mary.”

All the appliances in the kitchen gave a short gasp, the Dolce Gusto hissed, the hoover peeked out from the cupboard.

“Yes Mary, you need a replacement.”

“Sort of Mr Wong, do you have any Hussars?”

All the appliances gave out an expressive sigh, they were safe, she wasn’t disposing of them.

“You need a new man . . . why not repair the one you have?”

“Mr Wong, my husband is clapped out, worn out and completely flat.”

“We can fit a new battery.”

“It’s no use, he has lost all his energy. I need one with spark, style and stamina.”

“Okay, Mrs Mary I will bring a new one tomorrow, anything else.”

“Yes, there is a screw in my head that rattles and seems to be very loose.”

“Oh dear,” said Mr Wong, “sounds very bad, an emergency.”

“It is, an emergency. Oh, it really is, Mr Wong.”

“I will come very immediately,” Mr Wong laughed. “I bring new parts . . .  again.”

Mary put her mobile down, she grinned. There was always something special about the way Mr Wong fiddled with her parts. He was gentle and made her feel so invigorated that her whole world no longer felt so miserable.

Marie – Short Story

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Photo – Kirkandmimi – pixabay.com

Marie’s father has vowed to kill Carl if he ever returns to Italy, but after twenty years will his love for Marie prevail.

Read the short story – Marie

 

On the Road to Paradise

Three Line Tales, Week 80

I dream of freedom and traveling on the road.
In the morning I’d be ecstatic to see our new van waiting.
Please don’t wake me, I am living in paradise.

Head in the Sand

100 Word Wednesday – week 29

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Head in the Sand.

(DARK CONTENT WARNING)

Josh liked it that way, in the dark – laptop on his knees.
He typed his reply.
[yea it looks good}
[are you coming]
{No}
[Oh Josh – there’s no one near us. Come on]
{so!!}
[just us – warm sand and sea – we have a wind breaker, no one will see you]
{Yea heard that before}
[Don’t Josh, we love you]
.
.
[Josh, we are coming to get you]
{no don’t come round my Ma will kill me}
{we’re coming}
.
.
Josh checked his pile of candy bars – his hockey stick.
He pulled the AK47 from under his bed, it was loaded -safety off.
.
.
The knocking on the cellar door started.
“Josh! your friends are here.”
Ma is going to kill him.
“Come on Josh! I know you are in there.” she banged harder. “You can’t bury your head in the sand all your life.”
He pointed the barrel of the AK47 at the door.
What life?

The Doctor

The Doctor

100 Word Wednesday – Week 28

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Image by Bikurgurl

Holmes was immortal, and distraught as he felt like an inanimate antique hoarded by an impulsive collector. He was in a delirious mood and was not making sense in his drug induce daze, mumbling about eternal regeneration and the beginning with no end to an infinitive universe.
“Quick, bring some hot chicken broth,” I called to Mrs Hudson.
Holmes leapt to his feet and sprinted from the room.
’Too late,’ I shouted. Running after him, I caught up and found him in a curiosity shop.
“Watson, we are but dusty relics,” said Holmes, and he blew dark smoke from his obnoxious weed across my face.
“I wish you’d refrain.” I coughed. “Why are we here? Pottery?”
“Why does the Doctor need this stoneware from Old Kent Road?”
“A gift or perhaps an inheritance?”
“Yes, his nostalgia for all things London.”
These days, I was at my wits end with Holmes as he had become obsessed, and I often recoiled from his constant rages, madness and frustrations. He was determined to uncover the identity of the Time Lord, the imposter.
“What does this collection tell you Watson?’
“He is having guests for tea.”
“No Watson, can’t you see his next location is surely eighteen hundreds mid-west.”
“Oh, I like the flowers, a nice feminine touch.”
“Damn Watson! It is a woman!”
“About time.” I chuckled, and couldn’t imagine Holmes with a wife.
“No, no, no.” Holmes fell to his knees. “I’m now searching for an elusive woman.”
I put my hand on his shoulder to console the poor chap. I smiled.

Drifting in Time

Drifting in Time.100 Word Wednesday

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Image by Sandra Jane

My relief; we made it back to the docks. Exhausted, I’ve been rowing with the current ever since the Meridian sank. When? How strange that the harbour is in a dilapidated state and abandoned, all in a space of one week. I sense an eerie chill, of being observed, that bristles the hairs on my neck. This is no welcome and this is not home.

I nudged Holmes awake from his sleep, he is delirious due to his allergy to sunlight and I note his aversion to physical exertion, except puffing of hashish from his pipe. Well, Watson, he had said before we sailed, if I can’t get the true elixir then this potpourri will suffice.
‘We made it Holmes,’ I shouted, glad to be alive.
‘Yes,’ he said and sat up in the boat for a better look. ’We are indeed here, but at the same time we are not.’ He grabbed at his pocket watch and checked the hour. ‘Oh! What year is this? Ah! Doctor, yes yes how very clever.’
‘What!’ I didn’t get his demented drift. ‘Clever?’
‘Oh yes, the Doctor is afoot.’ He grinned. ‘Let’s tread with care.’
‘Who?’
‘Precisely, Watson. The Time Lord himself.’

Reader Expectations.

I am aware that all readers have their own tastes and expectations when they choose a book. Many are die hard fans of their chosen genre and will consume every variation of their vampire sagas, romantic encounters or else stories about the flawed detective in police procedurals and crime novels. Readers know what they like and what they want!

Do we write to please the reader or please ourselves?  It is almost like two different planets of the universe. Those who write to please the reader live in big houses, while those who write to please themselves are on welfare – I believe – or else have a day job.

Book review:Case of the Mahjong Dragon

The latest review on my collection of Russell Holmes stories has made me consider some awkward realisations about my book.

Have I misled or deceived the readers’ expectations?

By using the name Holmes and having a similar collection of characters, albeit the stories are set in Glasgow rather than London, have I unwittingly sullied the genre? The POV is that of the lead character and the idea is similar in style to Sir Author Conan Doyle’s most famous private detective Sherlock Holmes. However, I did not adhere to the strict code of the true pastiche and have unintentionally varied the imitation such to confuse readers, who may have expected a firm Sherlock Holmes story, by creating conflicting images in their minds.

Perhaps publishing my take on a Victorian detective, I have inadvertently fell into a trap set by Moriarty and dipped my toes in an acidic bath of offence towards all true Holmes fans. But then again for all ‘you’ know I just might have accepted Moriarty’s challenge to subvert all who live in 221B.

I note however the world of films have their own unwritten rules: that is just do what sells.

In all honestly I am grateful to the reviewer for their honest opinion and the fact they have taken the trouble to read my book and I am sure secretly enjoyed it.