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.
An interesting photo-prompt from Rochelle with lots of historical content to explore. I have researched the Molly McGuire as a secret society during the coal mining disputes in the US. The existence of the Molly McGuire may have been invented to try and discredit the miners. The 1970’s film of the same name stars Sean Connery and Richard Harris.
More Friday Fictioneer’s stories can be read HERE.
The Wedding of Sweet Molly McGuire
A hundred years ago, Seamus O’Leary brought a large bottle of Potcheen from Ireland, and he insisted it was drunk to celebrate his wedding. The little bottle contains the spirit of the old country, a reminder of the mists of Killarney and the warmth of the family around a smoking peat fire. Legend states the Molly McGuire blessed the bottles with a kiss.
O’Leary disappeared in a Pennsylvanian coal mine before the Pinkertons denounced some Irishmen for defying a twenty percent pay cut.
Nowadays in our cellar, you can still hear Sweet Molly whisper, ‘Seamus, your secret’s safe with us.’
The flickering of the flames from the logs burning in the grate filled the room with a cosy feeling. Elroy remembered drinking rum and the comfort of the taste warming his soul as it slipped into his turkey diner. He recalled these moments of joy and smiled, watching Jay and Josey playing cards under the tinsel draped from the fir tree; happiness and peace washed through him.
The clatter of plates drew him into the kitchen, where Mary was crying by the sink. If only his spirit could kiss and hug her to let her know he missed her, too.
Mountaineering and climbing the world’s highest peaks is not within the ability or resources of many, however mountain walking remains a favourite past time. The satisfaction of reaching the mountain top and being rewarded with a wide expansive view, occasionally high above the clouds, is worth the effort; in my experience. Also, we learn that the weather must never be trusted.
This week’s picture is symbolic of a light from heaven floating above a church steeple. The image made me think of the UK television comedy show ‘Father Ted’. It portrays a shambolic group of priests, and particularly the character, Father Jack, who is a mad alcoholic lunatic.
My first motor bike was a Triumph Bantam 125 and my first car was a Ford Anglia 1200cc. Not surprisingly, examples can be found in motor museums all around the UK. The Transport Museum in Glasgow has on display five models of cars that I once owned over the years. The Ford Capri being perhaps one of the most iconic in its time. The only navigation system in use in those days was the AA Road Map which worked a treat.
This week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt stirs the yearning for the open road. More stories here.
Infidelity of a Goddess
This picture reminds me of my Triumph Bonneville and how Diana, her hair whirling from beneath her helmet, would hold on tight. I loved this feeling as we raced along the roads in the summer.
We’d stop at the Craven Arms for a Theakston’s Best Bitter beer, and afterwards we’d speed to the coast. Where, among the dunes, we stared at the moon drifting among the stars.
We planned a journey from York to Paris and across Europe to Berlin.
It never happened; instead she ran off with Charlie on his Harley Davidson.
When I saw this weeks photo prompt from Ted, it reminded me of the saying;
‘Where there’s muck there’s brass.’
So with this idea of reclaiming/recycling old metal, my story is more whimsical than usual.
To read more flash fiction stories from Friday Fictioneers click HERE.
Colin and Jack unveiled their treasure, a pile of broken auto parts. Their teacher, Mrs Wilson, smiled, ‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘Where–?’ ‘Along the canal path and Bunting’s wood.’ ‘Boys, you know it’s Easter, right?’
The class crowded around the items, smirking. The girls giggled and held up their baskets of coloured eggs. ‘We won. Nah, Nah,’ they chanted. ‘Better luck next year.’
‘Sorry, boys,’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘The Grand Chocolate Egg goes to the girls.’
The boys dragged their cart of junk to Joe’s Yard, where he gave them fifty dollars. And so, CJ’s Metal Recycle business began.
This week’s picture prompt of a rotting tree stump (provided by Sandra Crook) made me think of orchards and how , at one time, they were the life and soul of many villages along the Clyde valley. An industry that is rooted in the past. However, commercial decline is not the only reason that villages are torn apart–look around the world today.
I have based my story on experiences from Bosnia.
The usual mix of contributions by other members of the group can be found here.
Photo Prompt By Sandra Crook
Our World our Village
As you stare across the wasteland, you can see there was a village here; once. Point down the valley where the trees were, and people nod and look away. We remember childhoods learning together and laughing in the classrooms. In the autumn, families congregated in the orchards, in the wood mills, and harvested the crops. We were an entwined community of good neighbours, innocent lovers, and with marriages of everlasting bonds.
The fanatical nationalists terrorised us with a medieval past, infesting our streets with their hateful ethnic cleansing.
Today, we stand in silence, holding hands in remembrance of our roots.