Tag Archives: Writing

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.

Emotional Blackmail

This story is for Friday -Fictioneers, a flash fiction site hosted by Rochelle. Other contributions can be read HERE.

I like this week’s picture, I can sense the thunderous roar as the water falls over the cliffs, and almost feel the humidity hanging in the air. It is a powerful scene.

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

Emotional Blackmail

‘The falls are wonderful.’
‘What did you say?’
Laura shouted, ‘I said this is impressive!’
‘Come on.’ Mike held her hand and led her along the narrow path.

She felt his grip tighten as they neared the edge of the cliff.
‘I can’t live without you. If I jump, nobody will ever know.’
‘No Mike, don’t.’ She struggled free from his clenched hold. 
He laughed.
Laura’s legs shook, and she stumbled away from the precipice. 

Mike knelt and held up a ring.
She felt her heart thumping
Her answer must be no.
Will he really jump?
Only she would know.

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.

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.

Convivial Wintry Chill

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.

Magical Emporium

A light hearted piece of old fashion flash fiction to raise a smile.
Inspired by stories from Philip K Dick.

Magical Emporium

Mary wiped the kitchen sink and stared out of the window at the dull, dark clouds. Rain was on the way. Her entire world seemed miserable, as if a screw was loose and she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

The fridge motor interrupted her despondency, and its humming became a rhythmic beat of da–daa–dum–dum. She imagined herself in a Viennese Waltz cavorting with a tall hussar, so she twirled around the table.

The hoover in the corner perked up. “May I have the pleasure?”
“Delighted.” Mary curtsied. She took the hoover by the handle and they danced around, flowing with the music.

Rain streamed against the window like violin strings as the fridge rumbled on; the slow-cooker gurgled, and the kettle whistled. Her washing machine shuddered out the bass of beating drums and the Dolce Gusto went whoosh, whoosh, sending aromatic plumes of percolating coffee into the air.

Mary skipped and spun, swinging on the arm of her handsome Mr Hoover, waltzing around her ballroom. A spectator in the clock sprang out and called cuckoo, cuckoo—just as the timer on the oven played an allegro bleeping in consonance with the kitchen orchestra.

She heard the front door slam. Her music stopped. Quickly, Mary shuffled the hoover into the cupboard. She strode into the hall.

“I am shattered,” her husband said, “and completely worn out.” He gave her a pitiable peck on the cheek. She hung his jacket on a peg as he slouched into the living room and slumped onto the sofa.

“Did I hear our white goods singing?”
“No,” said Mary. “We don’t call them white anymore.” 
“What!” He kicked off his shoes and laid back. “I am too tired to argue.”
“They are called appliances,” she said, reaching into his trousers’ pocket for a long flex cord and she plugged it into a battery recharging pack.
“Ah! That’s better.” He 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.”
“Mr Wong, it’s Mary.”
All the appliances rumbled, and the Dolce Gusto hissed.
“Yes, Mary, do you need a repair?”
“Sort of Mr Wong. Do you have any hussars?”

The appliances sighed. They were safe. She wasn’t disposing of them.

“A new man? Why not repair the one you have?”
“Mr Wong. My husband has degenerated. He’s worn out and completely flat.”
“We can fit a new battery.”
“It’s no use. I want one with style and stamina.”
“Okay, I will bring a fresh one tomorrow. Anything else?”

“Yes, I seem to have a screw loose in my head. It hurts.” 
“An emergency!” said Mr Wong.
“It is! Oh yes, an emergency. Oh, it really is.”
“I’ll bring some spare parts immediately.”

Mary grinned. Mr Wong was always gentle with her parts, and his tuning was so invigorating.
She smiled and felt so cheery already. 

Vigilante Street Cleaner

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.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

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.

Lost Empires

Every ruin speaks volumes of history and are monopolised as tourist attractions. What other use can they be, but a reminder of how great civilisations crumbled? But why?

Thanks to Rochelle for selecting this picture prompt.

Although this picture is from somewhere in the Middle East, I have gone for a Roman Empire theme.

Read more from Friday-Fictioneers HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Lost Empires

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.

Never in our civilised world.

Charming Tatiana 

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.

Photo Prompt by – Brenda Cox for Friday Fictioneers.

Charming Tatiana 

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.