I am not certain where the picture by Sandra was taken. It looks like Charmouth on the south of England. The area is also referred to as the Jurassic coast because of the large number of fossils found along the foot of the cliffs. Thank you Sandra for reminding me of my holiday visit. (From Sandra’s page, she tells us the picture was taken at West Bay, Dorset).
As always, thank you Rochelle for posting this week’s prompt, please click on her name to join the party. More contributions of 100 words stories can be found HERE.
The picture this week from Dale gives me the impression of a dark, foggy morning as we wait for the day to begin.
This prompt for Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle, click on her name to visit her site. You will find more story contributions by clicking on HERE.
The fluttering of anticipation somersaulted around Mary’s stomach like acrobats.
He had promised to make her happy and to love her to the end of the Earth. Perhaps he can’t climb over the horizon, or is he lost in Lilliput, again? She trusted every word then, his smiles, and hugs; running home from school because of the news. That day, a dark, claustrophobic fog descended and strangled hope forever. The Mad Hatter raced and gibbered inside her soul. She slashed and tore, but darkness gripped tighter.
The doorbell rang. Her comfort Labrador, Ben, had arrived. “My dad’s name.” She cried.
Hi Bill, your picture prompt is a great picture and gives me the idea of a wild retirement of wandering freely, and seeking the warmth of sunshine and pleasant folks.
This prompt for Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle, click on her name to visit. You may find lots to interest you. More story contributions from the group’s story writers can be found HERE.
The pioneer spirit rattled around, and I couldn’t shake it out my head. I guess Grandpa’s stories of his prairie wagon days conjured my yearning for the open road.
After my retirement handshake I bought a Pickup and hauled a trailer all the way down to New Mexico fleeing the wintery, Chicago smog. I couldn’t stay after my sweetheart succumbed to the city’s grime.
On the way I met a wandering soul who laments to my clumsy chords. At night, we huddle watching Venus floating between Leo and Gemini.
She is called Louise, an oblivious blister in this imperfect world.
Thank you, Rochelle, for the memories your picture this week has stirred. I am sure we all have many items in the attic or at the back of the garage that were once loved but are now forgotten. Eventually, they end up in junk shops because we think ‘someone’ may find it useful.
Click on Rochelle, to discover the background of Friday Fictioneers. More 100 word stories on this photo-prompt are available HERE.
The musty smell of antiquity evokes my engrained fear of Grandma Louise. I see a porcelain pan, and I retch. Mornings, I had flushed grandma’s contents down the outside toilet.
I wander junk markets conflicted with angry and fond memories, to relive my chaotic childhood. The Bible that bruised my skull, the flea infested shawl for winter huddles. The horn handled stick with which Grandma beat sense into me. In a cruel way, she was loving and kind, and a penniless old hag with an infectious laughter that endeared forgiveness.
She left me a landscape, a ‘Constable’. Thank you, Grandma.
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.
This week’s Friday-Fictioneers photo-prompt from Trish Nankeville is of wonderful flowers, which I understand are native to Western Australia. My first impression was that they were inside out, as the external stamen give the red bulbs the appearance of pin-cushions. Thank you to Trish for the picture and, as always, thank you Rochelle for bringing such interesting subjects to our attention.
More story contributions are available to read on this link HERE.
The Eco-system Revenge
The marauders striped the apples and pears from his garden. They mocked his flowers. Pretty useless, like you old man, and they kicked and stamped on him before they left.
Ceres looked up and saw his bees among the stamen of the Hakea. He smiled. Venerated for his knowledge, he had regenerated an eco-system of life into a dead planet. But his Earth’s wisdom seemed forgotten as a myopic dictator took control of Centauri which retarded into a dystopian panic.
Tomorrow, he will seal his eco-bubbles and order the Mantis to eliminate all humans and grind their bodies for fertiliser.
Thank you, Brenda for a wonderful picture of the variety of street food. I can recall the smells and the atmosphere. It is a lovely photo-prompt posted by Rochelle to challenge our writing for Friday-Fictioneers. More stories are ready to be read HERE.
Mo Tong Lai Cha 無糖奶茶 (Tea, Milk No Sugar)
My shirt clung to my skin as I weaved down Yau San Street, and I knocked against a basket of squirming snakes. The warm aroma of peanut oil drifted among whiffs of cooking chicken; salivating, I ignored my hungry protests. First the deal.
I saw her. Mai Ling sucking noodles, and she nodded. ‘Lai cha mo tong.’ She ordered for me. ‘Milk in tea, so British.’
I covertly slipped the passports into her bag, as a loose noodle struck her nose.
I twitched towards the observers. ‘My bankers,’ she said. ‘Drink your tea.’
Thank you, Rochelle, for one of your water colours as our Friday-Fictioneer prompt. I can recall when I was a child of the days running through the soft surf and collecting shells. Scrambling over rocks and poking around small pools was also lots of fun.
This week’s Friday-Fictioneers picture reminded me of the many wells and Spas of mineral water with their health and healing giving properties. I remember seeing a movie, Countess Dracula 1971, with Ingrid Pitt as the Countess Elizabeth Bathory. The film’s theme is about the loss of youth and beauty.
You may read more contributions to Friday-Fictioneer’s 100-word stories HERE.
Beneath the flagstones are the remains of Countess Bathory. Her body is encased in oak, and it taints the water seeping into the basin with her blood. Legend says she weeps for the souls of deceased virgins. I bless anyone who dares to drink from this source with longevity and eternal beauty.
The tour guide sprinkles salt into the glass, lifts her black veil and sips the water. The visitors gasp, and are enchanted by the radiance of their guide, with flawless skin and features of a mythical goddess.
Ladies, please buy your personalised Bathory water from the gift shop.
This week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt presents an idyllic suburban street where probably not a lot happens. Yet, I was drawn to the idea that every place has secrets that are best left buried, or you may think they should be dug up and exposed. You decide.
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting the site. More contributions can be accessed HERE.
Ils ne doivent jamais savoir
(They must never know)
Early morning is the safest time to exercise my dog. It is when the air is at its cleanest and I breathe in deep large gulps of freshness before the commuters start up their vehicles.
Everyone knows me, and a dawn walk is the best time to avoid conversations that pry into my health and show pity. Also, I’m afraid I’ll say something I regret when they suggest how my missing wife, Susan, will change her mind and come home soon.
They notice I spend every day digging in the garden, keeping it in full bloom, the way Susan would.