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.
I am amazed how the BMW in Liz Young’s photo-prompt does not appear to have any damage, considering the wall and railings are in pieces.
You can read more Friday Fictioneer’s contributions and stories here.
She drives wearing high heels, rummages in her handbag and, at junctions, if she stops, she has to text the kids. When we are in the car, she will nag at me. You missed the kids’ school play and games day–-a crime in her eyes. The traffic accident held me up. I didn’t get home until midnight. Apparently, I never liked her Mum. Hell! the poor lady died before we met.
You are wearing the wrong shirt, and Martha will comment on it.
I always admire the skill and patience it takes to handcraft art that produces aesthetic pleasure and brightens up our lives. Even more so when the item is an antique with a checkered history. This week’s picture reminds me of wandering through street flea markets and searching in curiosity shops for nothing in particular.
Carla, me and Joey loved Old Hickory’s shop. We spent Saturday afternoons enchanted by the curiosities. To us, every item oozed a magical secret.
Old Hickory frightened us with murderous tales of the polished pirate’s chest. Full of gold. He grinned. Inside is a world of dangerous dreams, and he laughed like Bluebeard himself.
One day, lifting the creaking lid, we took a peek, and heard Hickory cough and spit in the backroom.
No, we said, but Carla climbed inside looking for adventure. Don’t tell, she giggled.
For years now, Joey and me, we have stood outside praying for Carla.
Caroline shivered, and she pulled up her hood. She staggered and used the wall to steady herself. Was she the only one who saw it? The tower floated away up into the clouds.
So many people talking; the noise. She pulled her scarf over her face; no one will recognise her. At last, she dared to walk along the street and she felt proud.
She had quivered locking her apartment door, but she forced herself out to restore some self-confidence.
A child began screaming; was she the only one who heard it?
She fled with her chest gasping in agony.
Brad grabbed the ladder and jumped onto the rung. He pulled himself onto the wagon. He swung the rucksack off his back and sat.
Freight-hopping was not comfortable, but the airports and rail stations were under surveillance by Grego’s thugs.
He felt the USB stick in his jacket pocket as reassurance. His undercover duty was over and tomorrow he will resign from the FBI.
He thought of baby Rosanne who had not seen for two years. She will walk and talk now and likely not recognise him.
Carla wants a divorce. He said no.
Hell! They need the money.
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.