Teresa had buried three husbands and exhausted several lovers, but one night during an al-fresco tryst she caught a chill that segued into pneumonia.

When a thin hand adjusted her hospital pillows she wheezed, “Just let me die,” and a sepulchral voice replied, “As you wish.”
Teresa’s eyes snapped open to see the Gates beckoning, but when she peered through she saw all three husbands. By the smirks on their faces they had obviously compared notes.

As she backed away, Death said, “You can’t change your mind,” but Teresa fixed him with a glare her men knew well: “On your bike!”
PS. It has been pointed out to me that some of my readers need "On your bike" translated! It is an English idion that means "Go away now!" or a similar phrase of your choice.
Friday Fictioneers is an online group of writers who produce 100 words each week prompted by a hphootograph on this blog:
Do please follow the link on Rochelle's blog to read more FF flash fiction.


Hello Baby! - Friday Fiction


I screamed, Oh gods!
My kids are used to my habit of crying at every turn - but when something this enormous happens words simply fail me.
I made a cup of tea and lit every candle in the house, plus some incense sticks, and then went for a walk by the river - the energy was too much to contain.
My little girl is pregnant! My daughter's baby who she will share with her mother as only girls do.
My tears are carried away by the river  and I stop crying at last. I'll weep again when it's born!

This story was prompted by a photo on Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers website.


BREAKING POINT - 100 word story

Friday Fictioneers is a group of writers who write 100-word stories prompted by a photograph posted each week on Rochelle’s site
You can read all the other stories – free! – by following the link.

Here is this week's photo - and my story.


Everything revolves around those bloody sheep – even Colin’s birth took second place to Brian’s prize ewe’s twins, and I ended up bottle-feeding Colin with one hand and a lamb with the other.

Shearing time means cooking for an army of sheep-shit-covered helpers, and after thirty years I’ve had it up to here. 

So I've left Brian a note, planning to be well gone before he gets home, but I get stuck behind this tanker. I'm halfway past it when the flock appears, Brian walking at his usual funereal pace, and I can see his lips forming the words – “Going out, Lambkin?”



A couple of weeks ago these vast hoardings went up everywhere - this one is in our village. "Aha! Elections!" we said knowledgeably. We were right - our voting cards for the European elections arrived last week.

Then overnight the hoardings were divided by vertical lines, each section stencilled with the initials of a political party. We noted, as we have in the past, the unequal allocation of space for poster-sticking, and wondered again whether this division reflects past results, the expected outcome, or the income of the political candidate. 
(Living in Tenerife makes you cynical - one year we were invited to a free barbecue by one candidate. He seemed a decent chap so we voted for him!)

On these boards - they are identical all over the island - we have PP which we know is Partido Popular, TU which means nothing to us yet, CC which might be Coalicion Canarias, IUC = ?, and Resto = others.

I am tempted to vote for IUC out of pity - how the hell are they supposed to stick any posters at all on their pathetic little strip of hoarding?


SMELLY NELLIE - 100 word fiction

Each week members of Friday Fictioneers from around the world post their 100-word stories prompted by a photograph on Rochelle's blog. You can read the others by following the link on her blog:  http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
Meanwhile, here's mine.


The town didn’t take much notice of the bag-lady trundling her trolley-world along the promenade.
“One day my ship will come in,” she’d say when she collected her pension, but nobody listened. ‘Smelly Nellie’ they called her, but not to her face – it was rumoured she could freeze you with a glare if she’d a mind to.

Then one night some drunks staggering home along the seafront claimed they’d seen a UFO. The next day the only sign that Nellie had ever existed was her trolley lying empty on the sands.

It was strange how much they missed her.



One of the things that causes visitors to Tenerife to take a horrified step backwards is the Canarian habit of putting toilet paper in a bin rather than flushing it away.
When my daughter and her husband first came to live here they refused to use the mini-bin in their rented apartment because the idea disgusted them. Until their landlord, who lived downstairs, told them that he'd had to get the local equivalent of Dynorod in - the sewage pipes were not wide enough to cope with anything other than 'natural waste'.

The bar where we held our RBL meeting last night is obviously having similar problems.


SHROUD - A story in 100 words.


It was a village tradition – the candle that had illuminated Rosa’s mother’s coffin now burned at home. 

Rosa never snuffed out the flame, and the shroud of wax was allowed to grow unchecked. She believed her mother was still there while the candle lasted, so when Isaac lit his cigarette from it she was appalled.
“You disrespect Mama’s soul!”
“Superstitious rubbish – dead is dead.”

That night, while Rosa was visiting friends, the candle flickered in a zephyr breeze. A curtain blazed, a chair ignited, and Isaac saw the ghost of his mother-in-law - just before the smoke snuffed out his life.

If you enjoyed this story do please leave a comment so I know you've been, and do feel free to browse the rest of my blog.
Friday Fictioneers is an online world-wide group of writers who use a photograph to prompt stories in just 100 words. Visit Rochelle's blog to read this week's other stories.