25/10/2017

MOVING MUM IN - a story in one hundred words

MOVING MUM IN

“It’s a lovely room, dear.” Judy’s lack of enthusiasm was palpable.
Penny took her hand. “What’s wrong, Mum? I thought you were happy to be moving in with us, and you can’t live alone any longer.”
“Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. It feels like a step nearer the grave.”

Penny put a gentle arm round Judy’s shoulder and turned her towards the window. “See that sky? Sunset isn’t the end of the day – it’s just the beginning of evening. Now let’s have a cup of tea while we decide where to hang your pictures.”
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Roger Bultot's photo made me think of other kinds of sunsets and, as my own Mum will shortly be moving in with my brother, this story almost wrote itself.
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/ from whence you can follow the link to read other sunset stories.

18/10/2017

TREE - a poem for Friday Fictioneers

TREE

A tree is always there –
immovable,
a living solid friend –
backrest to the solitary reader,
a shelter from sudden rain,
the hollows of its roots
a bed for summer lovers –
perhaps a hundred years
of memories.

You don’t expect
to wake one morning
and find its height
reduced to length,
the secret places
in its roots
indecently exposed,
and the unreachable boughs
sad and defeated
under your caressing hand.

When a tree falls
your whole world rocks
and the child in you
trembles.

It’s like coming downstairs
in the dark night
seeking comfort,
and hearing your father cry.
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On seeing Sandra Crook's photograph of a weeping tree, I immediately thought of this poem which I wrote thirty years ago in 1987, the year a hurricane tore down far too many beautiful trees across the south of England. As we have just had another big storm, it seems appropriate to post it here. And it has the requisite number of words!
You can see other 100 word stories via https://rochellewisoff.com/


12/10/2017

EMPTY NEST - a hundred word story

EMPTY NEST

That garden shed was a bone of contention from day one.
He wanted a man-cave to store his tools, while I envisaged a quiet retreat for writing. Grudgingly, we shared the space, each snarling when disturbed by the other.

Until sparrows converted his crusty, gnarled gardening glove into a nest. Stealthy as thieves, we watched noisy hatchlings feed and fledge. Indulgent, we brought insect gifts and wiped their crap off tools and books, naming each baby.

Then one morning they flew out to claim the sky.
We cleaned up silently, united in our grief, as bereft as university parents.
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog   https://rochellewisoff.com/  and to Douglas MacIlroy for the photo prompt.
I was away last week for three days, celebrating my daughter's birthday in Ireland, and did not visit as many other FF blogs as usual, for which I apologise. Must try to do better, as the teachers used to say - perhaps they still do?

04/10/2017

TROOP SHIP - a hundred words

TROOP SHIP 1939

“It’s no worse than when we went fishing that time,” Albie said, holding Bert’s belt as the troopship lurched into another trough.
“I were sick then too, remember?” Bert said, heaving up more of his breakfast.
Albie parked his whey-faced friend under a companionway and left him there while he walked the deck. The dark grey waves lifted and fell all the way to a horizon almost as grey, needles of spray lacerated his cheeks, and the deck was slimy with spume and vomit, but Albie pulled in deep lungfuls of the salty wind and laughed with sheer exhilaration.
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I believe this is the first time I've posted an extract from a book, but the mind of a writer is a strange land, and Ted Strutz's photo of a modern ferry took me to a scene from Helter-Skelter - a novel I am hoping to get published. I had to cut the little scene severely to fit, but I hope it shows how much Albie loves the wild tooth and claw of Nature.


Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  You can follow the link from there to read other interpretations of the prompt.