tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78724364583161037842024-03-18T06:51:30.106+00:00lizy-writesAN OLD BIRD'S EYE VIEWliz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.comBlogger840125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-18091379994000575112024-03-13T15:12:00.000+00:002024-03-13T15:12:12.415+00:00A MIDNIGHT SWIM<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjua_TEgAQlQqCBzU-bs-yUr6WrO-BCn7UsEO8cjItDpPn9t6hM-Asu0JC3i2ucXeayT0eyoXlz4oCYU5Y03XVJWEw4SAlPwBJ_jNtvfX6M8n8PXJkPTk0xrvRdgash7z8kgLWSioz8nQgiuED-jSizbEuYt5MwIcVVhPqF_510cHnh2Vewfe5NuxsUzUkA/s1728/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1728" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjua_TEgAQlQqCBzU-bs-yUr6WrO-BCn7UsEO8cjItDpPn9t6hM-Asu0JC3i2ucXeayT0eyoXlz4oCYU5Y03XVJWEw4SAlPwBJ_jNtvfX6M8n8PXJkPTk0xrvRdgash7z8kgLWSioz8nQgiuED-jSizbEuYt5MwIcVVhPqF_510cHnh2Vewfe5NuxsUzUkA/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><b><u>A MIDNIGHT SWIM</u></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;">They couldn't resist the lure of a free concert, and</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;"> the waiter
told them bikinis and sarongs were the norm. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;">Starting on the vodka in their
hotel, they mixed generous slugs into bottles of Coke, and went to the beach.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It was heaving with party-goers, the music loud, the atmosphere electric as they </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;">danced on sand that still radiated the day’s heat.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;">Lights sparkling on the sea looked different at night – mysterious and hypnotic. Dropping their sarongs, they slid naked into its silken coolness.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;">Beach cleaners found their sarongs at dawn.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;">.................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;"><i>The dangers of mixing alcohol and the sea - many lives each year are lost this way.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0cm;"><i>Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and for this week's photo prompt. You can read other stories, or write your own and join in, by following the Froggie Trail from her blog: </i></span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><i>https://rochellewisoff.com/</i></span></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-21452686449514468962024-03-07T16:56:00.000+00:002024-03-07T16:56:21.432+00:00SAY IT WITH FLOWERS<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="line-height: 150%;">SAY IT
WITH FLOWERS<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">After I’d posted something
controversial on </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">social media the hatred and threatening</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIT3zDhrKWbhsxbKxHyVQd6hGFvYe0IAv5V9sbi0ip-_jtQ-GQGGdgW5CYVrc44rhomyGduZYIq2FxRcoNU-74QQvUem7ySx74_dznpRYFE6pu67BqsusnLnVhqxh_1N2qdCNgA8Ws4lWL_wAuNjxs4uzAWWdVP5BvV-x-17vS8SMF6Dp_NzJ5onqsg1I/s4608/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4608" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIT3zDhrKWbhsxbKxHyVQd6hGFvYe0IAv5V9sbi0ip-_jtQ-GQGGdgW5CYVrc44rhomyGduZYIq2FxRcoNU-74QQvUem7ySx74_dznpRYFE6pu67BqsusnLnVhqxh_1N2qdCNgA8Ws4lWL_wAuNjxs4uzAWWdVP5BvV-x-17vS8SMF6Dp_NzJ5onqsg1I/w320-h272/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>comments had spiralled
out of control, so the flowers were a pleasant surprise when I got home that
evening.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I didn’t recognise the scrawled
signature, but I fetched a trowel and planted them in my window box, then picked
up the watering can. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">An unexpected odour wafted up –
someone had filled it with petrol! That could have ruined all my plants, I
thought, putting it down carefully. Really, this was going too far.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Then the grey box under the tap began
to tick.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">...................................................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><i>Another image, another 100 word story. I have so many stored on file that I may have to make a book of them! Thanks to Rochelle for keeping all of her Friday Fictioneer flock supplied with inspiration, and to Rowena Curtin for the photograph. A friend who came to tea earlier today brought me flowers, but her intentions were purer than the giver of those in my story!</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGkYObDgXxhr4fpuDPb2vxebv7wGlTEk2pmHzS3hVNcTFUHzR3EiPB0mOK3Lnqxvm4ZRNZYupI0ufGFqm7u8iWrB5TEM8R2YhyphenhyphenuJgrZf7-AVe-4H7yzR9iFKo6Q5TpMN_1D1H_28TXEXsn4PKFUoctTc73dNtGJX1ZLNXRDzyg1llFinz1VsX1JVyTxK9/s4080/Book%20covers%201.9.23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGkYObDgXxhr4fpuDPb2vxebv7wGlTEk2pmHzS3hVNcTFUHzR3EiPB0mOK3Lnqxvm4ZRNZYupI0ufGFqm7u8iWrB5TEM8R2YhyphenhyphenuJgrZf7-AVe-4H7yzR9iFKo6Q5TpMN_1D1H_28TXEXsn4PKFUoctTc73dNtGJX1ZLNXRDzyg1llFinz1VsX1JVyTxK9/s320/Book%20covers%201.9.23.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="line-height: 150%;"><i>AND as it's World Book Day today, allow me to remind you that I have a slew of books for sale on Amazon. Here's a picture of them all to nudge you into buying mode!<br /></i></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><i>Or, for my local followers, a reminder that all seven of my novels can now be borrowed from the library.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><i>...</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Happy gardening!</span></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-85846842050196274542024-02-29T15:09:00.000+00:002024-02-29T15:09:16.192+00:00A WHOLE YEAR<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRPtoH4hgKWEAzmSYlonbuj-e5zzrfoGT7KJDbSqQkbAS6pfzGjvsLW8Ak_IKcF8W3y0um2HVit9qQ36nzWPOasJbFDNI375xhme3dy2BhEAA2Z3LoANgxzuk_5nOqGWsQV9k57DWizbhyD4rIZofoXcg2-V4ZP8Sb7RZ4_gey39jA2td2oKazHfqvm_-E/s4032/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1904" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRPtoH4hgKWEAzmSYlonbuj-e5zzrfoGT7KJDbSqQkbAS6pfzGjvsLW8Ak_IKcF8W3y0um2HVit9qQ36nzWPOasJbFDNI375xhme3dy2BhEAA2Z3LoANgxzuk_5nOqGWsQV9k57DWizbhyD4rIZofoXcg2-V4ZP8Sb7RZ4_gey39jA2td2oKazHfqvm_-E/s320/ff.jpg" width="151" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A
WHOLE YEAR<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s been a whole year since Pete
disappeared.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A year of running the farm alone, getting
a second job to put food on the table, and answering the children’s questions the
best I could.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The scars have healed now and a kind
of peace has descended, but I couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever turn up. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Then I turn the TV on this morning
and there’s a news flash.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A picture of Pete’s car being hauled
out of the river.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I really thought they’d never find him,
but he’ll be bones by now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Nothing to worry about.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">.............................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>Thanks to Fleur Lind for the photo that prompts this week's slew of stories from Friday Fictioneers. To read them all, follow the frog link from </i></span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><i>https://rochellewisofffields.files.wordpress.com/2024/02/from-fleur.jpg</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-80565754195792069972024-02-22T17:53:00.000+00:002024-02-22T17:53:36.841+00:00TRAIL BLAZERS<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbqoGkX85lsUGbGwwFYPat1I6hyJIKEf4hbueGhIr3kRYRHnWGzIUsFsMoEpSVT0QGpwDva-yEBA5L7Hre2owzqSXI-mC3mHGChkX1yBX75V9HehPR3-0aeV96_ZPjcvUmfvGuXLVVTu69RKq1Ha8UvO9MdrU156-BUV9B5sURLB0KpwkUqzD_yXVu8jD/s640/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbqoGkX85lsUGbGwwFYPat1I6hyJIKEf4hbueGhIr3kRYRHnWGzIUsFsMoEpSVT0QGpwDva-yEBA5L7Hre2owzqSXI-mC3mHGChkX1yBX75V9HehPR3-0aeV96_ZPjcvUmfvGuXLVVTu69RKq1Ha8UvO9MdrU156-BUV9B5sURLB0KpwkUqzD_yXVu8jD/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u>TRAIL BLAZERS<o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They piled out of the car and the kids raced through the
house to find Granpa.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Hey Granpa, what’s that old wagon doing here?’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘To remind us how lucky we are. Look around – what do you
see?’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘The usual stuff – your home, the pool, Mum cooking with
Granma.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Exactly. A house with a kitchen, enough water to swim in.
But my Great-granpa arrived here in a wagon like that one. All their goods,
beds included. They had to find water and light a fire before cooking dinner.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘That’s ancient history!’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Not that ancient – it was only five generations back from
you.’<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">.........................................................................................................</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>We should remind ourselves occasionally how far we have come - and in a relatively short time. I live in a cottage that only had a bathroom installed in the 1950s, and still has the old outside toilet. The cottage has two small bedrooms in which previous families have raised families of half a dozen or more children!</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Thanks to Alicia Jamtaas for the photograph that Rochelle chose this week. You can read how others interpreted the image by following the frog link from her blog https://rochellewisoff.com/</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-56125222922395019312024-02-14T17:49:00.000+00:002024-02-14T17:49:20.776+00:00WINTER SCHOOL<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">WINTER
SCHOOL<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Winters were colder in my childhood. Even in England snowdrifts were deep
enough to dig a cave, snowmen were huge, and it was worth making a sled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8MIvcm-jqiC1HHITgARWvrUhMvruyMHuTf2gebm_RpoEhTUQos314ww7JEq_jp_gKERpWY0_wFLLwH6p4PR973XumxSuk_0QuFFgsji_y2v-pxTUoXrBnt_pBYQoF3bL17F6E0miYbHzf-LRGn8nNdltrF4labgdL9IrgtaUfxenSg8Xs-O-fTz6fEzk/s2048/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1455" data-original-width="2048" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8MIvcm-jqiC1HHITgARWvrUhMvruyMHuTf2gebm_RpoEhTUQos314ww7JEq_jp_gKERpWY0_wFLLwH6p4PR973XumxSuk_0QuFFgsji_y2v-pxTUoXrBnt_pBYQoF3bL17F6E0miYbHzf-LRGn8nNdltrF4labgdL9IrgtaUfxenSg8Xs-O-fTz6fEzk/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The walk to school was hazardous, the pain as chilblains
thawed out was horrendous, but the best part was playtime.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The top end of the playground became a skating rink, where
the most adventurous created slides. A run to pick up speed before you entered twenty
yards of ice, your feet and body poised to reach the end without falling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember the thrill to this day – the bruises are long
forgotten!<br /><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> ................................................................................................</o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><i>See that shining line in the snow? It's probably thawed, but it could be one of those ice slides of my distant youth. Did they cause broken bones? Probably, but all I remember is the fun. Children shouldn't be too molly-coddled anyway, though no doubt these days such sport would be banned by a health and safety inspector. </i></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><i>Thanks to Dale for the photo and, as always, to Rochelle for hosting FF.</i></o:p></span></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-50684050733112844712024-02-08T12:39:00.018+00:002024-02-08T13:11:17.529+00:00ON THE PIER<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRChgEyu5I7w4tjkm5xdUKnPB2a4JWScARM_Cwt6pgLZjQAZLX8yV5-b2Hy2afvcevIhQ-XzLKxZvqyvuYbyFXz7p20byIx_Dx8WLc5C9kvD3kbcmrNAJaH-FeH_LreRL5pwAiOsRid84oJ7LECDSdMboA0Tn74QSe2S31PT7MDmKOHDUJ1KnsYffJTgQ/s1280/ff.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="1280" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRChgEyu5I7w4tjkm5xdUKnPB2a4JWScARM_Cwt6pgLZjQAZLX8yV5-b2Hy2afvcevIhQ-XzLKxZvqyvuYbyFXz7p20byIx_Dx8WLc5C9kvD3kbcmrNAJaH-FeH_LreRL5pwAiOsRid84oJ7LECDSdMboA0Tn74QSe2S31PT7MDmKOHDUJ1KnsYffJTgQ/s320/ff.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN-US">ON THE PIER</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Luke and Gerald had been playing ‘dodge-the-waves’ on
the pier steps when the sea suddenly increased in strength, and now Luke was holding
on desperately with one arm. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN-US">As a huge wave swamped Luke, lifting him like a
piece of flotsam, </span>Albie swung down the ladder onto the fishing platform and
lunged to catch the child by his jacket, then climbed the step to the upper level
where he handed Luke over to his shocked father.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘That gypsy boy is a brave lad,’ someone said, and
George beamed with pride. His adopted son’s acceptance by the pier community
was assured.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN-US">.....................................................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Peter Abbey's photo gives me the opportunity to use an extract from one of my books! Thanks are also due to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her site </i></span><i>https://rochellewisoff.com/ from where you can follow the froggy link to read other stories - or even to join our select group!</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><i>Incidentally, this story of a near-disaster is based on truth - my little brother was nearly swept off a breakwater when I, as a teenager, took him down to the beach on Brighton. I just caught him in time!</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuvnjOQnckaxEnXqCxOcKtAqRTKjs_xeQDAHzEggpPWd73h8jWbKTvmEehtHD-FPQvpynOML1hc4izn32b0eBRWzqjjivQ4eayfO7ZMtsRG7-KKIzK3vNhk6fwa3WdX868GNlQfJCWNIKkyKMuy5k19Y8jpvBoswknWkjeR_aDaxcjeeIYV5J1PW53NHd/s500/HS%20cover.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><i style="text-align: left;">My novel HELTER-SKELTER is the story of Albie, a gypsy boy adopted by the owner of a helter-skelter on a pier in Kent, UK, and tells of his growing up in the years before WW2 and his subsequent war service. You can buy the book and its sequel </i><span style="text-align: left;">CAROUSEL </span><i style="text-align: left;">from Amazon.</i></a></i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Helter-Skelter-Elizabeth-Young/dp/1717344755/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1530437977&sr=1-10&keywords=Helter-Skelter">Helter-Skelter: Amazon.co.uk: Elizabeth Young: 9781717344755: Books</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -1.1pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-pagination: none;"><br /></p><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-25110625396510543322024-01-24T19:01:00.000+00:002024-01-24T19:01:39.343+00:00BRAMBLE JELLY<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBBwOZCUYyhtIKPBLv2mJYBq6V4s09z4n5OrNajr1Om8sAAUt-5wT7TUNBMaiXD-hzfz6XN_bsR4uxSdzamq6UUWNZD-H5r7MIQx9Na3JskiqFynks1TFGkJD2gEkguxfuZVboWJXwZaujquZnte_Ws3ctwzY2aqTTdl77PLvoAJHFwfp1gQ37oJGffUI/s3264/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBBwOZCUYyhtIKPBLv2mJYBq6V4s09z4n5OrNajr1Om8sAAUt-5wT7TUNBMaiXD-hzfz6XN_bsR4uxSdzamq6UUWNZD-H5r7MIQx9Na3JskiqFynks1TFGkJD2gEkguxfuZVboWJXwZaujquZnte_Ws3ctwzY2aqTTdl77PLvoAJHFwfp1gQ37oJGffUI/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0cm;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>BRAMBLE JELLY</u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">The steps opposite the bakery led to the very
best blackberries, but everyone knew they were reserved for Old Betty - it was said her
bramble jelly would cure everything from coughs to cancer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">Trudi, recently arrived in the village, scoffed,
“Peasant nonsense!” and set out with visions of blackberry-and-apple crumble
for dinner. She picked fast, the brambles parted easily to let her reach the
plumpest berries, and her basket was soon full. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">Wearing a self-satisfied smirk
she turned to leave, but there was no way out of the thicket.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">The villagers all agreed Old Betty’s bramble
jelly was even more effective that year.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">...................................................................................................................</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><i>And the moral is...don't mess with tradition, especially if you're a newcomer!</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><i>I've used an old story this week as I'm busy editing my next book, but I couldn't ignore Rochelle's photo. If it wasn't for the red barns we could be in England, but our barns are either brick, weathered timber or corrugated iron, and I've never seen a red one!</i></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-15632124133296399072024-01-03T15:57:00.016+00:002024-01-03T16:02:42.370+00:00THREE KINGS<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXfq8c30qkL7VUbOeC7VpFASLokQM9cIvMF19piGhxX_90C2ajSnlkiJHWh7s7hwyPT7ij1TZzf1ZoxxNn7bw2T0eCl1IE0f2-GpTqG1CJbMi4iZzxq5CfFRe4WBhvPw6VKp_5B9mi2bXN_deh6izwsh-rknB9A7w-VXzk3pGzC7Jzb4ILBMOJZyVz-_V/s2048/ff.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXfq8c30qkL7VUbOeC7VpFASLokQM9cIvMF19piGhxX_90C2ajSnlkiJHWh7s7hwyPT7ij1TZzf1ZoxxNn7bw2T0eCl1IE0f2-GpTqG1CJbMi4iZzxq5CfFRe4WBhvPw6VKp_5B9mi2bXN_deh6izwsh-rknB9A7w-VXzk3pGzC7Jzb4ILBMOJZyVz-_V/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">THREE KINGS<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’d like to meet this child born to be king of the Jews,”
Caesar said, “You can tell me where to find him when you return.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The wise men went on their way, following the star, found
the child king and presented their gifts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">That night one said, “Caesar seemed overanxious to find this
king.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“We should return another way,” said another.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“That road is a morass in the rainy season,” the third said, “but
you’re right – we mustn’t trust Caesar.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">When they didn’t return, Caesar killed every male baby in the
region, but Joseph had already taken his family home.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">.......................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>A hundred words aren't enough to give this part of the story justice - how the Three Kings stopped at Caesar's palace overnight and told him about their journey. How Caesar didn't want any Jewish king stirring up trouble and, in the hope of killing Jesus, slew every male child under two years old. The Romans were unyielding masters in the lands they conquered. Thirty years later the priests denied Jesus was their king anyway, so all those babies died for nothing.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>January 6th is Epiphany - known as Dia de los Reyes in Tenerife, where it was traditionally the day to exchange gifts. Now Christmas Day has become more universal, but in towns Los Tres Reyes - the Three Kings - ride through the streets on camels or horses, throwing sweets to the crowds.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Dale Rogerson took the photo which reminded me of those my daughter takes on her doggy walks in Northern Ireland - it rains a lot there too! </i></span></p><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-46812187268795776022023-12-20T16:50:00.002+00:002023-12-20T16:59:18.691+00:00ANY ROOF WILL DO<p> <span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><u style="font-weight: bold;">ANY ROOF
WILL DO</u> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9arl-6QO48d9SVtEoXhrwNgNyedJnqGm6nb3czSwKWuw3hZHjfgtPrd61OpGgDKLoBeUII_dsDZPrwIFdmRgO86MAF8BTkTO9RfhBNX-Y1SlDsdSwqDlJq4J4sz7Zg1nNlNzCDDMl9av1a9GNHFWapQZ5tRurrqKgR1SgvblUOZSplJyxPxbDn1cZOAKH/s1245/ff.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1245" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9arl-6QO48d9SVtEoXhrwNgNyedJnqGm6nb3czSwKWuw3hZHjfgtPrd61OpGgDKLoBeUII_dsDZPrwIFdmRgO86MAF8BTkTO9RfhBNX-Y1SlDsdSwqDlJq4J4sz7Zg1nNlNzCDDMl9av1a9GNHFWapQZ5tRurrqKgR1SgvblUOZSplJyxPxbDn1cZOAKH/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Joseph couldn’t
find a room anywhere in Bethlehem – the census had pushed prices sky-high.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Their weary
donkey saved the day, heading unerringly for the scent of straw in some stables,
where Joseph spread his cloak and lifted Mary down. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">They were just in time, for
her child was born soon after.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">With the breath
of cattle keeping them warm, they were nearly asleep when the shepherds found
them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“The angel
sent us here,” they said, “but why is the King lying in a stable?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“You wouldn’t
have been allowed into a palace,” Mary replied. “Here everyone is welcome.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">.....................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>As I do every year I have tried to portray the birth of Christ in human terms. It is well-documented historic fact, but can you imagine what a journey that must have been for Mary, nine months pregnant, being dragged across country to the town of Joseph's birth, just to register in a census demanded by the governing Romans? They were fortunate to find a roof at all. But then - whisper it - the Gospels were written by men, who didn't consider such details worth recording!</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>This story comes with my good wishes for a happy Christmas and a peaceful 2024 - all over the world, as well as in the land of Jesus' birth.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i> Thanks to Rowena for this week's photo prompt and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers so indefatiguably for umpteen years.</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-40175880622588977852023-12-14T15:32:00.000+00:002023-12-14T15:32:16.447+00:00LA CUEVA<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFvsguc4NVN8otELnMhgtZwo_qDsvgq3ROxDrUNEd84qOLKzAb1OPBCBDh9HwFZ4YUVPKyyows0X5NilERQ2J6-p5n4ySvpPkvVkqRiKvkDbBhqzvlCLqYwza8VtLcbYwsLdHTMrhrb5OyuU2zRnyURuR6_XCFBB0Bl9uPe_ITDnlK_3Fu7CtK21w4XDk/s4032/ff.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFvsguc4NVN8otELnMhgtZwo_qDsvgq3ROxDrUNEd84qOLKzAb1OPBCBDh9HwFZ4YUVPKyyows0X5NilERQ2J6-p5n4ySvpPkvVkqRiKvkDbBhqzvlCLqYwza8VtLcbYwsLdHTMrhrb5OyuU2zRnyURuR6_XCFBB0Bl9uPe_ITDnlK_3Fu7CtK21w4XDk/s320/ff.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><b><u>LA CUEVA de SAN PEDRO</u></b><p></p><p>Pedro de Betancourt, born in Villaflor, Tenerife in 1626, spent his adult years as a missionary in Guatemala, where he founded a hospital for the poor.</p><p>He died in 1667 aged 41. In 2002 he was canonized by the Pope - there was great rejoicing in Tenerife, where we were living at the time.</p><p>The cave where he sheltered as a young shepherd is now a shrine which people visit to ask Hermano Pedro's help or to give thanks, and to light a candle. The cracks in the cave walls are stuffed with handwritten prayers, including one of mine.</p><p>It is a peaceful spot, but not always, as it lies at the end of Tenerife's runway. When the wind dictates landings over the shrine, the sound of planes can batter you into the ground!</p><p>...........................................................................</p><p><i>This is one website where you can read more about Hermano Pedro's short life. https://elmedanoweb.com/en/hiking/hermano-pedro-cave-peter-de-betancurt/ </i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTKIBnaaJW5uBu-9x9mVoziG3sbSjsEQaLgGfG2xJ486ZAS9Rp0mnaVDAYfL58-OLeLNzyVVImSpgOBXxQkVwicaSp9OxUzb72joVAOikVBtvpnldfFTkeEiKi-9RAI3RVJ920AlsYZzIuDqjcdUR_Tkf1_J1Xc5vkte5r25jG6T8KDM-dVNe3nFgJTScf/s1360/Hermano%20Pedro%20cueva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="1360" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTKIBnaaJW5uBu-9x9mVoziG3sbSjsEQaLgGfG2xJ486ZAS9Rp0mnaVDAYfL58-OLeLNzyVVImSpgOBXxQkVwicaSp9OxUzb72joVAOikVBtvpnldfFTkeEiKi-9RAI3RVJ920AlsYZzIuDqjcdUR_Tkf1_J1Xc5vkte5r25jG6T8KDM-dVNe3nFgJTScf/w320-h204/Hermano%20Pedro%20cueva.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><i>Thanks to Susan Rouchard whose photograph conjured up this memory, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, even through Hanukkah.</i></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-91986063860464502702023-12-07T17:33:00.001+00:002023-12-07T17:33:14.893+00:00HOUSEPROUD<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7wYDUICk8ehKA7qbPPsXCK0iS3DxQxUjIzQZbi032fs3_l7oBOoMl_iFqhzSJi3avL7BXjARVISoIHsshIISS70fj4Ln-3ItamkgvBC5d7VS8KA-_MvABKXXw_wFUpVPeNWWaoYO3qMu9B2Bcms8A_e7t_vqA4HMB8q_bZEdUxCvRhEbj6izKOhInIGT/s1857/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1857" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7wYDUICk8ehKA7qbPPsXCK0iS3DxQxUjIzQZbi032fs3_l7oBOoMl_iFqhzSJi3avL7BXjARVISoIHsshIISS70fj4Ln-3ItamkgvBC5d7VS8KA-_MvABKXXw_wFUpVPeNWWaoYO3qMu9B2Bcms8A_e7t_vqA4HMB8q_bZEdUxCvRhEbj6izKOhInIGT/w640-h221/ff.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">HOUSEPROUD<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Josie was awfully proud of her home<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">so everyone took off their shoes<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">at the door, though the smell of their socks<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">was a downside of her houseproud rules.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After one party her guests had all gone<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">and she tidied the hallway, to find<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">that a pair of red boots with white fur round the top<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">had mistakenly been left behind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then a jolly, fat man with a big, booming voice<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">appeared from the garden out back:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten to put on my boots<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">and I wonder – have you seen my sack?’<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.........................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Failing inspiration for a regular story, I dashed off a ten-minute seasonal poem this week, prompted by Ted Strutz's photo - if this is his hallway, he must have a large family!</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and Happy Hanukka to my friends, especially to those who celebrate it.</i></span></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-50460147910169832272023-11-30T15:20:00.000+00:002023-11-30T15:20:17.435+00:00FIXING UP OLD CARS<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht-HtyE_qlRb347xKgPJhpftkNaJRTUOU-6u9MWXqlH3XVdRllO6zs9xYg7ZVXfEK8VbQTn-IXjQsIYHEUfhrKZOvkrzDngan_Bupsy6Yg-jDQhvO7j7VdD25Q01zr5zwUqJRyxT8Cv8sVEr6RQoK30rKb00cM3vyzzf8D-3dAkZGDPkR8ectm2-NurP_P/s4032/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht-HtyE_qlRb347xKgPJhpftkNaJRTUOU-6u9MWXqlH3XVdRllO6zs9xYg7ZVXfEK8VbQTn-IXjQsIYHEUfhrKZOvkrzDngan_Bupsy6Yg-jDQhvO7j7VdD25Q01zr5zwUqJRyxT8Cv8sVEr6RQoK30rKb00cM3vyzzf8D-3dAkZGDPkR8ectm2-NurP_P/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">FIXING
UP OLD CARS<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Billie loved fixing up old cars, and Lauren tolerated his
expensive hobby until he bought a tenth one. The entire street heard the ensuing
row. The next day he was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Good riddance,” Lauren said and celebrated by inviting all
the neighbours to a barbecue. The food was delicious.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Several barbecues later Bill still hadn’t returned, and
Lauren had converted the cars into garden features.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How do you grow such gorgeous flowers?” her friends asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lauren inhaled the scent from a fragrant bloom. “Bone meal –
lots of bone meal.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>...................................................................................................<p></p><p><i>*Evil cackle*</i></p><p><i>Thanks are due to Fleur Lind (such an appropriate name!) for the photo that prompts this week's stories from Friday Fictioneers, which is led by our esteemed leader Rochelle on her blog https://rochellewisoff.com/ </i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-69898023385566440432023-11-23T18:24:00.006+00:002023-11-23T18:28:23.028+00:00WALLS<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiag8kdfq7PUzvTz_5o_Vwkl_-MXt-asX47ZqHkltvizIEs0yIF8JLMcBMD0g8FnvJLkTALCJaCF3EhZp1cfn2l8iUl96cM69GB9UvT-S0fMjnxHhUQ8xGjwNyjbu505iSekuH4sigdz9oW_SnQUh92QMKFjWeBB-EdHkIsh3P1cA5N11MtYRI8r3EA4Rn7/s4032/ff.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiag8kdfq7PUzvTz_5o_Vwkl_-MXt-asX47ZqHkltvizIEs0yIF8JLMcBMD0g8FnvJLkTALCJaCF3EhZp1cfn2l8iUl96cM69GB9UvT-S0fMjnxHhUQ8xGjwNyjbu505iSekuH4sigdz9oW_SnQUh92QMKFjWeBB-EdHkIsh3P1cA5N11MtYRI8r3EA4Rn7/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">WALLS<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The walls were so ancient that even the graffiti was
protected. Children ran heedlessly past them to school, housewives climbed the
steps carrying bags of groceries, men walked along with their attention on their
phones.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">But Sarah noticed them. Sarah was old enough to have been
that schoolchild, that housewife, long ago. Now she walked slowly, trailing her
arthritic fingers over the old walls, feeling the weight of history, the grief
of many thousands who had died for possession of these walls, her menfolk among
them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">To Sarah each stone shrieked, ‘I am only stone – I am not
worth those lives!’<o:p></o:p></span></p>.............................................................................................<p></p><p><i>And still people are fighting over possession of places. Why cannot they live in peace, those who profess to love God? He is the same God, whatever we call Him, however we worship. Ask the mothers whether they think these wars deserve their children to be used as fodder.</i></p><p><i>Thanks are due to Rochelle for the photograph as well as for hosting Friday Fictioneers this week!</i></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-80008518267727404652023-11-18T16:28:00.000+00:002023-11-18T16:28:03.913+00:00SOME HOLIDAY!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyFv4MCHxMckP91SOZ6JRczkABp4LFyigvWOv9Jyz6vi-oT5xUu-Q6Ea4YUug2Y3dvtfmAzUSwvnCXlrBl4TzkeAozjk204OJzmdsgTBEpHy6tOpZ5e7Yi4he6zqYC_1Q7OxcXrqK9rGX5Op-k_enc1LoPs0uY8uBxKpcLFoprdonJO1S4cc-IvF5cT7Q/s851/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="851" data-original-width="559" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyFv4MCHxMckP91SOZ6JRczkABp4LFyigvWOv9Jyz6vi-oT5xUu-Q6Ea4YUug2Y3dvtfmAzUSwvnCXlrBl4TzkeAozjk204OJzmdsgTBEpHy6tOpZ5e7Yi4he6zqYC_1Q7OxcXrqK9rGX5Op-k_enc1LoPs0uY8uBxKpcLFoprdonJO1S4cc-IvF5cT7Q/s320/ff.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">SOME
HOLIDAY!<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It
looked so tempting, reading the advert at breakfast with rain lashing the
windows. “And cheap,” said Dave, “We can’t afford more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The
reality was worse than Joanne had feared. Granted, the beach was golden sand,
but it was covered in litter, the beds were alive with bugs, the food was
bland, and the dining area an uninviting outdoor space.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“What
did you expect?” Dave asked. “You said you needed a holiday.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Joanne
glared. “We’d have done better with day trips.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dave
left to vent his anger on the golf course.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Joanne
went off on the back of a waiter’s motorbike.<o:p></o:p></span></p>.......................................................................................<p></p><p><i>I was tempted to write about cages - I guess an uninspiring holiday might feel like a cage! </i></p><p><i>Thanks to Roger Bultot for the image and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers.</i></p><p><i>Today is my mother's 99th birthday, which seems a vast age. I, my brother, sister and their respective spouses, took Mum out for lunch yesterday. Today I visited her in her care home, taking flowers and some cheese and crackers for her to share with her fellow residents as a lunchtime treat. The Home will provide a cake at teatime, so she's being well looked after, despite her protests that she 'doesn't want anyone to make a fuss'!! </i></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-43996137827026815402023-11-10T16:16:00.002+00:002023-11-10T16:16:57.159+00:00AFTER THE PANDEMIC<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIzeUwvrfrCoHzpJkziudlCQzfcAOoTcPzyMVsNkf7_ZXwi4clp90951C8bGmKCtuvcY6_81D0ARz1N_kBe0WZZa5amDmBPdFAe4t9uMOEZV8PdgR8OoVp2nQzqTLVkZohkZmVB_DZxGtxaQ3qGCahpEOrb1n8OPQBB-MO2zHoFWGpjPR-KrzY0PtqGVw/s2048/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIzeUwvrfrCoHzpJkziudlCQzfcAOoTcPzyMVsNkf7_ZXwi4clp90951C8bGmKCtuvcY6_81D0ARz1N_kBe0WZZa5amDmBPdFAe4t9uMOEZV8PdgR8OoVp2nQzqTLVkZohkZmVB_DZxGtxaQ3qGCahpEOrb1n8OPQBB-MO2zHoFWGpjPR-KrzY0PtqGVw/s320/ff.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0cm;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>AFTER THE PANDEMIC<o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">It was deadlier than a nuclear blast – an
endless tsunami of viruses. Those few who didn’t die learned to hide, only venturing out at night to forage for food.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><o:p> Wild a</o:p><span style="text-indent: 0cm;">nimals invaded the towns with astonishing speed – pampered pets and abandoned children alike fell victim to
predators or turned feral.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">Within months the cities began to disappear
beneath foliage. Decorative trees cracked pavements in their search for water. Unchecked gardens and undergrowth reached though open windows to feed on unburied corpses. Mould consumed paper, fabric
and, eventually, even plastic.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">It was the end of civilisation – but not the
end of the world.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">..............................................................................</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><i>This could all too easily be the end of the human race. Certainly humanity, in the sense of caring for others, has disappeared already in many extremist groups. Religious differences, skin colour variations, and the prejudices we instill in our children, will seemingly never end. </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;">Thanks are due to David Stewart for the photograph and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 10.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0cm; text-indent: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-18131368303285473822023-10-27T10:17:00.000+01:002023-10-27T10:17:21.603+01:00SOUL MUSIC<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIqJdFeHCVvgHIhBhAX5_QsSltsgDwI7vDS5V6Kprpt-amr9e_P7Rwl3TRZBLAlae3GCtmamf2x3EnXknV87XL3bZT269cDNY_3bWF-i5ViPsrZvc70hbScyvUQg2xKL0U91ZVqbFlhONwbrx-HgmPhAOwxrXse8iRrflFuVooblz1euCLr7e-vWy3tuN/s831/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="627" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIqJdFeHCVvgHIhBhAX5_QsSltsgDwI7vDS5V6Kprpt-amr9e_P7Rwl3TRZBLAlae3GCtmamf2x3EnXknV87XL3bZT269cDNY_3bWF-i5ViPsrZvc70hbScyvUQg2xKL0U91ZVqbFlhONwbrx-HgmPhAOwxrXse8iRrflFuVooblz1euCLr7e-vWy3tuN/s320/ff.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">SOUL
MUSIC<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I’ve got no
money for such fripperies!’ Ma snapped, plonking a dented tin of beans on the
counter and demanding a discount.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Mr Harker
gave Ma her change. ‘Enough there for a penny whistle,’ he said, but Ma marched
out, Micky trailing behind her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Walking home
along the neighbour’s new fence, Ma found a discarded length of bamboo. ‘Here
you are, love,’ she said, ‘a peashooter.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But Micky
had a better idea. With his pocketknife and one of Pa’s discarded corks he made
himself a pipe - finally the music in his soul found a way to soar.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">....................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>Thanks to Rochelle for hosting FF for the past eleven years - eleven!! Also to Lisa Fox for the wintry image which prompts this week's raft of 100 word stories. To read the others, go to </i></span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><i>https://rochellewisoff.com/ and click on the frog.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><i>And I must dash - it's my morning at the chairty shop, which in half term is always busy, especially with children looking for bargains to make into Halloween costumes!</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-14391827586305766662023-10-19T16:54:00.000+01:002023-10-19T16:54:36.868+01:00HOME LEARNING<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZEFabcC9vRnjbdVfVdOnaYlFFLgmgAiwjJr64vtAKiXdSHBu1_Vtpvw8tNQWnfxdoQp2_lcSBYFJOipn4Cexxx3NOqQO1HGGW0m4Xu5m79-OlwRTfmVphesXeMjqXOZJxNFSRBMc9A41SpT5WOxSFnmFzT3L08EZ1uCkt6HHp6a93ohytTxk6b6KLF7b6/s830/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="830" data-original-width="610" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZEFabcC9vRnjbdVfVdOnaYlFFLgmgAiwjJr64vtAKiXdSHBu1_Vtpvw8tNQWnfxdoQp2_lcSBYFJOipn4Cexxx3NOqQO1HGGW0m4Xu5m79-OlwRTfmVphesXeMjqXOZJxNFSRBMc9A41SpT5WOxSFnmFzT3L08EZ1uCkt6HHp6a93ohytTxk6b6KLF7b6/s320/ff.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">HOME
LEARNING<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When raiders came they hid. The family was in peril from both
sides – blue didn’t marry green in the border lands.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No school would accept their blue-green children so Ma taught
them their letters, and that God was God whatever one’s religion.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pa’s lessons were more practical – tending the animals, sowing
and harvesting, swimming in the carefully maintained ditches. They needed that skill now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the deepest ditch they floated silently amongst the
reeds. When the torches came too close they sank beneath the surface, breathing
through hollow reeds and praying that the God of Everyone would bring peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">..........................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I have never understood how anyone can believe that religion justifies war. It is, in my opinion, terrorism masquerading as religion, though there will be those who disagree with me. That's fine too - civilised discussion is the proper way to air, and to celebrate, differences.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Enough of politics. Rochelle's choice of another of my photos must have wafted across the Atlantic to me, as I've been AWOL from FF for a few weeks. I have been working on my next novel, the first draft of which, I am pleased to say, I have finally managed to complete. It's title is - probably - 'The Two Wives of Steven Blake'. Now 'all' I have to do is reread it, expand it, and edit, edit, edit!!</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>............................................</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkrBNm8Nj8EJ6x83kkL_Vo27awfPN4-OJxJN-USgDVijAx54IPyP4RrctqP4HqmF5FXz2RE1Or3XGzLosghm_hwRRUaQnb2LlIzjdbKfFs4LbtCXB4e7ezikpzvTC-LHb_RDzuOvseerd1kjbkl6fvWUJHDa_O3Sa-DJoTHh4qdFqRnYieLqVuiKwAlcVI/s960/Glow%20Wild%202020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="487" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkrBNm8Nj8EJ6x83kkL_Vo27awfPN4-OJxJN-USgDVijAx54IPyP4RrctqP4HqmF5FXz2RE1Or3XGzLosghm_hwRRUaQnb2LlIzjdbKfFs4LbtCXB4e7ezikpzvTC-LHb_RDzuOvseerd1kjbkl6fvWUJHDa_O3Sa-DJoTHh4qdFqRnYieLqVuiKwAlcVI/w384-h487/Glow%20Wild%202020.jpg" width="384" /></a></i></div><i>The photograph is one of a group I took in a Glow Wild display three years ago, along with some of the last photos of my husband, so it holds poignantly happy memories.</i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Here is another one of us with our granddaughter.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /><i><br /></i></span></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-1446753706916066742023-09-28T19:23:00.001+01:002023-09-28T19:23:36.661+01:00MERMAIDS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwpEbKr6_Lq2ouMCKvMfG3rQ301zhOTUrQ_NIT0l4TiwkeOobhnpGC90Ej5pN3ea8fFk5X4HajwVTGT6suxZoyzMKIttjI_LnKhPU27cO95UoKiD6QO0HQ77Cz4JG7cDPhtRAKIMB5VXs1GXmeWlJqOvkScMIOplPSfDMYlhUO4Lift2ij10RuIVuJ0Jk/s2000/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwpEbKr6_Lq2ouMCKvMfG3rQ301zhOTUrQ_NIT0l4TiwkeOobhnpGC90Ej5pN3ea8fFk5X4HajwVTGT6suxZoyzMKIttjI_LnKhPU27cO95UoKiD6QO0HQ77Cz4JG7cDPhtRAKIMB5VXs1GXmeWlJqOvkScMIOplPSfDMYlhUO4Lift2ij10RuIVuJ0Jk/s320/ff.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><b><u>MERMAIDS</u></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Long ago I lived in a vicarage which had eight bedrooms but,
having been built when people weren’t so concerned with personal hygiene, only
one bathroom. Therefore if Pa was in the bath at our bedtime, we cleaned our
teeth in the cigarette-scented steamy room, with Pa making sure we brushed for
long enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One day I was scrubbing my teeth when he said, “You like painting, Lizy – paint me some
fish on that wall.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Several small pots of shiny paint later, a mural of four fish
of a kind unknown to Nature adorned the wall, together with some seaweed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Mum wouldn’t let Pa have a mermaid.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">...............................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Memory is an odd thing, and it gets odder as we get older. Jennifer Prendergast's photo should have led to a story about writing, or treasure chests, or toys on the floor, but my mind shot instantly back to my distant childhood, and the thrill of being asked to produce a permanent work of art. I can still see that mural, and smell the combination of steam and cigarette smoke that marked Pa's bathtime.</i></span></p><p><br /></p><p><b><u><br /></u></b></p><p><br /></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-32791988193939483862023-09-07T18:49:00.002+01:002023-09-07T19:14:37.834+01:00SUPPER WITH BANANAS<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <u style="font-weight: bold;">SUPPER WITH BANANAS</u> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs4GOfMCsI7J66DH5pLjh1TNmraLWV3FSQEvqF1d-F_8vy_8BpkmgQks79CvVkShjlKeYf8JVKR2vf-wf_3oedE6ajku3VsdhY1e90UhI6k4woMtL70yjjW5J-DkU_l73UXO8zj3phq204coudM40u-sLmxOfxRdledryfMYF3ar2DXfa-jys-f3JBVRm0/s1626/ff.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1626" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs4GOfMCsI7J66DH5pLjh1TNmraLWV3FSQEvqF1d-F_8vy_8BpkmgQks79CvVkShjlKeYf8JVKR2vf-wf_3oedE6ajku3VsdhY1e90UhI6k4woMtL70yjjW5J-DkU_l73UXO8zj3phq204coudM40u-sLmxOfxRdledryfMYF3ar2DXfa-jys-f3JBVRm0/s320/ff.webp" width="151" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Between 2000 and 2015 we celebrated special occasions in a banana plantation! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was called El Cordero - the Lamb - and a vast barbecue pit was the central feature. Everyone ate meat of all types & spicy sausages. There was salad and Canarian salty potatoes, salsa picante and salsa verde, and lots of rough vino tinto.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The canvas ceiling retained moisture & kept out dust and most of the flies. There were lots of banana plants, a few ferns to add privacy & atmosphere, sparrows flying around, and a feral cat or two.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Halcyon days in Tenerife.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">..........................................................................................</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Days like today, with the temperature in the 30s, remind me of the fifteen years we lived in Tenerife. It was like the curate's egg - quite good in parts: remembering places such as El Cordero fill me with nostalgia, but the heat could be oppressive. In high summer we would spend a long time in Mercadona or Hiperdino, the local supermarkets, just so we could hover over the freezers to cool down before getting back into the small Hyundai oven we called a car.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Thanks to Fleur Lind for the photo - I managed not to tell you my latest gardening story! - and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-76585239854135082952023-09-01T15:54:00.001+01:002023-09-01T15:54:42.758+01:00IDEAS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzJVWUnNTPROage-WJy4XIbqGcoov4o9UzgjTbGuOLLgKZXZjrr5unS9lpWZXgw8DEsdgGE3gGW-o592r8H8bz7CAVvDlxpAOc8UoZT5nxqbHpFpnpdSgQwNqqG4c5vSXD9ljv9HvqSKrCOVFPdz_QxgfkKPuYnh8ko8Ju0LzC6fAHihK6ucXFFpmPa3-/s560/ff.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="560" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzJVWUnNTPROage-WJy4XIbqGcoov4o9UzgjTbGuOLLgKZXZjrr5unS9lpWZXgw8DEsdgGE3gGW-o592r8H8bz7CAVvDlxpAOc8UoZT5nxqbHpFpnpdSgQwNqqG4c5vSXD9ljv9HvqSKrCOVFPdz_QxgfkKPuYnh8ko8Ju0LzC6fAHihK6ucXFFpmPa3-/w320-h209/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <b><u><span style="font-size: medium;">IDEAS</span></u></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'Where do you get your ideas from?' is a question that's nigh on impossible to answer.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes they appear out of nowhere, like a lightning flash from a clear sky. Or some incident triggers a 'what if?' thought that niggles and grows until it demands to be written.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That's just the start, of course. What follow are weeks, months, sometimes years of thinking and writing. Then editing, deleting and re-writing through multiple drafts before finally I'm certain I can do no more.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Publish - and be damned by the typos I'd read and missed a hundred times!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">.....................................................................................</span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Thanks to Dale Rogerson for the photo prompt, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Ficitoneers. </span></i></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVdJwXhZyAmeyiso25WT93rQt5i3ScSpUPbm1357v15aibmCflgrGMJhOhFFE9LTycwyf7BSwQbSRV92gZvRKy36lKhI80_kDcOn96rDybh07vjk3_aYnsPb2437w-1kVHvHDxsIuRDiJgHjjL0P4JZkJa_FG7itjQR7gK6ScTFJYsGqvfBd1uPKRB5kq/s4080/20230901_153719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVdJwXhZyAmeyiso25WT93rQt5i3ScSpUPbm1357v15aibmCflgrGMJhOhFFE9LTycwyf7BSwQbSRV92gZvRKy36lKhI80_kDcOn96rDybh07vjk3_aYnsPb2437w-1kVHvHDxsIuRDiJgHjjL0P4JZkJa_FG7itjQR7gK6ScTFJYsGqvfBd1uPKRB5kq/s320/20230901_153719.jpg" width="240" /></a></i></div><i><span style="font-size: large;">The above is definitely <u>not</u> fiction! </span></i><p></p><p><i><span style="font-size: large;">I have seven novels and two books of poetry in print, all of which had to go through the same tortous process before hitting Amazon. You will find them there - if you can navigate past the other writers called Liz Young.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-size: large;">And I am within inches of the end of the first draft of novel #8, provisionally titled 'The Two Wives of Steven Denham' - watch this space!</span></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-10474707229299236002023-08-16T17:23:00.001+01:002023-08-16T17:23:49.290+01:00GETTING UP LATE<p> </p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><b><u></u></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzb-iw591p69EOswtByXdRyAN1GJ8fHtnfJmguithTLva9Qy0A63Kk5BQXTN50u4IX5V6wq1ySCCmGDuvLk8h1QX5mYP3hM-pdqwaJbA7pu25Zd28_1sPypyHBIL43pUTZ46n_L6eZfeH697vR80aczv8o2D_MLExfFeNEaFOZnEouKRSo4KztF2PNx6m/s882/brendas-double-decker-bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="841" data-original-width="882" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzb-iw591p69EOswtByXdRyAN1GJ8fHtnfJmguithTLva9Qy0A63Kk5BQXTN50u4IX5V6wq1ySCCmGDuvLk8h1QX5mYP3hM-pdqwaJbA7pu25Zd28_1sPypyHBIL43pUTZ46n_L6eZfeH697vR80aczv8o2D_MLExfFeNEaFOZnEouKRSo4KztF2PNx6m/s320/brendas-double-decker-bus.jpg" width="320" /></a></u></b></div><b><u><br />GETTING UP LATE</u></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dave missed
the tram by seconds, and his desperate lunge for the door sent him flying into
the path of a cyclist. Cradling a broken wrist, he took a cab to the hospital,
from where, belatedly, he phoned his boss.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Foreign
Secretary, annoyed by his absence, clutched a file of papers and rushed to her
waiting car, but her scarf caught in the revolving doors. She was
half-throttled before they could free her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dave watched
the dramatic arrival of a stretcher accompanied by security men, blissfully
unaware that his failure to get up in time had averted a war.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">...............................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><i>Thanks to Brenda Cox we have a photograph this week that could almost be England - red double-decker bus driving on the right - but is in fact an Oriental tram! It reminded me of a story I wrote years ago, of which this is a reprise/rewrite, as I've been too busy gardening to think of a new one!</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-53401591849902412862023-08-11T10:19:00.004+01:002023-08-11T10:19:41.745+01:00RUDOLPH<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJyktQ4WWZA3GJCbsAL4MK7KJ6Ro33dj-k7Jq3AgUAhq9uKUVmv6rTyfphqlmEDczREfuMAGjwh4eKu27SudU6sp0ZhILqUfKNtYijOpPrpjP4sExUWzizsC_80V3NrMPCaF4gJjXxC-NTRWtZlXLlWr6TQcpidFClY7YkrJsMXvswJC0pVzdlslePO0J/s640/alicia-jamtaas-bw-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="640" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJyktQ4WWZA3GJCbsAL4MK7KJ6Ro33dj-k7Jq3AgUAhq9uKUVmv6rTyfphqlmEDczREfuMAGjwh4eKu27SudU6sp0ZhILqUfKNtYijOpPrpjP4sExUWzizsC_80V3NrMPCaF4gJjXxC-NTRWtZlXLlWr6TQcpidFClY7YkrJsMXvswJC0pVzdlslePO0J/s320/alicia-jamtaas-bw-photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">RUDOLPH<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kate and
Steve had rented the Air-BNB hoping their family could enjoy Christmas without fighting.
It was ostentatiously rugged, with faux log walls, but the sofas were comfortable
and the fire warm. Each day the children wore themselves out playing in the
snow, and the adults enjoyed long, relaxing evenings.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Then on
Christmas Eve Kate suddenly screamed, “That head moved!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Steve almost
dropped his drink. “The nose is glowing red too!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Open the
door,” boomed a voice and Steve, ashen-faced, obeyed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On a blast
of freezing air a rotund figure entered. “Come on, Rudolph, we’ve been waiting
for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">.......................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CCedojvcpVzeZXl7txDfg2oN4ANka338yKaMON-TDW3tQCbwq68xjuacTcfPwzdTllTBuKafn3s5JLbi3T0vUkseytQ2gs0czCCMkIgTdkacfHnZ2fewuNrhBmzEm2W76S0F45Q1Dj4J57L9nsoTJJeaSa5iUYgw2ejpu5gb8TiXKXaGTCRXRMcJBZnk/s2048/grapevine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CCedojvcpVzeZXl7txDfg2oN4ANka338yKaMON-TDW3tQCbwq68xjuacTcfPwzdTllTBuKafn3s5JLbi3T0vUkseytQ2gs0czCCMkIgTdkacfHnZ2fewuNrhBmzEm2W76S0F45Q1Dj4J57L9nsoTJJeaSa5iUYgw2ejpu5gb8TiXKXaGTCRXRMcJBZnk/s320/grapevine.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>Thanks to Alicia Jamtaas for this week's Firday Fictioneers' image, which has prompted me to dash off a story before my day begins with a stint at the charity shop. Seeing a photo of a log cabin with a fire is an unwelcome reminder that winter is not too far away - and I'm still hoping my grapes will ripen! <br /></i></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /><i><br /></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-26911928476872031482023-08-06T11:15:00.004+01:002023-08-06T16:19:16.364+01:00CHANNEL CROSSING<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntdhKCjCjB8Rk82r3tuevsxMwruSpOausgo82ACmFFs6jI8ks-DcaGPTiRRa4G7VdSMz0uUypOpVxlOeRSdOhmnto-XnDqrFow6KbWca7Z2MltntbLT-PdlSnn_LC80sOJHUsDf9Pu6azxy4h6XzHsrpADMUrOVA-bYGuTaem8bPHXg2CiP0-Zhw7rOy0/s1015/liz-young-flying-machines.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1015" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntdhKCjCjB8Rk82r3tuevsxMwruSpOausgo82ACmFFs6jI8ks-DcaGPTiRRa4G7VdSMz0uUypOpVxlOeRSdOhmnto-XnDqrFow6KbWca7Z2MltntbLT-PdlSnn_LC80sOJHUsDf9Pu6azxy4h6XzHsrpADMUrOVA-bYGuTaem8bPHXg2CiP0-Zhw7rOy0/s320/liz-young-flying-machines.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">CHANNEL
CROSSING<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">‘It’ll be
fine, <i>cherie</i>,’ Louis Bl</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">riot assured his wife, ‘I’ll be there
before you.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Praying fervently he was right,
Alice boarded the destroyer <i>Escopette</i> to sail to England and await his
arrival. From its deck she watched the flimsy plane run down the slope, holding
her breath until it had wobbled into the sky and set off across <i>La Manche</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Thirty-six
minutes later Louis landed with a thump near Dover Castle, to be met by a
correspondent from the <i>Daily Mail,</i> who telephoned his paper with the
news that their £1000 prize had been won, not by the American brothers
but by a Frenchman.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">..............................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>I took the above photograph at Tenerife Airport in 2013, the Centenary of the date the Frenchman Louis Bleriot flew his tiny plane into Tenerife. This was a replica, of course, but simply walking round it and seeing the bicycle wheels on its undercarriage gave me the shudders - fancy having the courage to cross the sea in that! </i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcxboLUevNlvbuwEdqSg6XGeWeDcYqZm6zNVdWAe0r97Sqs187MvsBsCIfxY0ETGfRdbyyaBN6VhyfP91P9L438u8I8C-vDALkFiOGvFlIEjH-yBSfwdqTG-5ODMVDdKwWyZO0nOgggNQIU1uzmfNio25GlnF1UrfITjnJM6CGmGkKKq1fljmpiWU2eebQ/s1882/2-bleriot-memorial-image-3.xdf7be81c.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1882" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcxboLUevNlvbuwEdqSg6XGeWeDcYqZm6zNVdWAe0r97Sqs187MvsBsCIfxY0ETGfRdbyyaBN6VhyfP91P9L438u8I8C-vDALkFiOGvFlIEjH-yBSfwdqTG-5ODMVDdKwWyZO0nOgggNQIU1uzmfNio25GlnF1UrfITjnJM6CGmGkKKq1fljmpiWU2eebQ/s320/2-bleriot-memorial-image-3.xdf7be81c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This cement outline marks the spot where he landed at Dover, UK, on July 25th 1909 after a 36.5 minute flight across the English Channel, known to the French as La Manche.Apparently the owner of The Daily Mail had put up the £1000 prize, fully expecting - even hoping? - that the American Wright brothers would win it!<p></p><p>The image below shows the slightly damaged plane after its somewhat rough landing on a field chosen at the last minute - Bleriot had been expected to land on Dover beach, so it took his wife a little while to reach him!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOcH0Bpgxnu3JZb2_U-JHNw29K9nMtEZgU9cWrGKayKW5d_Xo0cLhjsAeCgKoqLiyLpsKCFbMRmiLBmR8vNSuKio662wLA2euzpxMe-Xe42t4bZDyud_Ej81SpBqFq5mRx7y0zIqFZzoM68DjQQD8iuOsDVd6INw2fYILuxmY8FshTKk8vQoVi44OisnU/s330/330px-Bleriot_and_aeroplane%20arrival.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><img border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="330" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOcH0Bpgxnu3JZb2_U-JHNw29K9nMtEZgU9cWrGKayKW5d_Xo0cLhjsAeCgKoqLiyLpsKCFbMRmiLBmR8vNSuKio662wLA2euzpxMe-Xe42t4bZDyud_Ej81SpBqFq5mRx7y0zIqFZzoM68DjQQD8iuOsDVd6INw2fYILuxmY8FshTKk8vQoVi44OisnU/s320/330px-Bleriot_and_aeroplane%20arrival.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-64453044005392051052023-07-06T11:23:00.001+01:002023-07-06T11:23:28.461+01:00BACK TO NATURE<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_UJxV8BFGrnDP1zVMEFvDmTknChG9Qb7siiygO60mdhNCZMueZKPfMY1WwJg3ilb9lnh-uz_eUX2Ocv_UZCMQZAFBQ7U-r2VLtsDtDfVJnq3s6XaVcOeoeDIjNjqA96sX43ECLy5zvW0k2VXXljGEwoHvm5lsAyUqXWtQBGZpnGEXb69YxqzvWTtdl6Pr/s1043/ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="1043" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_UJxV8BFGrnDP1zVMEFvDmTknChG9Qb7siiygO60mdhNCZMueZKPfMY1WwJg3ilb9lnh-uz_eUX2Ocv_UZCMQZAFBQ7U-r2VLtsDtDfVJnq3s6XaVcOeoeDIjNjqA96sX43ECLy5zvW0k2VXXljGEwoHvm5lsAyUqXWtQBGZpnGEXb69YxqzvWTtdl6Pr/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">BACK TO
NATURE<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We were used
to holidays in the Maldives, sleeping in a cabin with the murmur of water
beneath us. Then the pandemic struck and we spent our savings keeping the
business afloat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Holiday
adverts in the Sunday papers taunted us, and in a mad moment we borrowed a
tent. Struggling with poles and ropes, tempers flared, and Tom stormed off,
leaving me in the peace of the woodland.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Birds
chirped, light rippled through leaves, insects buzzed, but there was one
rasping sound that I couldn’t identify, city girl that I am.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Then the zip
on the tent began to move.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><b><u>..........................................................................</u></b></span></p><i>I have never holidayed in the Maldives but I have been camping in a borrowed tent. In fact, in retrospect at least, my husband and I didn't fight, the tent went up with surprising ease, and we and the children enjoyed our break. Even though the toilet block entailed a five minute walk carrying your own toilet roll!</i><p></p><p><i>Thanks to A J Wilson for the photo - I wonder why he chose to camp on dirt rather than on turf? - and to Rochelle, our indefatigable host. </i></p><p><i>I was pleased this week to learn that I have sold another few books through Amazon, though it's a faff discovering which ones. Also two friends made a point of telling me they were enjoying reading them, and a cousin I haven't heard from in months emailed from Australia to say the same! If you haven't read any of them yet, a click on the cover image at the top of this page will take you to the latest one. NB: <u>I am not the only Liz Young on Amazon, but a list of my books is on my Author Page.</u></i></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7872436458316103784.post-21136772491723571542023-06-29T15:58:00.002+01:002023-06-29T15:59:05.750+01:00LIVING FOREIGN<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxyJNzMODDAPDidIJoJl4aSQ8hk6LxAWas9uzaZvCYu_nisuGEtP_U4kHqYziGtybRTLTjMPpGth3_FNftX8QEsNw5Q0TJ_li0FIBX6mhNy9R9_HAnFUEqztiBiMaQpMk2lwd5WacJ-OFab3WmE7zYZIX7tUvixm291xjW6M_PWZfwG_vNOt9qq2i7-L3/s1206/ff.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1206" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxyJNzMODDAPDidIJoJl4aSQ8hk6LxAWas9uzaZvCYu_nisuGEtP_U4kHqYziGtybRTLTjMPpGth3_FNftX8QEsNw5Q0TJ_li0FIBX6mhNy9R9_HAnFUEqztiBiMaQpMk2lwd5WacJ-OFab3WmE7zYZIX7tUvixm291xjW6M_PWZfwG_vNOt9qq2i7-L3/s320/ff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">LIVING
FOREIGN<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Living Foreign', 'Going Native’ – expats had various epithets, some of them very impolite, for anyone
who chose to embrace local life and customs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Babs didn’t
care what they thought – she had come abroad to experience a new culture, not
to create a patch of England with added sunshine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The local
fiesta was a wonderful event, and when her neighbour Constancia offered her a
costume she wore it with pride. She hung the customary wreath of almond blossom
on the door before she climbed onto the float, waving happily at the astonished,
and slightly envious, expats in the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">...................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDF0ae8a9a1BeUgZJlNnbGb-WLBdky-oKW0JLQNXXTJWSCZrQV5axkpvaNd67Dv6TOEZ-n6LDyTF5GT7dZ6zQ-6fi6dMmil-9T21R2HzH_Dl659Bmf7chBe5jkiOTDVYN1piRI67j9Ux0IXA97yn79oMY0YR9M6XD0i28-AS2bG6hp47wuTAFB7qCqjQQT/s1600/canarian-traditional-dance-tenerife-spain-farutes-del-atl%C3%A1ntico-folklore-group-performing-authentic-music-songs-islands-43571214.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1600" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDF0ae8a9a1BeUgZJlNnbGb-WLBdky-oKW0JLQNXXTJWSCZrQV5axkpvaNd67Dv6TOEZ-n6LDyTF5GT7dZ6zQ-6fi6dMmil-9T21R2HzH_Dl659Bmf7chBe5jkiOTDVYN1piRI67j9Ux0IXA97yn79oMY0YR9M6XD0i28-AS2bG6hp47wuTAFB7qCqjQQT/w320-h340/canarian-traditional-dance-tenerife-spain-farutes-del-atl%C3%A1ntico-folklore-group-performing-authentic-music-songs-islands-43571214.webp" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>When I lived in Tenerife I joined in the fire-building and fun a</i></span><i style="font-size: 18.6667px;">t the annual Dia de San Juan, al</i><i style="font-size: 14pt;">though I was a bit too nervous - and too creaky - to risk jumping over the flames. There were many fiestas: each town celebrated its own saint, and our local school held processions around our small town. The children were from many different countries, all of them had learned to speak Spanish quickly as that was the language they were taught in, and therefore the cheering crowds of parents and friends were a grand mixture of nationalities. </i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>Thanks to Dale Rogerson for the picture and to Rochelle </i></span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><i>https://rochellewisoff.com/</i></span><i style="font-size: 14pt;"> for keeping this group going for so long. Without her weekly photo prompt I might have given up writing altogether when my life hit a rough patch. Instead of which, with FF and Twitter - @young_liz - keeping me ticking over, I have just begun resurrecting a novel I abandoned two years ago. Watch this space!</i></p><p></p>liz younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16289501717229347872noreply@blogger.com16