WOKE

 

WOKE

Punch and I have been performing on Swanage beach for a century. I don’t look old enough? So kind. It’s amazing what a touch of lipstick can do – and years of covering bruises with greasepaint!

What was I saying? You’ll have to forgive me – memory’s not what it was. Oh yes – the Woke Brigade. They’ve decided we’re too violent. Can you believe it? Compared with the way those kids’ parents behave, a few head-bashes are mild.

Here we are, two pensioners without an income, and they’ve stopped our winter fuel allowance. They want rid of us.

That’s the way to do it!

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It is a month since I joined in Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers' party. I have had major surgery on a badly broken ankle, and my mind hasn't been in the right state for writing. But Sandra Crook's photo of Swanage Beach - I could hardly resist, could I? I spent a summer there 50 years ago, and have fond memories of my children digging on that very beach. There were even donkey rides in those days - something else that has gone, I suspect, with an increasingly obese population becoming too much for the poor beasts to carry.

This was us back in 1973!

BUNKER

 

BUNKER

We won our places in the nuclear bunker in a lottery. Five thousand people who’d bought the right to live and, eventually, re-populate the world.

After ten years I was too busy raising our kids to worry about the anarchy – no-one had thought to stock birth control pills.

The building contractors hadn’t followed the specifications either, and things were always breaking down.

Ted and I were, naturally, the maintenance team, so we were first to spot fungus growing through the skylight.

“Get the kids,” Ted said, “I’ll grab some guns.”

If outside was breaking in, we wanted a head start.

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It's a whole month since I last wrote any flash fiction - life has been busy with family visits, a damaged ankle, and working on my next novel. I've kept my short fiction and poetry going with frequent posts on Twitter - @young_liz if you'd like to follow me.

Meanwhile, thanks to Lisa Fox for the photo prompt and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for encouraging us to join her select group Friday Fictioneers. 

Next month I've been invited to join a small group of local poets to read our work at an Arts Festival, so my next job is to decide which poems to choose from my recently published book: Footprints, which you can find on Amazon along with my other books. Be aware that I'm not the only Liz Young out there!

 FIRE!

Yesterday, with my back door open, I smelled smoke. From my garden I saw smoke coming from my neighbour's upstairs window. Banged on the door, no answer, so I called 999.

The firefighters arrived just in time to save his dog.

It reminded me of ten years ago, when my daughter's apartment burned due to a candle and a wafting curtain. A whole month it took us to erase the stink.

A salutory lesson never to leave a naked flame burning, and keep your insurance up to date!

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And my poor neighbour! His windows are no longer blackened - the glass has all been replaced by boards, and he can't even clean up until the insurance assessors have been. His dog survived by a whisker - scorched but alive.

SPADE

 

SPADE

I left her taking her muddy trainers off while I put the allotment tools in the car, dropping my guard for one minute, but it was enough.

She screamed as he bundled her into his van. By the time I’d got my car started they’d vanished. But she’d told me about the hut on the moor – and what he’d done there.

I sped through back roads, hid my car, and when he reached into the van to drag her out I hit him with the spade. Hard.

The hut’s just a heap of charred embers now. So is he.

I bought a new spade.

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Any mother would do the same, wouldn't she? Thanks to Ronda del Boccio for this week's image. To read other interpretations of the prompt, follow the frog link from https://rochellewisoff.com/

While I have your attention, please take a look at my latest publication - a 'slim volume of verse', as we poets say! In other words, a small book of poems, selected from a lot more written over a loooong lifetime.

FOOTPRINTS: Amazon.co.uk: Young, Liz: 9798328843089: Books

LIBRARY

 

LIBRARY

I wish I was better at marketing

my books, 'cos they’re really quite good,

but I plucked up the courage to ask

at the library in my neighbourhood –

I donated a copy of two of my best,

which are now on display on a shelf –

‘New books by A Local Author’ –

I’m inordinately proud of myself!

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Six years ago I was brave enough to take a stall at an Authors' Fair, which entailed lots of preparation and minimal sales - not an experience I have repeated!

Dale's image of a roadside library reminded me of Covid lockdown, when I put a box of books in the village bus shelter and an invitation on Facebook for people to help themselves. Any one who was afraid of contamination could stay clear. Others donated too and itt grew exponentially - in fact it became a chore to keep tidy - but for that year (when was it? - I forget) a lot of people were grateful for their reading matter. 

Must dash - it's my granddaughter's school sports day and I have to go and cheer.

TRAINING

 

TRAINING

They trained the orcas intensively in their secret location, then sent them off with attached cameras to spy on the enemy fleet.

 

The gamble paid off – every whale returned to their beloved trainer Edwin. The management took the cameras to be recharged, but Edwin overheard them talking over late-night drinks. ‘Kamikaze whales’ they dubbed them, laughing.

 

Edwin amended the training sessions and surreptitiously replaced the glue with his own concoction. Next time the orcas left, they scraped their backs under the jetty before departing.

 

Two days later the scientists stood on the jetty and pressed the control button.

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Perhaps it's the lighting, but they look like orcas peering over a jetty to me! Thanks to Lisa Fox for the image, which also reminds me of warm evenings in Tenerife. To read what other writers 'saw' in her image, go to https://rochellewisoff.com/  and follow the Frog trail.

ICE

 

ICE

‘Let’s go camping,’ he said.

‘In winter?’

‘Warm sleeping bags, a fire under the stars, it’ll be romantic.’

It was easier to agree – he always got his own way eventually.

.... 

I woke to the sound of a growl and shook him awake. ‘Bears!’

He peered through the flap. ‘Can’t see anything.’

‘There it is again – I’m scared.’

He went out, determined to prove this mere female wrong, and slipped on the ice.

As the huge mouth closed around his body I ran for the car.

 ....

True as I’m stood here.

'In a jail cell?'

Unfortunately the cops don’t believe me.

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Thanks as ever to Rochelle for running Friday Fictioneers, and to Roger Bultot for the photographic prompt. I've revived an old story for this week as I missed last week's FF, but I'm busy compiling a poetry book and subbing a novel, and my brain can't cope with too much at once these days!