WHEN MATT AND TRACEY WERE MARRIED

WHEN MATT AND TRACEY WERE MARRIED

Matt and Tracey’s wedding was perfect.

Her Dad mellowed from ‘Don’t bring that hippie round my house’ to ‘He’s a son-in-law to be proud of’.

His mother, who had threatened not to come, was splendid in pink with a huge hat.

His brother’s speech managed – just – not to offend Grandma, the cake was delicious, and her sister caught the bouquet.

They jetted off to the Maldives in a daze of happiness.

The glow lasted till the third day. The islands were so low in the fabulous azure sea that the only way Matt could get a signal was by climbing a tree.

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I wrote today's story in ten minutes, and it came in at exactly 100 words, so I hope it passes muster! 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting our group of writers and to Susan Eames for the photograph - I am sure a mobile signal was the last thing on her mind when she took it! Sorry, Susan :(

BLINDFOLD - a story in a hundred words

BLINDFOLD

Nobody wanted to play Cousin Gary’s stupid game, but as we hadn’t seen him for years we let him persuade us.

I should have stopped it when he held Susie a second too long while guiding her hand to pin the tail on the donkey, but I told myself not to be paranoid.

Then it was my turn. Blindfolded, I heard scuffling and a smothered gasp, but even then I didn’t guess, and finished my go before I removed Gary’s woollen scarf.

The expression on Susie’s face will haunt me to the grave.

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I am late on parade this week, due mostly to the lovely weather which has taken me out into the garden instead of sitting at my computer. Having inherited a neglected garden last summer, there is a lot to do. Protecting my spinach from the depradations of pigeons was this week's prioiry!

WATER - a story in a hundred words

WATER

I am the sprite known as Agua.

Sucked through a pipe and imprisoned in this chlorinated hell.

Every day people invade my space, the crash of their entry vibrating through every cell in my body.

I hide in the corners to avoid their thrashing limbs, but there is no escape.

Only when they leave can I swim in the shade between their hard squares of light, longing for the tree shadows and weed-scented river of home.

One day I will drag a body under and hold it.

Perhaps then they will drain this watery prison and set me free.

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I have always found empty swimming pools eerie, and the unidentifiable swirls in Rochelle's photograph inspired my story this week. What's more, I hit exactly a hundred words first time!
Thanks to https://rochellewisoff.com/  for hosting Friday Fictioneers tirelessly week after week, even when away in the Holy Land - hope you're having a great time, Rochelle!

THUNDER OF WAR

Jean L Hayes's photograph for Friday Fictioneers looks like a war-ravaged landscape to me, and as I am in the throes of rewriting my next book, I am reprising a story I wrote four years ago that seems to fit the bill. 
Thanks to https://rochellewisoff.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers - if you follow the Blue Frog link from her blog you can read other stories.
I am also gardening, of course, and once I put that hat on I can be engrossed for hours!
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 THUNDER OF WAR

After months of hiding in the cellar, trembling at each explosion and venturing out only when driven by hunger, Shira crept away through the ruins.

Carrying her daughter through the broken timbers and glass shards, she dodged from shadow to shadow until they were in the fields.

They dropped flat every time a bomb fell, but when they reached the hills the sounds of war were mercifully distant.

Sheltered beneath a tree, they slept until woken by a crash directly overhead.

The child screamed, but Shira said soothingly, “Hush, it is only thunder. See, here comes the rain.”

THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE STREET

THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE STREET

Huddled in his doorway, Harvey stared sourly across the street. Why did the sun never shine on him? Over there it was spring, with a hint of green colouring the trees, but on this side the snow still lay in dirty heaps.

He pulled his overcoat tighter and scowled at the people streaming into the synagogue. Their cheerful greetings floated across the sunny street to Harvey’s shadow, families and friends together, emphasizing his loneliness.

A car pulled up beside him and a man got out.

“What are you doing skulking over here, Harvey? Come on – you’ll be late. Happy Passover!”

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It took me a while to come up with a story for Roger Bultot's photo - not being Jewish I couldn't think of anything appropriate - but my story could easily be about any place of worship.
Poor Harvey is clearly suffering from depression - a state in which one can often only view the lighter side of life from ones own darkness.