THE SHOE - flash fiction for the weekend

I am back at home! Two weeks in Canada was long enough to get to know my fifteen-month-old granddaughter, but not nearly long enough to be close to her and her parents. Skype is wonderful, if you can work out a mutually acceptable time with a five hour time difference, but I shall miss the cuddles.
Now I am home I can ease back into the routine of being around my UK-based family and, of course, of writing.
This week's photograph for Friday Fictioneers was taken by Rochelle herself and posted on her blog https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/  Follow the Blue Frog link from there to read stories from other Friday Fictioneers. After you've read mine - and left a comment if you can!

THE SHOE

We were on a half-term break, walking along a beach, when Alice ran up to me. “Look what I found, Mum!”

It lay in her hand, soggy and salt-encrusted – a small shoe with a barely legible name written inside – an Arabic name on an Italian beach.

I write Alice’s name in her shoes too, but the fear of losing clothes at school hadn’t been this mother’s worst nightmare.

“Why are you crying, Mum?”

I shook my head helplessly and Alice ran off again. 

How do you begin to explain such tragedy to a five year old?

CAMPEONES & Earthquakes.

As you can imagine, last night was not a quiet one here in Tenerife.

It started in the afternoon with children chanting “España!” in the pool. Then one of our neighbours moved his television onto his terrace, lit his barbecue and invited all his friends round. 

 Every bar was bedecked with flags, and the football shirt manufacturers  had obviously done a roaring trade.





A few practice bangers exploded and my cat cowered. She won't allow me to comfort her at times like these - Canarian or not, she hates fireworks - so I built her a tent in her favourite corner and went to my daughter's apartment to watch the match in comfort.

Then there were shouts, screams, fireworks and general rejoicing. Four-nil! I am not a football fan, but the excitement was infectious.

Even the children were dressed up, and this man, his wife and his family were all decked out in Spanish colours.

I did feel sorry for Simone, owner of the lone Italian flag on our block. I found him sharing a drink with a Spaniard, and patted his back in sympathy. “No importa,” he said, but his expression was sad.

And there have been more earthquakes on the island of El Hierro - see its dedicated page on the right..