THE CAR IN THE WOODS - flash fiction

THE CAR IN THE WOODS

“Don’t touch anything!” Becky’s voice was sharp and Chris shot her a withering look. “I’m only making sure there’s no body inside.” Sighing, he put his hands in his pockets before peering through the side window.

Meanwhile Becky walked slowly round the clearing. When she’d made a full circuit she called shakily, “Chris – we should go – now!”

“Why? What’s got you all of a dither?”

“Whoever was driving this car took the engine with them – and there’s only one set of footprints.”

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The above story was written to the prompt of a photo by Ted Strutz for Friday Fictioneers, ably hosted by  https://rochellewisoff.com/  After you've left a comment on my blog (please!) follow the Blue Frog link from Rochelle's blog to read other short stories each week.

I may not get round to you all this weekend, as it's my daughter's 50th birthday and her big sister arrived unexpectedly from Ireland to help us celebrate. Therefore I am one happy and distracted-from-writing Mum!

GOODBYE, OLD FRIEND - a bit of verse for Friday Fictioneers!

GOODBYE, OLD FRIEND

If my toaster breaks down or my kettle explodes

I throw it away – that’s a fact.

Now my car would cost more to repair than it’s worth,

but I’m really reluctant to act.

It’s only a useful machine, after all,

one of a million the same,

but we’ve been through a great deal together

and dumping it seems such a shame.

We’ve moved from one house to another,

been shopping, and visited friends,

it should go with a bang, not a whimper,

yet now our long partnership ends.

Hauled up by a chain to a trailer,

an undignified exit, boot first,

it’s own number hidden by temporary plates –

that final detail is the worst.

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This bit of verse is a fictional account - my own elderly car passed its MOT last month with flying colours - but the spare number-plate on the rear shelf of Kent Bonham's photograph reminded me of what we called 'gruas' in Tenerife (trailers on which garages would collect broken cars) and I had no further inspiration this week. Apologies to our leader Rochelle whose blog is @  https://rochellewisoff.com/  for over-running the word count (117!) but verse is particularly tricky to cut down.

Last week the number of people who were good enough - insterested enough? - to comment on my blog exceeded 20 for the first time in ages, so thanks to all those. Keep it up, folks!

BURNING THE PASSPORTS - and TRAVELLING - TWO stories in 100 words each.

BURNING THE PASSPORTS

It was supposed to be a day of relaxation – drive into the French countryside, eat moules in a tree-shaded cafė, stock up with goodies and head home.

It was dark when we zigzagged through burning tyres, dodging masked men brandishing weapons.

“They only stop lorries,” Dave said, just before a torch blinded him and the door was wrenched open. Not a gendarme in sight as our wine hit the road and two men squeezed into the boot.

“We have guns,” they said, “Drive.”

If we don’t end up in prison I’m burning our passports.

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And here's another story in a much lighter vein - two for the price of one this week!
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TRAVELLING

I was happy in that quiet close – trees for shade, some lovely flowers, and the cats kept the birds at a respectful distance. The furthest we travelled was to a local market – nothing too adventurous, until we went on a day trip to France.

Miles on the motorway, far too fast – anything over fifty upsets my digestion. Then, after hours in a smelly ship, we’re driving on the wrong side of the road!

The moment we got home I moved out. The people next door never go anywhere – I’ll be much safer living behind their wing mirror.

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One of the treats I looked forward to when we returned to England was a day trip to France such as we used to enjoy in the 1990s. Though the news reports are no doubt exaggerated, with the turmoil that fills our present world, the very idea now fills me with dread.

The second tale? Well, that cobweb appears with predictable regularity on my car, and on one occasion I actually spotted the spider nipping back behind the mirror. Which I can't take out, so he stays, living an exciting life in the fast lane and catching flying insects in his seine net.

These stories were prompted by Ted Strutz's photo posted on Rochelle's blog for Friday Fictioneers. To read other stories, follow the links from  https://rochellewisoff.com/

STRIKE THREE - flash fiction

STRIKE  THREE

I only noticed strike one in retrospect – he forgot names and muddled dates, but doesn’t everyone?

The second strike was more troubling. I’d often catch him standing with a lost expression, clearly wondering where he was, but a gentle word would bring him back. Never one to listen to other opinions, he became angrier, and so illogical it was useless trying to reason with him.

But when he backed the car into the gatepost, stormed into the kitchen shouting, “Who put that blasted pillar there?” and then demanded, “What are you doing in my house?” – that was strike three.

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Those who have lived through similar scenarios will understand where this story comes from.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and also for bravely sharing the photograph of her accident - I hope the insurance covered it?

WORD GAMES in the CAR

When I was a little girl - a very long time ago! - my parents bought a car. It was a Standard Ten, I believe, for the afficionados among you.

Back then we would see another car on the road perhaps once every five minutes, and we'd play a game with the registration letters.

It was a simple game - keeping those three letters in the same order, add more letters to make a word.




Our car was RDU244 - yes, I still remember it after all these years - but I don't think I would have thought of CREDULITY at such a tender age. We had that car a long time, though, so my 14-year-old self possibly did.

We resurrected the game when my children were growing up, and I still occasionally make up words as I'm driving.
Today I saw two cars in sequence - FRH followd by HRF - now what would you make of those?