PRINTEMPS - a 100 word story

PRINTEMPS

Paris! City of romance and glamour, where even schoolgirls are effortlessly chic.

The smell of wet tarmac each morning as bouches de lavage clean the streets.

An enticing aroma of fresh baguettes, croissants, cafe and cognac.

Metro stations redolent of Gauloises and garlic, loud with fluid French accents.

Secret geranium-scented courtyards bathed in sunlight.

And malodorous pickpockets targetting careless tourists.  Stale-breath’d beggars slumped on Montmartre steps. Putrid bins crammed into ruelles teeming with thin cats.

But this spring the city is odourless, every cobbled square deserted.

Paris consigned to the rubbish heap by a bat - or possibly one dropped petri dish.

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My first visit to Paris was in 1967 on honeymoon, so I saw it through rose-tinted glasses. I still have one tiny cognac glass as a memento of those cafe-cognac breakfasts - so bohemian we felt! Ten years later we saw a different side of the life that teemed there, in the company of a French teenager and her boyfriend. All cities are two-faced though, and now I find the crowds claustrophobic - I do not envy those poor souls on lockdown in those empty streets. We live in a small town in the country, where my daily walks are full of spring colour and life.
Stay safe, everyone - we have a long way to go before this is over.

THE BURGER VAN - a story in a hundred words

THE BURGER VAN

Music was so unlikely in that dingy street that the night ladies paused in their negotiations to gather round the hatch.

Dale served everyone burgers and coffee, each burger-wrap and coffee-cup printed with a girl’s face.

“My daughter,” he explained.

They curled their lips. “What did you do to hurt her?”

He looked beyond them at the towers of wealth. “I turned my back when she needed me most. If you meet her, ask her to come home.”

He drove away, and the wind blew discarded cups into a corner where a ragged bundle huddled unseen.

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I can't get excited about cities - nasty noisy rushing places that hurt my soul - so this week's flash fiction was bound to be down-beat. Thanks to https://rochellewisoff.com/ for posting the picture prompt taken by another Wisoff - read Rochelle's blog for the full story, and follow the link from there to read others.

I have been busy working on the latest draft of Wolf Pack, the next book in my series. If you haven't read Book One yet, the link to A Volcanic Race is at the top of this page.

COFFEE, ONE SUGAR - a one hundred word story

COFFEE, ONE SUGAR

He was huddled in the doorway with a dog sharing his sleeping-bag, his hair spiked with frost. Alice put her latte down beside his blue nose and hurried on, too embarrassed to linger.

The next day she put the coffee into the man’s hands, and when his icy fingers touched hers Alice blurted out, “How do you cope?”

He hugged his dog. “We keep each other warm.”

“What else can I bring you?”

“A hat would be welcome.” He raised the coffee and surprised her with a broad grin. “And less sugar – it’s bad for the dog.”

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I tried to write a different story today but this one forced its way through! Last week I turned a fleece blanket from an aeroplane 'comfort kit' into several warm hats for a homeless charity - they were so easy to make, and I have more than enough blankets. Perhaps you could do the same in your neck of the woods this winter?

Thanks to Bjorn Rudberg - who else could it be? - for the photo prompt, and to https://rochellewisoff.com/  for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

Great excitement this morning! I received an email from Amazon telling me my first royalty payment will be sent soon! I must admit I wasn't expecting one yet - sales of my book A Volcanic Race have been disappointingly slow - and I won't be retiring on the proceeds or even covering expenses, but it's a first for me :) 
On that positive note, I must thank every one of you for taking the time to read my stories and hope that you continue to do so in 2018. HAPPY CHRISTMAS!!!!

FROTHY COFFEE - a 100 word story

This photo prompt - taken by Rich Voza and posted for Friday Fictioneers by https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/  - had me stumped for 24 hours - should I go with the plane or try to find a story in one of the other barely-discernable features?
My ideas bank was empty, until a poem I wrote thirty-odd years ago came to mind. This story is a prose version.

FROTHY COFFEE

In the coffee bars of my youth we used to put the world to rights.

In our virtual reality no-one went hungry, because fertile nations grew enough food for everyone. Racism was a thing of the past in a world where all skin was cafė-au-lait. Democracy worked, politicians were honest, population was steady and disease controlled. War was banished – there was never, we agreed, a valid reason to take another’s life.

Sitting over spaghetti and frothy coffee, I believed in all this passionately – until I became a mother. Now, if anyone harmed my child, he wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.

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And here is the original poem -

KILLING

In coffee bars

twenty years ago

we talked endlessly

about the morality

of killing –

There was never

we said

a good reason

to take another’s life.

But now,

if anyone touched my child

or did to him

any of the unspeakable things

people do to people

these days,

I would kill them myself

with these hands

only one killing

wouldn’t be enough.

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So there you have it - two for the price of one! Please leave a comment before visiting the other writers of flash fiction by following the link from Rochelle's blog.

Never forget your phone!

This morning was a disaster!
My hairdresser has moved, and I made an appointment by phone for 1pm today. Got directions - or thought I had - and after a couple of wrong turns we found what I'd been told to look for - a gymnasium with hairdresser attached. Mel wasn't there, but I was early, so I asked the Spanish girl if this was the peluqueria where Mel worked. "Yes," she said, so I told the OH that I'd see him at 2.30 and he went to meet our friend at the airport.
After reading a magazine for half an hour (do people really want those peculiar hairstyles?) I asked the Spanish girl again and this time she listened properly.
"You mean the blonde?" she asked.
"Yes - the English blonde," I answered.
She shook her head - I had the wrong place.
"Phone her," she said, "Ask where her salon is."
"I can't - I  left my phone at home."
"Use mine." How kind she was!
"I don't know the number - it's in my phone."
So I used her phone to call the OH and said I'd be waiting where he dropped me off.
"Is there a cafeteria nearby?" I asked the girl - the OH would be another hour and I needed coffee and a loo.
"A bit further along," she told me, so I walked along the road in the eerily deserted industrial estate. All I found was a mini-market with a couple of tables outside and a coffee machine, but no toilet.
So there I was, with no way of letting Mel know what had happened, and my hair was still too long, and I needed a pee. I had a coffee anyway and then sat on the kerb like a 1920s orphan until the OH arrived.
Moral - don't forget your phone!
ps - had my hair cut this afternoon in the local shop for half the price, so I can afford a glass of wine to recover.

Phone a friend!

Had coffee with a friend yesterday to show each other our 500 word stories.
She'd written a really good story but there were three errors, and she'd already sent it off.
Goes to show we can't trust our own eyes when it comes to editing because we see what we expect to see.
Like I said two days ago - thank God for a willing daughter to wield that red pen!