HANS AND GRETA - a one hundred word story for Friday Fictioneers

HANS & GRETA

Every hour, on the hour, the carved doors swung open and Hans moved smoothly to meet Greta. Watched by townsfolk and tourists alike, they leaned towards each other to kiss, then danced to a foot-tapping peasant tune before parting company.

Behind those closed doors Hans and Greta lived in a comfortless world of jigsaw lights and intricate draughts, fires that never stayed lit, curtains blown frantic by every breeze, and constant chest infections.

One bitter winter day the doors opened on emptiness - relieved only by a hand-painted sign: ‘Couple wanted. Free accommodation. Must be reliable.’

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Here I am again, after a week off writing while we moved house. We are now living in an old cottage and, although I have some painting and other odd jobs still to do, we are settling in. There are twenty of them, owned by a Village Trust, and we are very lucky to have been offered one.

Must dash - I now have a garden and it's in need of some TLC  :)

BUG HOTEL - a story in a hundred words

BUG HOTEL

After a week of unidentifiable noises from the garden shed, the hotel appeared overnight.

Word spread quickly and the bugs moved in – slugs and snails occupied the ground floor, woodlice and ants, beetles and flies took over the middle, and within days the top floor housed a burgeoning colony of bees.

They crept, scuttled and flew, mated and reproduced, and all the while Shirley lurked in the shadows, biding her time, guarding her nest.

Then her babies hatched – an instant army which spread, with inborn skill, a silken sheet over the entire structure.

The bug hotel had become a larder.

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Last week was the first time I have missed a Friday Fictioneers prompt in several years, but I have a valid excuse - we are moving! A local Trust has offered us the tenancy of a delightful terraced cottage and, having given a month's notice on the flat we've lived in for three years, we are in the throes of bringing a 170 year old property up to a livable standard. The previous tenants did some work in it, some of which is useful and some of which is unsafe.

SO we have a lot to do in a few short weeks.

This week's prompt photograph - thank you Sandra Crook for the photo and Rochelle for hosting FF - is a great template for a smaller version I plan to install in my first garden for years, but also brought to mind what I found when I tried to read the gas meter!

Meanwhile, thank you to the seven people who have bought my book Helter-Skelter so far. I have acquired one 5* review, which is a start :)  Please click on the book cover at the top of this page to visit my Amazon page and buy your own copy - I have a cottage to furnish!

ROCKS - a (mostly) true story in one hundred words

ROCKS

They had hoped to be in before Christmas – until workmen digging the foundations hit bedrock. A perfect base for our extension walls, they thought, but Building Regulations were inflexible. They had to dig down deeper, extract the rock, and pour concrete. It seemed total madness, but rules are rules, even in Ireland.

Then it snowed, the foundation ditch became a moat, and the caravan toilet froze solid.

Finally spring arrived, building work recommenced, and their spirits lifted – they had a garden to design. It made sense to start with a rockery – one thing they weren’t short of was rocks.

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This is almost a true story. My daughter and her husband are in the throes of renovating a cottage in Ireland, and the first photograph could (almost) have been taken in their garden. The one on the left was.

Thanks to Connie Gayer for the photograph which Rochelle posted on her blog at  https://rochellewisoff.com/ - from whence, if you follow the Blue Frog link, you can read other stories that are more likely to be Fictional.

GRANDMA'S BOOTS - a story in a hundred words

GRANDMA’S BOOTS

I loved Grandma’s cottage – after school I’d lie on her rag rug while she told the story of each scrap, eating buns hot from the chipped yellow stove. She made soup with vegetable peelings that Mum would have thrown away, never bought new clothes, and mended her own boots.

‘Embarrassing’ Mum called her, but she couldn’t stop me loving her.

Then one day there was no smoke drifting from her chimney, no smell of baking.

Mum bought a frock to bury her in and burned her old clothes, saying they weren’t fit for the jumble.

I hid her boots in my wardrobe.

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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and to Courtney Wright for the atmospheric photograph. The stones on which the boots sit reminded me of the cottage my daughter and her husband are renovating in Northern Ireland - they will know exactly where I saw Grandma's stove!

Like many of you I have been busy writing, working on Wolf Pack, the second in my Living Rock series, and also preparing to publish another book in a completely different genre - historic drama/romance. Helter-Skelter is the story of Albie, his search for his gypsy father when his mother abandons him at the age of twelve, and eventually of his army service in the first months of World War Two.

Look out for Helter-Skelter by Elizabeth Young soon on Amazon.

BARGAIN COTTAGE

BARGAIN  COTTAGE

We were on a winter break when we saw the cottage, picturesque beneath its blanket of snow, and at that price we snapped it up.

When we returned in the spring the cracks were showing, literally, and the architect recommended a complete rebuild.

Bravely we declared living in a caravan made us feel young again, though to be honest, cold showers on arthritis did the opposite. But we’d found a good builder and work progressed well – until they demolished that wall.

They’d uncovered the real skeleton in the cupboard – no wonder the cottage had been so cheap.

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This week's photo, taken by Dale Rogerson, immediately brought to mind my daughter and her husband, who are renovating a cottage in Northern Ireland. They haven't found a skeleton - yet. This is their cottage, photographed last week, and they're very comfortable in their caravan - or so they claim!

Thanks to https://rochellewisoff.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers. You can read other stories by following the Blue Frog link on her blog.

I am trying to get to grips with Twitter, having only used it spasmodically so far, so if you see me popping up in odd places on that site, please wave . 
Oh yes, and if you have read my book, A Volcanic Race, and enjoyed it, please be kind enough to recommend it to your friends and post a review on Amazon.
For some reason known only to themselves, Amazon don't co-ordinate the reviews on their various national sites, so only half of my excellent reviews appear on the UK site - some are on other sites around the world. Go figure! 
If you haven't read it yet, there's a link up there at the top of my blog 😼

GRANDA'S WATCH - short fiction in 100 words

GRANDA’S  WATCH

Granda and Nanna’s cottage smelled of smouldering peat, and there was always a chunk of buttered brack to eat with tea.

Julie loved helping Nanna cook and pod peas, but her favourite thing was Granda’s pocket watch. He would prise it open with his thick thumbnail, saying, ‘There he goes!’ but Julie was never quite quick enough to see the tiny man who chimed the hours. Granda would pinch her cheek and chuckle, ‘Next time, poppet.’

Now Julie’s children play computer games and are healthily sceptical, but even they keep trying to catch a glimpse of the little chiming man.

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This week's photo brought two things to mind - the Laxie Wheel on the Isle of Man, and a huge Dollar I saw in Canada - neither of which I have written about! Jennifer Prendergast took the photo which Rochelle used for the Friday Fictioneers' prompt on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  You can follow the link from there to read other stories, after you've left a comment on mine!

SLEEPING BEAUTY - a ghost story

SLEEPING BEAUTY

When old Maureen died, her long-absent nephew searched fruitlessly for her rumoured fortune and departed, cursing.

For years the cottage slept within its thorn thicket, guarded by savage nettles, while Maureen waited with the patience of the grave.

Then Clare saw the mossy roof from the road, fell in love, and bought it. Cheerfully they scythed the jungle, cleaned the windows, stripped wallpaper, and built a fire. When smoke belched into Clare’s face she merely laughed and poked a stick up the chimney to clear it.

Out fell a tin box.

Maureen’s ghost smiled with satisfaction – finally, a worthy successor!

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I have just returned from visiting my daughter who, with her husband, has bought a cottage in Northern Ireland. They had to chop down man-high undergrowth to reach it, and they've got their work cut out for months to come, but they're loving it. Hence this story, prompted by a different fireplace. Thanks to Shaktiki Sharma for the photo and to Rochelle at  https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/  for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

This is the NI cottage - its owners consider they've already found their treasure.