MOVING HOME - a story in only one hundred words.

 

MOVING HOME

 Archie wouldn’t let me put him down – not surprising with all the upheaval – and I managed one-handed till Dad needed help with the sofa.

I thought his high-chair would be the safest place, and I was only gone a minute, two at the most, but when we came down Archie had gone.

 I knew who’d taken him – the bastard must have been watching us, waiting for his chance to snatch him.

 It was three days before he called, and I could hear Archie in the background. “My mother already loves him,” he said, “You won’t hear from us again.”

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Thanks to Roger Bultot for this photograph which instantly prompted a story, but Other Life in the shape of a friend for lunch got in the way and I've only just got round to writing it. I was briefly tempted to write a different story, as the pile of rubbish is reminiscent of the state my garden has been in this week while a new kitchen was installed, but I resisted the temptation to burden you with my life story!

What I will do is ask you to buy my latest book by clicking on the link at the top of this page. ROCK FESTIVAL is the fourth and final book in my Living Rock series - the first three books, A VOLCANIC RACE, WOLF PACK & LANDSLIDE are also available on Amazon. The series is a fantasy - not everyone's cup of tea, I know - but Rochelle has read them and enjoyed them, so they must be worth a try! 😊

BILL'S FOLLY - a 100 word story for today

BILL’S FOLLY

It took Bill a month to build the tower, block by block.

Bill’s Folly, the town called it, but he ignored the jibes. He packed his battered car with tins and packets, bought a primus stove and bottled water.

The day he hired a crane the whole town turned out to watch his car creak skywards, trailing a rope ladder.

His pockets bulging with last-minute purchases, Bill climbed the ladder and pulled it up behind him.

“You want pensioners to self-isolate? Fine – but you’ll get a bucket-load of my shit every day to remind you I’m still here.”

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From this story you'll probably guess that I'm over 70 and not happy to be termed 'elderly'! After a last trip to the garden centre today to buy vegetable seeds, my husband and I will be self-isolating - I just hope the weather is good for gardening! Keep well, all of you who so kindly read and comment on my weekly story, and thanks to Rochelle who keeps us going. 

CHRISTMAS STORIES - a seasonal gift for everyone

Here are a few of the seasonal stories I have written over the years.
They come to wish you a very Happy Christmas and New Year 2020.
These pottery crib figures were a joint effort between me and my children about 40 years ago, and I bring them out each Christmas. I might not see my children every year now, but they are always in my heart.
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CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE DINER

 Sally’s feet ached. Christmas Eve had been a long, hard slog.

Lorry drivers had merely grabbed a burger without leaving a tip, every family had brought over-excited, noisy children, and someone had thrown up in the toilets.

The moment the last customer left, Sally grabbed the keys to lock up – with luck she’d be home before midnight – but just then a couple stumbled out of the darkness.

“Don’t lock us out,” the man pleaded, “My wife’s in labour,” and as Sally held the door open for them, one brilliant star came to rest in the night sky over the diner.

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NOT ALL SANTAS

 I still believed in Santa until he took off his red coat that time and hurt me – my own Pa!

This year I couldn’t face Christmas again so I packed my bag and hit the road.

I almost didn’t get into Brad’s truck when I saw his Santa hat, but I was more afraid of Pa catching me, so I chanced it.

Then Brad stopped at this diner and bought me dinner.

Here it comes – payment time, I thought, but he just showed me photos and talked about what he’s bought his kids.

Not all Santas are monsters after all.

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ROAST POTATOES

It wasn’t even a proper fight – he said his mother’s roast potatoes were crisper than mine, I said he could go home to his mother any time he liked, so he slammed out of the house. When I tried to stop him my hand went through the glass door.

Blood spurted everywhere, and before the ambulance got here I’d bled half to death.

Then the police got involved, accusing him of attempted murder, and when I said I’d done it to myself they assumed I’d tried to commit suicide.

How can I tell a shrink it was all caused by roast potatoes?

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SABU’S CHRISTMAS GIFT

 Sabu’s baby sister’s death from cholera was the final straw – wearing only shorts and rubber sandals he walked to the city, his mother’s wails ringing in his ears.

He swept a school in exchange for lessons, ate the scrapings of more privileged students’ plates, slept in his broom cupboard.

Each Christmas he walked home – each year there was one child less in the village.

It took him five years to qualify, two more to earn enough, but finally he drove a rattling lorry home, where eager hands helped him unload its contents.

On Christmas Day clean water began flowing from Sabu’s pump.

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SINCE  GOD  WAS  A  BOY

 Paco’s ancestors had been goatherds since God was a boy – his grandfather maintained it was goatherds who visited the stable when Jesus was born, but the gospellers called them shepherds because goats were too common.

 Paco loved his work. It was usually undemanding – you walked, the goats ate everything in sight, you moved on. He much preferred the gentle clonking of their bells to the honking of car horns in town.

 But today the graveyard needed cropping, the wall would contain the herd while he ate his mother’s Christmas dinner, and he’d get a decent wifi signal on his phone for once.

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IF IT HAPPENED NOW

“What’s up, babe? Your latte’s getting cold.”

“I’ve gone off coffee, Joe – get me an orange juice instead.”

Joe returned from the counter wearing a worried frown, “You’ve been moody all week and now you’ve gone off coffee – are you breaking up with me?”

Mary couldn’t meet his soft brown eyes. “You might want to dump me when I tell you – I’m having a baby.”

“I’m going to be a dad? That’s brilliant!”

“It’s not yours.” The words dropped like a stone between them and Joe leapt up so violently that other customers stared. “Whose is it then? I thought you loved me.”

Mary shrugged helplessly. “I do love you, Joe, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“You mean someone forced you? I’ll bloody kill him!”

“It wasn’t like that. This angel turned up and told me God’s been watching me and decided I’m the right one to have His baby. The angel said this baby will save the world one day.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” Joe’s voice dripped scorn.

Mary shrank back in her seat, her hands protecting her belly, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “I’m having a hard time believing it myself, but it’s the truth. I’m dreading telling Mum and Dad.”

Joe sat down slowly and wiped her tears with his calloused carpenter’s thumbs. “I can’t deny it’s a bit of a shock, Mary,” he said gently, “But I love you and we’ll work it out.” He grinned suddenly. “I’ve always wanted to be a dad.”

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THAT'S ALL FOLKS!  Thanks for reading - feel free to leave a comment.

TWO GIRLS TALKING - a story in exactly 100 words

This story has been simmering since yesterday but that was also my husband's birthday, so cake-making had to take precedence. It does seem that if I don't get my story out on Wednesday I don't receive nearly so many comments, but that's life, I guess.
Thanks to Dale for the photo and to Rochelle for running the entire Friday Fictioneers shebang on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/
ps. I do hope this actually IS a baseball pitch - not being American or Canadian I can only surmise!
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TWO GIRLS TALKING                                    

‘How’s the big romance going?’

‘All he thinks about is baseball. Our dates consist of holding hands on a hard wooden bench – I’ve had so many splinters my behind looks like a pincushion.’

‘So tell him you want to be taken out for a romantic meal.’

‘Didn’t you see the photo? It was all over Facebook – I nearly died of embarrassment – a table smack bang in the middle of the pitch.’

‘At least he’d made the effort to carry it out there – and getting the pizza delivered can’t have been easy.’

‘Huh! There wasn’t even a candle on the table!’

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.”

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY SEVENTEEN

Today's challenge breaks one of the Cardinal Rules of Writing - we were asked to write a story with LOTS of repetition in it. We were also invited to add a poetic slant but, what with shopping, cooking and gardening to do, the title of my piece will have to suffice. I am sure every parent out there will relate to this story. 

JINGLE BELLS

‘Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!’

Jingle Bells is not my favourite Christmas song at the best of times, but Jingle Bells at five in the morning is taking the piss. I yelled ‘Shut up!’ and the noise stopped – for about five minutes. I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard Jake start up singing Jingle Bells again, in what he fondly considers a whisper, so I gave up and went downstairs to make a cup of tea.

I’m a dreadful parent, I know. Jingle Bells is the song Jake is learning for the school concert, but I’ve listened to him sing Jingle Bells in the car on the school run for a fortnight, and teatime has been accompanied by the musical rendition of Jingle Bells. To be honest, Jake hasn’t got the tune of Jingle Bells quite right, and when he sings ‘Jingle bells’ at full volume, Mrs Smith from next door bangs on the wall.

The moment the concert is over I am going to ban Jingle Bells for the rest of the festive season, even if I have to throw Jake out into the snow – or at least send him round to his Nan, who I am sure would delight in hearing him sing Jingle Bells ad nauseam.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY FOURTEEN

TODAY'S CHALLENGE - Write a piece in which the setting is one of the main characters. Construct a story that couldn't be told in any other place.

After 24 hours on Nanny duty, I have adapted a story I wrote while living in Tenerife, where witnessing distressing scenes very similar to this one made a lasting impression on me. Rickety wooden boats would set out from Africa to cross the treacherous 100 miles of sea - one was discovered weeks later in America, having missed the Canary Islands altogether. All the occupants were dead.

The text with this photo says 'Cayuco containing 105 immigrants arrives in Tenerife 14/1/2007.' One hundred and five! Seeing the empty boat the next day prompted me to write this story.

CAYUCO

A fishing boat spotted the ninth cayuco of the year wallowing in the trough between massive full-moon waves, its occupants’ faces grey with sickness and terror.

Tourists took photographs as exhausted people clambered up stone steps to be met by policia and medicos on the harbour wall. There were gasps when another layer was revealed – second-class passengers under the feet of the first, their clothing soaked in brine and vomit.

Just one woman remained in the cayuco, searching desperately through the filth until she found, wedged beneath the lowest seat, a bundle that had stopped crying hours before.

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AND - in case you missed my previous post - my book WOLF PACK is now available on Amazon, just in time for Christmas! Wolf Pack is the second in my Living Rock series, the fist of which is A VOLCANIC RACE. When you've read them, please do consider writing a review - an author's lifeblood and incentive to continue. Here's the link for WOLF PACK -   https://www.amazon.com/dp/1790375088

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY TWELVE

Today's Flash Fiction is two separate stories from my archives, linked with another. Apart from changing the names of couple one and three to match the new middle chapter, the stories remain as they were - only the middle one is new. If you've followed all that, read on...

D.I.Y. 

CHAPTER ONE

“It feels like we’ll never be finished.” Julie straightened up from chasing in an electric cable and gestured at the tasks still remaining. Mark murmured sympathy, but they both knew DIY was the only way they could afford their own home.

Spending every weekend working on the house left no time or energy for romance, but Julie was still hurt that Mark had forgotten their anniversary. Until she opened their new front door to the sight of a candlelit picnic table, and Mark ushered her to a packing-case seat.

 CHAPTER TWO

“Get your idle bum off that sofa and cut the grass!” Julie yelled.

Mark sighed theatrically, but he plugged the lawn-mower into the kitchen socket and started up the machine.

Julie was making tea when the fuse blew. Mark stormed through to the fuse box and flipped the trip-switch back on. “Where’s the toolbox? I ran over the cable.”

“Unplug the mower before you touch it.”

“No need - I know what I’m doing, woman.”

Julie stood motionless, counting to ten. When Mark screamed she waited several seconds before she pulled out the plug.

CHAPTER THREE

Mark was building a fence - to stop old Mrs Williams sticking her nose in their business - when Julie brought him a mug of tea.

He gulped a mouthful, spluttered, “Stupid bitch - no sugar!” and swung his fist, forgetting the hammer until it was too late. Acting quickly, he drove into the forest to bury her body deep, then went home and finished the fence. 

When Mrs Williams asked after Julie, he said she had run away, but the old lady suspected otherwise. 

So did the police. Two months later the mushroom spores he’d carried home on his boots put Mark in jail.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY NINE

Today's challenge from National Flash Fiction is to choose a phrase, and then to write a story starting each line with the first word of that phrase.
As Sunday is a busy day I  haven't had time to write till now, so I worked this out in my head while driving Mum back home. No doubt you can work out which phrase I used :)

THE ICING ON THE CHRISTMAS CAKE

Once I’d decided to make my own cake it was quite easy. I just bunged everything in together, gave it a good stir, and baked it in a slow oven until the house smelled of Christmas.

In the meantime I got stuck into the brandy in which I’d soaked the fruit. After all, it’s only cooking brandy – not the stuff to serve to guests.

Royal icing was next on the list. It looked a bit wobbly but I stuck a snowman and a reindeer on the worst bits. I don’t expect my husband will notice..

David's a bit of a wine buff, or so he likes to think, and he bought the wine on his way home from the match. Fortunately he was in a good mood, and didn’t comment on the empty brandy bottle.

City aren’t the best team in the world, so the icing on that day’s cake, if you’ll pardon the pun, was that they won.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY EIGHT

I am cheating slightly today by revamping an old story - I am heavily involved in our village Christmas Fair and haven't time to think, let alone write!
The challenge for Day 8 is to take a discarded bit of work and write it into a new story. My discarded phrase is in italics and comes from ROCK CHILD, my first attempt at a novel, written about 15 years ago. I have since rewritten it entirely to create my LIVING ROCK series.
Some of you will have read A VOLCANIC RACE, the first in the series, and I hope will buy WOLF PACK, its sequel, due out any day now. So now I've got the sales talk out of the way, here's my story.

BAD OMEN

“Matt – I saw a raven this morning – a bad omen.”

“I was fortunate to get a place on the King’s ship, and God knows we need the money. Now hand me my knife, Jenny – ‘tis honed enough.”

Matt stepped into the tender and was rowed to the ship, scrambled up the net and hurried to his post beside the gun. He was still a strong man despite his age and could lift the heavy cannonballs with ease. At the sound of a band striking up he looked through the gun-port to gawp at the King arriving, but as the sails unfurled with a snap he returned to his work.

Outside the harbour a violent gust shook them. Matt balanced with practised ease for the return lurch but the ship heeled further, cannon-balls rolled, guns careered across the deck, and in seconds the sea had flooded in. Unbelievably, within sight of land, they were sinking!

Matt snatched a breath and swam for the gun-port, but his legs caught in a tangle of ropes. He fumbled for his knife and slashed frantically, blessing Jenny’s honing skills, and burst free to swim to the surface. Far too few followed him.

Through the clear water beneath his legs he watched the ship sink, the crew trapped by the anti-boarding nets. A watery sunbeam flashed on gold paint – MARY ROSE.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY SEVEN

Today's challenge from National Flash Fiction is to write a complete story in 50 words or less. It's not easy to get a beginning, middle and end into so few words, but I've done it. Do please leave a comment to let me know I'm not talking to myself!

MAGIC

At the sound of raised voices Tree Fairy sighed. “They’re fighting again.”

“They’ve forgotten the Christmas light,” said Tin Soldier. “Keep watch while I fix it.”

When he lit the candle, spicy scent filled the room and the angry voices stilled.

Tree Fairy blew Tin Soldier a kiss and he blushed.

ADVENT CALENDAR - DAY SIX

Today's challenge is to write a story in the present tense from two points of view.

BELLA

I was christened Bella, but everyone calls me Bell. This was fine until I started secondary school – now, every time the bell rings to change classes, this horrible boy Ryan shouts, “Bell – they’re playing your tune!”

That Italian girl Bell just kicked me! She rises to the bait every time and the other kids think it’s funny, but she’s got no sense of humour.

He shouts it again today - “Bell – it’s for you-oo!” and everyone laughs. I loathe the very sight of him, and it feels like I’ll never be free of him. Until now, when I’m sitting in biology and I see this wall poster – I’m sure I’ve seen that plant somewhere.

Funny – Bell isn’t glaring at me like she usually does. She’s pretending to ignore me, staring at a stupid poster on the wall. I’ll catch her at the Home bell – that’s always the loudest.

The fence around the bomb-site is a doddle to get through, and I find the plant straight off. I pick some berries – carefully - and wrap them in a tissue before putting them in my pocket. Ryan won’t know what’s hit him till it’s too late - school dinners are definitely bad enough to disguise the taste of belladonna.

TIMETABLE - 100 words for Friday Fictioneers

TIMETABLE

The island’s steep lava flows sprawled into the Atlantic like giant starfish arms, each inlet battered by waves that had gained strength across a thousand miles of ocean.

Manuel had grown up here, knew it intimately, and he had a foolproof plan. Rob the village store just as it was closing, then escape along the railway line and hide in the tunnel as he had when he was a boy. The police, having to use the winding road, couldn’t catch him.

Unfortunately, in the years he’d been away, the train timetable had changed. Jumping to the side wasn’t an option.

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 This week's photograph, thanks to Dawn M Miller and https://rochellewisoff.com/ , reminded me of La Gomera, one of the Canary Islands. It doesn't have a railway, but the road around the island is cut through each starfish arm and skirts precipitous drops to the valleys. That's the mostly yellow one on this map!

I have taken on another challenge this month - one from National Flash Fiction, to produce an Advent Calendar of flash fiction using a different prompt each day. Feel free to scroll through my archives and read them.

SHELL GAME - a story in a hundred words

SHELL GAME

Dave was out there as usual this morning in his car, waiting to follow me.

I did my normal Tuesday shop then met the girls for coffee, and while the babies played we went over the plan meticulously – we would only get one chance.

After an hour Sally left wearing my clothes, with her shopping in my buggy, Rene tucked my baby in with hers and walked off to the Mall, while I jogged across the park, my face hidden in Sally’s hoodie.

That evening we celebrated in the Refuge – Dave is no match for three women playing the shell game.

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Here we are again, another week, another raft of stories courtesy of Rochelle at   https://rochellewisoff.com/  who manages our group of writers, and thanks to Sandra Crook who took the photograph.

For any reader who doesn't understand my reference, the shell game is a sleight of hand trick played with three conical shells and a pea, similar to Find the Lady.
Local Author Fair - and if anyone is in Crawley on Saturday 13th OCtober, come and visit my stall at the Library (opposite Debenhams) where I shall be giving away more of my flash fiction.

UNTIL THAT NIGHT - a story in a hundred words

UNTIL THAT NIGHT

It was our dream house thirty years ago. Children raced round its rooms, their laughter bouncing off the walls, and the house itself smiled. Perfect.

Until that night we left a window open.

Now we creep around in silence, brittle as glass, afraid of breaking our fragile union. Happiness has vanished – in fact we barely speak at all – and the house sags around us for lack of love. The window stays open – there’s nothing worth stealing now.

He wants us to leave – ‘move on’ he calls it – but what if she returns and I’m not here?

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Friday Fictioneers is a group of roughly 70 writers who produce a 100 word story each week from a photo prompt. This week's photo is by Yarnspinnerr and posted on Rochelle's blog https://rochellewisoff.com/ - thanks Rochelle.

I am celebrating - quietly - having reached the end of the latest draft of Wolf Pack,   the second book in my Living Rock series. To read the first book click on the link at the top of this page.

AND BREATHE - a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers

AND BREATHE

Dee hoisted Petey out of his high chair and smacked his nappy-padded bottom. He wasn’t hurt but it shocked him into taking a breath – when he held it that long it frightened her.

Petey grew into a self-willed teenager, ignoring Dee’s admonitions to stay away from the tidal pools, and his gang often bunked off school to go swimming.

One blustery day Martin misjudged his dive and the whirlpool dragged him down to certain death, but Petey took a deep breath and jumped after him.

The others counted two long minutes before he dragged Martin ashore, unconscious but alive.

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Dale Rogerson's photograph of lights made me think of whirlpools - such is my weird imagination! Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog https://rochellewisoff.com/  from whence you can follow the link to read more short stories and see what other writers made of the prompt.

FAMILY TREE - fiction in one hundred words

FAMILY TREE

Kirsty raised her glass to Andrew, mouthing “Happy anniversary” over the buzz of conversation – despite everything they’d made it through twenty-five years. With their first grandchild on the way, she was content, if not deliriously happy.

The dappled shade reminded her of a distant afternoon beside a river, making love hidden by willow tree fronds, young and carefree.

Careless, too. Her smile faded as she recalled the subsequent loss and heartache.

Andrew’s voice shattered her reverie. “Kirsty – who’s that young man?”

Kirsty could only watch, trembling, as the consequence of her stolen afternoon walked towards them across the lawn.

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This week's photo prompt comes from Fatima Fakier Deria via the good offices of Rochelle at https://rochellewisoff.com/  and is one of about 70 stories which you can find by following the links from her blog.

I was very pleased this week to find that my local library in West Sussex are now listing my novel A Volcanic Race, which I hope will lead to more people reading it before the sequel, which I am now working on, comes out. You can buy your own copy by clicking on the image of its cover on this page.

ESCAPING - a story in 100 words

ESCAPING

I know it won’t be an easy road, but there’s no turning back now.

I loved him once, but he soon knocked that out of me. The kids, poor little sods, tiptoed round the place like mice, scared to say a word. I tried to hide the bruises but they guessed anyway.

With no money I couldn’t see any way out, but last night Mikey, my little hero, tried to stop him, and he hit Mikey. Knocked him clear across the kitchen.

So now we’re leaving, making our own way, and however rough it gets he’s not going to stop us.

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Bjorn Rudberg's photo, which Rochelle used on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  this week, reminds me of some of the mountain roads in Tenerife - the ones the tourists don't see - where you can't turn round even if you want to. Those tracks prove that vehicles use it regularly despite the dangers - I wonder what's round the corner that could be worse than the road itself?

That thought prompted my story - what faces this mother is scary, but if she stays...

MAN WALKS INTO A BAR - a story in 100 words

MAN WALKS INTO A BAR

“Evening, landlord! A pint of your best, please, and one for yourself. I hear there’s been a UFO sighting?”

“Saw it with my own eyes. It came out of nowhere, hovered just over my car, then whooshed off. Never been so scared in my life.”

“Where was this?”

“On the old quarry road.”

“Can you show me?”

“You won’t get me out there again.”

“Then I’ll find it myself. A photo like that will get me into the nationals.”

 Later.

Another man walks into the bar. “Anyone lost a camera? Just found it lying out by the old quarry road.”

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This is yet another story prompted by a photo taken by Ted Strutz and posted on Rochelle's site  https://rochellewisoff.com/  - thank you both. By following the links from Rochelle's blog you can read lots of other stories from the same prompt.

I'm off balance today. Getting up at 7am because the only slot my hairdresser had free was at 9am has thrown me - the stress we retirees go through!! 

On top of that, over the past week I have been writing new sections for my Work In Progress (WIP) revision, and rediscovering the thrill of having so many thoughts tumbling over each other that my fingers can't move fast enough to keep up.

 If you haven't yet read my first book, A Volcanic Race, now would be a good time, because the next one is on its way! The link to Amazon is on the top right of my page. Yes, up there!

LAST MAN STANDING

LAST MAN STANDING

When the plague struck I somehow escaped contagion. On my first foray into town for food I didn’t see one adult alive, but I acquired a small tribe of feral children.

Suddenly my cottage wasn’t big enough so we moved to this farm. We have fruit and vegetables to pick, horses to pull the machinery, and space to recover. Each time we hit town for clothes, tools and seeds – always seeds – more children creep out of the undergrowth to join us.

What we need now is books and a teacher – preferably young and female – then it will be perfect.

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WRITTEN IN A RUSH BEFORE MY GRANDDAUGHTER ARRIVES FOR HER FIRST EVER SLEEP-OVER - WITH ME LUCK!  Apologies for the capitals :) Thanks to Rochelle https://rochellewisoff.com/   for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Marie for the photo that almost - but not quite - had me stumped!