THE HALLOWE'EN STORE

THE HALLOWE'EN STORE

“Dad! Jason pinched me!”

“If you don’t stop fighting I’m throwing you out.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Carrie, digging her elbow into Jason’s ribs, and Pete lost his temper completely. It was almost midnight, the Hallowe'en party had been a washout, and he was exhausted. Screeching to a halt at the roadside store, he pushed them out of the car and drove off, reckoning ten minutes should teach them a lesson.

But when he returned they weren’t there – and neither was the store. Only a local drunk who told him, “That store only appears at Hallowe'en. It’s always gone by midnight.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------

I wrote this story in response to the above photo promt, taken by Jean L Hayes and posted on Rochelle's blog -  https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/  from whence you can follow the Blue Frog link to read other stories by Friday Fictioneers. After commenting on mine, if you would be so kind!

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!

................................................................................

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.

BOYS WILL BE BOYS - a 100 word story for Armistice Day

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

“Your boys should be more respectful,” old Cyril grumbled to the new vicar, “Graveyards aren’t playgrounds.”

“All those dead grandparents probably enjoy their laughter,” Peter retorted, but at teatime he told his sons they must play elsewhere.

“But the others will miss us!” Harry cried.

 Peter was puzzled. ”I’ve not seen anyone else with you.”

“He means the old ones,” Ben explained, “The boys who played here before.”

“Before when?” Peter asked carefully.

“Before they went away, of course. Their names are on that pillar by the gate.” He raised innocent eyes to his father. “Are they dead too?”

--------------------------------------

Thanks to https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to J Hardy Carroll for the photo that prompts this week's story. 

Follow the link on Rochelles blog to read many other takes on the photograph.

-------------------------------------

You may have noticed I've been absent for a month. This is because we have moved back to England after nearly sixteen years living in Tenerife, and such a move was bound to take up all my energy!

Now we are settled in a flat in our old village, and as I am no longer an expat I have changed the name of my blog to http://lizy-writes.blogspot.co.uk/ .

 So if you're a regular follower, please adjust your search accordingly - I should hate to lose you.

SHROUD - A story in 100 words.

SHROUD

It was a village tradition – the candle that had illuminated Rosa’s mother’s coffin now burned at home. 

Rosa never snuffed out the flame, and the shroud of wax was allowed to grow unchecked. She believed her mother was still there while the candle lasted, so when Isaac lit his cigarette from it she was appalled.

“You disrespect Mama’s soul!”

“Superstitious rubbish – dead is dead.”

That night, while Rosa was visiting friends, the candle flickered in a zephyr breeze. A curtain blazed, a chair ignited, and Isaac saw the ghost of his mother-in-law - just before the smoke snuffed out his life.

.........................................................

If you enjoyed this story do please leave a comment so I know you've been, and do feel free to browse the rest of my blog.

Friday Fictioneers is an online world-wide group of writers who use a photograph to prompt stories in just 100 words. Visit Rochelle's blog to read this week's other stories.

http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/