THE NICHE - a story in 100 words

 

THE  NICHE

 The cottage was so cheap Auguste said there must be hidden faults, and he was proved right on our first night there.

Roof-joists groaned as if about to give way, but inspection proved them sound; pipes whistled and banged for no apparent reason.

The just-beneath-hearing whispers in the kitchen were the worst, and I tracked them down to a niche that resembled a walled-up window.

“Break it open,” I begged, “Something’s trapped in there.”

“And you want me to let it out? No way.”

So I hung garlic in front of it – a lot of garlic – and prayed.

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Of course it's only a niche built to hold an oil lamp, maybe - or is it? Thanks to Dale for this week's image, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers. 

How has your week been? I've been procrastinating, putting off the onerous task of learning how to publicise my books. It has to be done if I am to have any hope of people reading them, but I do wish there was an easier way :(  

If you haven't caught up with them yet, they are all available on Amazon - the link to my latest book is at the top of this page. Rock Festival is the final book in a series, which pulls together threads from the first three books - A Volcanic Race, Wolf Pack & Landslide. Buy the whole set to immerse yourself in another world - a world where the dangers are prehistoric and volcanic, not Covid-related!

GHOSTS OF WAR - flash fiction

This week's photo reminded me of two places - the market square in Le Touquet, France, where we have shopped on many occasions, and the Town Hall in the novel I am touting round submitting to agents at the moment. I have resisted the temptation to use an extract, though some of the story filters through in these one hundred words.
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to Sandra Crook for her photo that prompted my story and all the others here; https://rochellewisoff.com/

GHOSTS  OF  WAR

Tuesday afternoon was not the best time to arrive in a small French town wanting lunch. Shuttered shops exuded an air of desolation and Gerry voted to drive on, but I wanted to explore.

In the square, fallen blossom formed drifts around a dry fountain and the air was deathly still. Fear gripped us as the flowers adorning the colonnaded Mairie were transformed into flags emblazoned with swastikas, and heavy boots stamped the cobbles.

Then a shutter banged in a sudden breeze, and the flags were flowers again, but when I touched the walls my fingers found bullet holes.