KITCHEN SINK DRAMA - a story in 100 words

KITCHEN SINK DRAMA

“I really don’t understand why you did it, after all these years.”

“That’s just it – years of the same irritating little things are like Chinese water torture, drip-drip-dripping until you could scream. At breakfast, for example, leaving the lid off the marmalade, toast crumbs in the butter...”

“I agree that’s annoying, but...”

“Dirty socks on the floor, changing channels without asking...”

“My Jim does that too, but even so...”

“He promised to fix the tap months ago. I was making pastry with that drip getting louder and louder – it was just his bad luck I was holding the rolling pin.”

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I assure you this is fiction - honest! Aren't we writers lucky we can take our frustrations out in words? 

Thanks to Ronda del Boccio for the photo and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog. https://rochellewisoff.com/     You can read what others made of the prompt by following the frog from there, after you've commented on my story first, naturally!

ROAST POTATOES - a story in 100 words

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, he slammed out of the house, I tried to stop him, and 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 myself they assumed I’d tried to commit suicide.

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

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This week's Friday Fictioneers' prompt photo was taken by Dale Rogerson, and I hope the reason for her broken door wasn't as dramatic as mine. I wrote this story, tweaked it down to 100 words and posted it, in ten minutes flat, so I hope you like it. 

Thanks as ever to Rochelle for hosting our goup of flash fiction enthusiasts on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com .

I have been busy this week promoting my latest book, Wolf Pack , which you can buy by clicking on the cover image at the top of this page. If everyone who reads my flash fiction buys a copy of my book - and leaves a review - I shall be a happy writer. 
Those who have read it say it's my best so far - why not try it for yourself and see if you agree? Please?

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 ELEVEN

National Flash Fiction asked us today to write in a genre we haven't tried, but everything on their list I have had a shot at, if only in flash fiction. But - this story is written in the first person throughout, and in the immediate present tense, which is not a method I use often as it's bloody very tricky!

THE SPEECH

“It gives me great pleasure to be here today …”

God! Whoever first uttered those words should be shot. If I had a pound for every time I’ve said them ...  But what am I thinking? I usually charge £250 - and that’s cheap by some standards. If they want a Duchess to open their stupid building or fȇte they have to pay.

“Sir Robert …”

Sir Robert indeed! I know for a fact that he bought his knighthood. He was plain Mister when his firm came to fix the roof all those years ago. There’s a whole acre of it, and we had to sell the paintings to pay for the work. I didn’t meet him then, naturally – Gerald always dealt with tradesmen – but I’ve never forgotten his name. The Long Gallery is horribly bare and the rain still comes in, but that’s not the reason I’m here.

Gerald should never have trusted him, of course, but would he listen? “It’s a sound investment, old girl,” he said, and as he’d always looked after the finances I couldn’t stop him sinking our savings into the man’s Spanish building scheme.

When the investment went sour, Gerald fell totally to pieces, but fortunately I was born with a practical streak. We moved into the old nursery wing – much easier to maintain after we had to let most of the staff go - and we opened the main house to the public. Oliver came down from Cambridge to manage the business side of things, Davinia runs the restaurant and I help out in the tea-rooms – visitors love being served tea and scones by a Duchess. The rest of us have adjusted quite well, but the shame of having to leave his Club tipped Gerald over the edge, poor darling. He spends his days pottering round the garden wearing old tweeds and the gardener lets him think he’s in charge. That is what I cannot forgive, and it’s all the fault of this ghastly little man.

When the agency called to ask if I would open Sir Robert’s latest project I couldn’t believe my luck – I was being handed a golden opportunity for revenge. The man obviously has no idea what Hell his shenanigans put us through – these criminal types never do – but that’s all to the good. If my plan succeeds no-one will even suspect we have any connection.

“Sir Robert has shown me around this excellent facility this afternoon.”

I had to admire every corner of the damn place, and pretend to be interested while technicians explained the machinery. The little creep kept pawing my arm as we walked round and he patted by bottom more than once. He quoted the prices of equipment as if he had paid for it himself, instead of lining his pockets. Careful, Marjorie – don’t give the game away now you’re this close - just get on and finish the speech.

“You must all be very proud of being involved with such a splendid establishment”

That should do it - look at them all, trying to appear proud and modest at the same time.

“And finally, it only remains for me to declare the Sir Robert Catnip Centre open.”

You’d have thought with his money he’d have changed his name before he got his knighthood, but it’s lucky he didn’t - I wouldn’t have known it was him otherwise. Now – all I’ve got to do is cut the ribbon and I’m on the home straight. There, done it – now for the difficult part.  

Take a deep breath, turn, smile, and offer him the scissors. He’s too far away - perfect. Now, step towards him, stumble on the edge of the red carpet. Fall forward with a lady-like shriek of dismay, and the job is done.

Those scissors are sharper than they look - they’ve gone right through his waistcoat. Oh no! I can feel a fit of hysterics coming on, but just one giggle would be fatal – I’ll have to scream instead. A lady is expected to scream at the sight of blood, and there is an awful lot of it.

Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Steady on, old girl, this is definitely not the time to be quoting Lady Macbeth.

Just keep your head and everything will be all right – after all, a true blue-blooded Duchess should be able to get away with murder.

 ....................................................... Oh - and I don't write murder stories either 😃

A PATTERN OF SIX - a story in 100 words

A PATTERN OF SIX

Six years I had been imprisoned – I was only a child when they forced me into marriage. 

It took me six days to find the key – by then I was starving and he was stinking.

The open door terrified me. I counted those water pipes many times before I took the six steps to the tunnel with its sheltering roof, dashed over the cross-alley to the safety of tall walls, and bought enough food for six in a dark little shop.

Only then did I return home to clean up the blood. 

Six knife wounds make a dreadful mess.

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Rochelle took this photograph and posted it on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  to prompt Friday Fictioneers to write stories in one hundred words each.

If you go to page 81 on http://visualverse.org/ you will be able to read another of my  flash fiction stories.

NO SMOKING - a 100 word story

NO SMOKING

Alison was a retired teacher, and her door and biscuit tin were always open for the neighbourhood youngsters, who would drop in to seek her help with their homework, watch her television, and stroke her cats.

Alison loved them all but didn’t stand for any nonsense, and when two teenage girls lit up in her kitchen she removed their cigarettes and ran them under the tap.

An icy chill turned her round just as young hands closed on her throat, and she looked into eyes like empty windows onto a black soul while a knife slid between her ribs.

BRAIN DRAIN - a 100 word story

BRAIN DRAIN

Howard’s family owned the local mill and he was educated at Eton. He was an intellectual snob, so the town was amazed when he married Sally from the butcher’s.

All too soon the sexual fervour wore thin and Howard began to regret marrying beneath him. He constantly criticised Sally’s accent, grammar, and celebrity magazines, but when he banned her television soaps she snapped.

She butchered the body expertly. Howard ‘pork’ sold well and his ribs roasted on many barbecues that weekend. Sally flushed the more identifiable scraps down the toilet, including the brain that had caused her so much grief.

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Thanks as always to Rochelle for hosting Friday Ficitoneers, a group of around 100 people who write 100-word storied each week prompted by a phtograph.

This week's photo comes from C E Ayr. To read other stories go to https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/  and follow the blue frog trail.

TEA, NO SUGAR - a story in 100 words.

TEA, NO SUGAR

Steve was building a fence to stop old Mrs Williams sticking her nose in their business, and after a while Lisa 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.

Steve acted on instinct. He drove into the forest and buried Lisa’s body deep, then went home and finished the fence.

He told Mrs Williams Lisa had run away but she suspected otherwise. So did the police.

Two months later the spores he’d carried home on his boots put him in jail.

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 This story was prompted by the image, which was posted for Friday Fictioneers by  https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/  You can read dozens more stories by following the Blue Frog link on her blog.
My daughter-in-law would be able to tell whether these are edible or not - reading some of the other stories this week, nobody else seems certain!

NEWSDAY TUESDAY

It's been hot week on The Rock with temperatures up in the 30s - just when we thought it was safe to turn off the fans and get out the blankets!
Unfortunately the heat also tempted people to take risks in the sea, and an elderly man became the eighth drowning victim of the season.





On Saturday morning the sunrise was gin-clear and the Tenerife branch of the Royal British Legion's Poppy Launch party was hot hot hot.
We raised 375 euros with our efforts, so it was, as they say, worth the sweat!

but this morning there is cloud and a hint - not a promise, mind you, just a hint - of rain to come.

Many locals would welcome it - looking at these cat-tail grasses and succulents releasing their feathery seeds into the atmosphere, it's no wonder we're all sneezing!

And of course, Hallowe'en is almost upon us. It took me aback to stumble upon this sight in a Chinese emporium in Las Galletas - a nasty reminder of the dreadful murder in a similar shop a couple of years ago.

I bought a witch's cloak - much more suitable at my age - and a huge bag of sweets for the trick-or-treaters.

 Happy Hallowe'en!