WHODUNNIT? a mystery in one hundred words

WHODUNNIT?

Colonel and Mrs DuCole lived outside Nether Mills in the Manor, which was a large house, but not large enough for them to share harmoniously.

Gerald played golf badly, his daily failure to reduce his handicap rendering him evil-tempered, and he hated Mildred’s collection of china. Every surface in the Manor was crammed with breakables, ranging from priceless porcelain to mass-produced pottery.

The day Gerald scored twenty over par he snapped, striking Mildred over the head with a souvenir from Clacton-on-Sea. Their gardener phoned the police-station.

“I know who did it – the Colonel in the library with a candlestick.”

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Yeah, yeah, I know - it's corny, but I've had a busy week. I am within reach of uploading my book A Volcanic Race to Amazon and as it's my first venture into self-publishing it has been a tad stressful!

This week's Friday Fictioneers photo prompt comes from Sarah Ann Hall and was published on Rochelle's blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/

MOVING MUM IN - a story in one hundred words

MOVING MUM IN

“It’s a lovely room, dear.” Judy’s lack of enthusiasm was palpable.

Penny took her hand. “What’s wrong, Mum? I thought you were happy to be moving in with us, and you can’t live alone any longer.”

“Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. It feels like a step nearer the grave.”

Penny put a gentle arm round Judy’s shoulder and turned her towards the window. “See that sky? Sunset isn’t the end of the day – it’s just the beginning of evening. Now let’s have a cup of tea while we decide where to hang your pictures.”

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Roger Bultot's photo made me think of other kinds of sunsets and, as my own Mum will shortly be moving in with my brother, this story almost wrote itself.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/ from whence you can follow the link to read other sunset stories.

TREE - a poem for Friday Fictioneers

TREE

A tree is always there –

immovable,

a living solid friend –

backrest to the solitary reader,

a shelter from sudden rain,

the hollows of its roots

a bed for summer lovers –

perhaps a hundred years

of memories.

You don’t expect

to wake one morning

and find its height

reduced to length,

the secret places

in its roots

indecently exposed,

and the unreachable boughs

sad and defeated

under your caressing hand.

When a tree falls

your whole world rocks

and the child in you

trembles.

It’s like coming downstairs

in the dark night

seeking comfort,

and hearing your father cry.

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On seeing Sandra Crook's photograph of a weeping tree, I immediately thought of this poem which I wrote thirty years ago in 1987, the year a hurricane tore down far too many beautiful trees across the south of England. As we have just had another big storm, it seems appropriate to post it here. And it has the requisite number of words!

You can see other 100 word stories via https://rochellewisoff.com/

EMPTY NEST - a hundred word story

EMPTY NEST

That garden shed was a bone of contention from day one.

He wanted a man-cave to store his tools, while I envisaged a quiet retreat for writing. Grudgingly, we shared the space, each snarling when disturbed by the other.

Until sparrows converted his crusty, gnarled gardening glove into a nest. Stealthy as thieves, we watched noisy hatchlings feed and fledge. Indulgent, we brought insect gifts and wiped their crap off tools and books, naming each baby.

Then one morning they flew out to claim the sky.

We cleaned up silently, united in our grief, as bereft as university parents.

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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog   https://rochellewisoff.com/  and to Douglas MacIlroy for the photo prompt.

I was away last week for three days, celebrating my daughter's birthday in Ireland, and did not visit as many other FF blogs as usual, for which I apologise. Must try to do better, as the teachers used to say - perhaps they still do?

TROOP SHIP - a hundred words

TROOP SHIP 1939

“It’s no worse than when we went fishing that time,” Albie said, holding Bert’s belt as the troopship lurched into another trough.

“I were sick then too, remember?” Bert said, heaving up more of his breakfast.

Albie parked his whey-faced friend under a companionway and left him there while he walked the deck. The dark grey waves lifted and fell all the way to a horizon almost as grey, needles of spray lacerated his cheeks, and the deck was slimy with spume and vomit, but Albie pulled in deep lungfuls of the salty wind and laughed with sheer exhilaration.

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I believe this is the first time I've posted an extract from a book, but the mind of a writer is a strange land, and Ted Strutz's photo of a modern ferry took me to a scene from Helter-Skelter - a novel I am hoping to get published. I had to cut the little scene severely to fit, but I hope it shows how much Albie loves the wild tooth and claw of Nature.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  You can follow the link from there to read other interpretations of the prompt.

THE TEST - a story in one hundred words.

THE  TEST

Amita’s parents were modern enough to let her choose her own husband.

Sleek Ahmed had a large apartment above his shop, while Jamel was lean and sunburned from driving his lorry all day.

Undecided, Amita said she would marry whoever brought her the best gift.

Ahmed, freshly shaved, arrived first with a delicate gold necklace, promising to smother Amita in jewels when she married him.

She smiled noncommittally.

Finally Jamel’s lorry stopped outside and a huge sheet of corrugated iron clattered to the ground. “A new roof for your parents,” Jamel said, wiping sweat from his brow.

Amita chose him.

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Here we are again with stories for Friday Fictioneers, a forum hosted by https://rochellewisoff.com/ - you can follow the link from her blog to read other takes on the photo prompt for this week, which was taken by J Hardy Carroll.

SHOES - a story in a hundred words.

SHOES

We hadn’t bought a map, preferring always just to explore, so we simply wandered through the town. Most of the narrow streets were busy with locals carrying shopping, calling to each other from balconies, or sunning themselves on the pavement – the kind of scene we’d hoped to discover when booking our holiday.

But one district was eerily quiet. Outside several doors lay a pair of child’s shoes, faded and filled with cobwebs.

In a cafė we asked about them. The owner crossed herself.  “Years ago the earthquake destroyed a school – some parents still wait.”

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How could I write about anything else this week when any parent's nightmare has been brought to life on our television screens? Thanks to Sarah Potter for the photo prompt and to https://rochellewisoff.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

I have been absent from FF for two weeks, visiting family in Canada, and last week's photo reminds me vividly of my son's father-in-law's delicious home-made bread, every slice of which had a hole formed by the machinery of his bread-maker!