This on-going collection of stories has been and are being written in my current home on the Côte d’Azur.
Many of the tales are based in and around the town I call Medville, others are situated in Scotland, and the remainder take place in less exceptional parts of this and other worlds.
Mysterious and enigmatic, served with a splash of humour, nothing here is ever quite what it seems.
Expect the unexpected.
There is always a twist in the tail.
Nearly.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.
Click here to hear the author read his words:
Tulip
My friend Susan, a church-going Christian of off-centre flavour, had a dog called Tulip who, aged 14, sadly popped her clogs.
Broken-hearted but stoic, Susan, after an appropriate period of mourning, acquired a pup, called Tulip too.
Or perhaps Tulip Two.
They quickly bonded, showering bi-directional love to the enhancement of both lives.
Then, only weeks later, Susan wakened one grey January morning to discover Tulip dead in her bed.
Bereft, she retired to the darkest corner of her soul to reconsider her future.
Speaking as a life-long atheist, I have one thought on Susan’s god.
Bitching sense of humour.
January 25th is the birthday of Scotland’s National Bard, the much-loved Robert Burns.
So today I pay tribute with some words from Oor Rabbie, who believed that all men were created equal:
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a’ that,)
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man, the world o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.
bear the gree = come to the fore
But he was also a romantic:
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care.
Ye’ll break my heart, ye warbling birds
That wanton through the flowery thorn,
Ye mind me o’ departed joys,
Departed, never to return.
and even in English:
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white–then melts for ever;
Thanks, Rabbie, and Happy Birthday, wherever you are.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.
For technical reasons there’s no reading again today.
The Wheel
I remember when I invented the wheel.
‘What’s that,’ my wife asked.
‘It’s a wheel.’
‘What does it do?’
‘It rolls.’
‘Rolls? What do you mean?’
Well, it’s almost exactly what a brick doesn’t do.’
‘What’s a brick?’
‘Oh jings…’
‘So what’s it for?’
‘Well, if I make another one, I can invent the bicycle.’
‘What’s a bicycle?’
‘Then if I make two more, I can invent a bus.’
‘What’s a bus?’
She’s a bit limited, my wife.
‘Never mind, sweetie. Vroom, vroom.’
‘What are you doing with your wheel?’
She has no imagination.
‘I’m pretending to drive my car.’
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.
For technical reasons there’s no reading today.
Under the Dome
We gather in the old gallery under the great dome.
Jason, 16, who sees himself as our leader, scrapes the pentagram into the marble floor, instructs us to sit in a circle around it and sneers down at us as he paces.
From the tattered yellowing papers he reads the incantations, his voice increasing in pitch and volume as his excitement grows.
The explosion is startling and, as the smoke clears, the great horned figure becomes visible.
As screams of terror ring out, Satan’s head turns slowly, carefully studying each face.
When he reaches me, he stops.
‘Hello master,’ he bows.
As a response to Crimson’s Creative Challenge, I wrote this.
Click here to hear the writer read his words:
The Wee Goat
‘Mum, I can’t find him!’
Little Abigail is in a panic, running around the yard searching for her favourite goat.
Lionel’s the closest thing she has to a pet, to a friend, but even on the smallest farm a tiny goat can always find a place to hide.
‘Have you milked the cows,’ her mother calls.
‘Not yet,’ she cries, ‘I’m still looking…’
‘The cows can’t wait,’ her mother insists, her voice telling the child the discussion is over. ‘You know the rules, girl.’
Abigail finishes her chores then goes inside.
‘Dinner’s ready, so wash your hands, then come to the table,’ says her mother. ‘Doesn’t this look good? See, we’ve got paper hats and crackers! Merry Christmas, sweetheart!’
Abigail climbs excitedly onto her chair, then her smile disappears.
‘That doesn’t look like a turkey.’
Unicorn Challenge – Xmas Special
A one-off Seasonal offering from Jenne and The Unicorn, and it’s a Double Challenge!
First, write a story, maximum 250 words, based on the above image.
Second, send Pingo as a Special Treat Holiday Gift to yourself or someone you love (or your mother-in-law, that’ll teach her!)
Available as Paperback or E-book, minimum price on Amazon:
in UK: http://bit.ly/44Ljf8l
and in USA (amazon.com): http://bit.ly/4nqKiwc
Alternatively, on C. E.’s Amazon Author Page, spoil yourself and everyone you know with a book (or three) from the Sensei and Vidock trilogy:
in UK: http://bit.ly/4nhT6ET
and in USA: https://bit.ly/44KU9Wm
Happy holidays, Merry Christmas, whatever you wish yourself
Click here to hear me read an excerpt from Pingo, a very short chapter entitled Red River Rock:
Red River Rock
‘The thing is,’ says Pingo, ‘that everyone speaks so badly that it’s becoming official.’
Penny smiles, sensing another of his amusing rants on the way.
‘Go on.’
‘I saw this phonetic pronunciation thingy, a table with wee symbols that tell you how you’re supposed to say words, yeah?’
She nods, waiting.
‘Well, it baffled me, I didn’t understand it at all, until someone pointed out that it was for “Received Pronunciation”, that’s like BBC English, or it was. Now the Beeb’s not only corrupt, it’s down market.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asks for the seven millionth time in ten weeks.
‘Well, this thing showed that there were no “R”s in words like “here” and “there”.
She bites her tongue, refusing to ask for the seven million and first time.
‘Okay…’ she drags the word out, making it a question.
‘When I say those words, you can hear the “R”, yeah?’
‘When you say any word, I can hear the “R” very clearly!’
‘Okay, you say them now.’
‘Here and there?’
‘Exactly. They were written in this thingy as “hee-ah” and “they-ah”. Not a bloody “R” to be seen. On the other hand, your…’ his voice drifts into silence and he starts to laugh.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘I’m going to have to be very precise with my rhetoric here!’
She raises a quizzical but amused blonde eyebrow, and holds her tongue.
‘I was about to say that your “R”s are quite soft, certainly compared to mine, but that they are still audible. I didn’t want to get into a conversation about your lovely soft bum! But okay, let’s do that instead!’
She laughs.
‘No, stick to your point. And behave yourself!’
‘Nah, phonetics and stuff are dull, I’d rather consider your soft arse than your soft “R”s. Come here, wummin, I want to bite you.’
The discussion is put on hold.
My contribution to Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge.
The Window
I love living here on the Côte Vermeille – mild winters, fabulous scenery and it’s France with a Catalan flavour.
I’m getting to like her (and hoping she likes me too), so I decide to pay her a surprise visit, just to say hello.
It’s only a 30-minute walk to her house, and the views of the Mediterranean, shimmering in the moonlight, are magical.
I let myself in the side gate, and smile.
She’s listening to the same music when she’s alone as we do when we’re together.
Then I see the car in the driveway.
I recognise it, of course.
It’s not possible, is it?
Trembling, I look through the uncurtained window and know the truth.
It occurs to me that I don’t love living here that much.
I think it’s time to move on.
As a response to Crimson’s Creative Challenge, I wrote this.
Click here to hear the writer read his words
Pier Pressure
‘You owe us money, pal.’
In Scotland, when four strangers address you as ‘pal’, you’re often in trouble.
I know I am.
I try to keep the shake out of my voice.
‘How d’you work that out, guys,’ I ask, although I’ve already guessed.
‘We were at your show at the Pavilion tonight, bit of a disaster, eh?’
I’m a singer in a Seventies Revival Tour, I do Bowie.
Ten minutes into tonight’s performance, during my first number, the power failed.
And couldn’t be fixed.
The tickets were pre-sold, so there was no cash for refunds.
‘I’m just a singer,’ I say, knowing it’s utterly futile.
‘You’re a rich rock star, you’re giving us our money back.’
‘I get paid minimum wage by the promoter,’ I plead. ‘I’m broke.’
This is sadly true.
‘Aye, you’re about to be more broke, pal.’
…there’s something wrong, can you hear me, Major Tom?…
As a response to Crimson’s Creative Challenge, I wrote this.
Click here to hear the writer read his words
Snowed In
We appear to be snowed in.
Not surprising, as our little rented cottage is on the edge of Rannoch Moor.
Picturesque, but remote.
We have hot chocolate and Glenmorangie, and toasted scones, her favourite taste of Scotland.
Everything is perfect.
Then she mentions a name.
And an argument explodes.
Normally I’d leave now, give her time to calm down, but here, that’s not possible.
I try to make peace, to apologise, even though she started it, and continues to escalate it, as always.
This is why I avoid confrontation, I struggle to control my temper.
So my hands are on her throat, squeezing…
I carry her out into the blizzard, stumble across the white broken ground until I can walk no further.
I lie down beside her, holding her as the tears freeze on my face.
We’ll be together forever.
Or until the spring thaw, at least.
As a response to Crimson’s Creative Challenge, I wrote this.
Click here to hear the writer read his words
Lost and Found
Life, when you live it to the full, can be short periods of calm, interlaced with a sprinkling of ups and downs, and the occasional roundabout.
And then, now and again, you arrive at a significant moment, a crossroads, where you have to make a decision, knowing that your future, and perhaps also that of others, depends on the direction you choose.
You’ve been stuck in a rut, lacking motivation, needing to change.
So you pause, take your time, ponder your options, and wait for inspiration.
And sometimes you get lucky.
So you get yourself into gear, you pick a route, and you drive off.
Maybe not into the sunset, you don’t know that yet.
But at least down a road you haven’t driven before, that you’ve maybe glimpsed en passant, maybe in a dream.
And there you find something quite unexpected.
You find yourself.
