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 writer read his words:
Sunset
I’ve never liked sunsets. Sure, they can be quite spectacular, lots of rosy hues and all that, but they always make me think of death. Because, y’know, it’s the end of something, something that might have been great, and the beginning of something else, something dark and lonely. Thing is, I spent too much of my life in darkness, alone and frightened. Then you came along, and brought sunshine, laughter and love. Especially love. I thought it would be like that forever. But you left, without a word. A heart attack, they said. For me, it was just another sunset.
The pain surprises me. The rain falls steadily, but it is not the cause of the pain. The wind blows briskly, but it is not the cause of the pain.
I look around the small cemetery, one out of around 940 in France and Belgium. It is the cause of my pain. It contains the graves of 1,262 British, 4 Canadian and 29 German soldiers and airmen. There is no segregation by rank or nationality, and each grave is immaculately tended. They are arranged in chronological order of death. Think about that, just for a moment.
The peace is in sharp contrast to those bloody days over just 100 years ago. The days when this part of Northern France was the world’s battlefield, bringing men from all parts of the planet to die here.
The Great War. I almost smile at the oxymoron. But find I cannot. Because of the tears in my eyes and the lump in my throat.
the great war they said was the war to end all wars flowers grow in tears
As a response to Crimson’s Creative Challenge, which suggested Autumn, a beautiful time when things die, I wrote this. Click here to hear the poet read his words
she
she is warmth in the winter sunshine in the dark a bird that sings butterfly wings
she is gentle breeze sending transparent autumn leaves tumbling through sunbeams into heaps for young feet to scuff into dreams
she is waves over stones a violin’s sweet tones daffodils in spring an eagle on the wing
she is the night sky full of stars twanging guitars a laugh that can light the longest night
she is a smile a glance a mermaid who can dance blue sky white cloud singing aloud
she is a portrait of love a sculpture a song but most of all she is gone
aw Scotland’s scary myths and legends fae Tam o Shanter tae Sawney Bean creep and slither yince mair fae the shadows each year the nicht o Hallowe’en
(interlude)
nae bairn can contain their excitement as the end of October draws near each wee brain fair itches as they think about witches it is the scariest night of the year
aye Hallowe’en’s a nicht o fear-filled frolics as long as you ca canny ye micht see a de’il or a bogle for real if you keek in each impenetrably dark nook and cranny
some traditions have lasted forever and ever some changes we find quite surprising in the US it’s neat to say trick or treat but in Scotland for the past 500 years we call it guising
there’s ay laughter and games for the wee yins with treacle scones hung on a loosely-strung string just mind your thrapple when dookin for apples in case a wild wean wi a sharp-pronged fork takes a swing
everyone carves out a lacklustre lantern we use turnips but some folk use pumpkins we may be old fashioned but please show compassion and don’t confuse us with near-extinct country bumpkins
though it’s now all modern and commercialised we aw continue to do things we’re no supposed tae it’s still the nerve-numbing night that causes face-freezing fright when we walk wi all sorts of gruesome ghouls and ghastly ghosties
Hallowe’en is the annual haunt of the bogeyman he frightens the bravest bairns out of their hat-disguised heads he has never been seen but does that really just mean he is hiding patiently under your bed?
*Glossary of Terms:
aye – yes ca’ canny – take care bogle – a bad thing, a spectre, a goblin keek – look ay – always thrapple – throat, windpipe dookin’ – ducking, trying to capture from a large basin or bath wean, bairn – child tae – to bogeyman – boogeyman (USA), very bad (hopefully) imaginary person
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 writer read his words:
The Magic of Art
I stare at the painting of the big wooden door of the big wooden house. It’s closed. This play-park is strange, I think, but my daughter likes to come here because, she says, she can paint magic here. Honest, Daddy, if you draw something and put it on the easel at the bottom of the garden, it becomes real! This morning, at home, she drew a big wooden house. I’ll paint it when I get there, with the magic paint! Now she’s disappeared. A few moments ago, the big wooden door of the big wooden house was definitely open.
Vidock (and Sensei) in Absence of Death now available as e-book.
As they prepare for battle, Sensei explains:
I let Vidock smell the wrapping of our food from Ghillie’s, and ask him if he remembers the place. I hadn’t realised until now that he can roll his eyes in a don’t-bloody-patronise-me sort of way.
If the dog could talk, these might be even better stories…
The age-old ‘terrorist or freedom fighter’ conundrum compels our two heroes to undertake their most deadly journey yet.
With the duo finally separated, the inevitable showdown leaves the reader stunned.
Pingo: Lies, Damned Lies and Biography is now available as an e-book (at Amazon minimum price).
A delightful American lady’s comments to Pingo, the wandering Scot, probably summarise the book and its author better than I can.
‘I’ve read everything you’ve ever published and everything you sent me. Do you really think I’d have gone to San Francisco to meet someone I didn’t know?’ ‘I write fiction.’ ‘And poetry. Your writing might be flawed, but it is honest, sometimes brutally so. To the discerning reader, you stand naked.’
So, ladies (and Australians) and gents, if you want to see the author literarily (but not literally) ‘stand naked’, you can find him here:
********************************** ****** UNICORN NO MORE *** *** *** This is the 123rd and *** *** Last Ever *** *** UNICORN CHALLENGE *** *** ************************************
Visit Jenne Gray to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section. Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments. The rules are: Maximum of 250 words. Based on photo prompt. That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
Henny Penny
I watch her stomp off, her anger obvious in the length of her stride, and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. What just happened there, I wonder, how did that argument break out? Then I realise it didn’t just happen, she was waiting for an excuse. It was all so trivial…
‘What a dumb sign,’ I grinned. ‘What are they actually selling?’ ‘Do you really have to criticise everything, mock everyone, just because they don’t write in perfectly grammatical sentences?’ she snapped. ‘It’s plain to most people what they’re saying.’ ‘You think?’ I started to laugh. ‘They’re not issuing a challenge to other folk who have speedy chickens to a free range race?’ ‘You’re so bliddy condescending aren’t you? Mister I-studied-Latin and I-went-to-university know-it-all. All education and no common sense. You really get on my nerves.’ ‘What, I joke about a farm sign and you attack me? Do you know the people here?’ ‘Of course I don’t know them, but I know a lot of the farming community around here. They’re honest, hard-working and decent, things you wouldn’t understand!’ ‘Bliddy hell, sorry I spoke.’ ‘That’s a habit of yours, isn’t it, opening your mouth without contacting your brain first.’ ‘Okay, I said sorry! So what does the sign mean?’ ‘If you don’t know, then I’m not going to tell you. I’m sick of doing everything for you. We’re through.’
And, like the lonely north wind, she’s gone, taking with her the rainbows and the last ever Unicorn.
****** PLUS! ****** Don’t forget about my new – and very different – book which is now available in UK: http://bit.ly/44Ljf8l
********************************** ****** UNICORN NO MORE *** *** *** Next Week *** the 123rd and *** Last Ever *** *** UNICORN CHALLENGE *** *** ************************************
Visit Jenne Gray to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section. Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments. The rules are: Maximum of 250 words. Based on photo prompt. That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
The Shop
The street is narrow, deep in the heart of the old town. I’ve passed along here often, so I’m rather surprised I haven’t noticed this shop before. It’s a strange-looking little place, outside and in. Curious, I step through the doorway and browse around, fascinated by the odd product on display – paintings, objets d’art, masks and other strange, vaguely occult pieces I don’t quite understand. An elderly lady with a kindly face suddenly materialises beside a surprisingly-angled row of shelves, and asks if I need help. Startled, I say thanks, but no, then ask how long they’ve been here. Just today, she replies. I laugh, indicating the packed shelving. There are so many places, she says, we can’t stay longer. Somewhat confused, I move away. She reappears a short time later, says she needs to close now. When I tell her I’ll be a few more minutes, she becomes agitated. She presses me to leave immediately, before it’s too late. But I’ve just spotted the ideal gift for my wife so, impatiently, almost impolitely, I brush her aside. Yes, it’s perfect, I decide. I’ll leave as soon as you wrap this, I smile at the lady. Her ancient eyes wrinkle with concern as she tells me the shop’s closed, that I need to stay until morning. Irritated, I thrust the item into her hands and, ignoring her frantic pleas, throw open the door. Outside is dark swirling nothingness. The street, the town, the world, have all disappeared.
****** PLUS! ****** My new – and very different – book is now available in UK: http://bit.ly/44Ljf8l
