Thanks to Georgia Koch for the lovely photo for our prompt this week and to our intrepid Captain Rochelle for navigating our good ship Friday Fictioneers through all kinds of seas.
(I love this photograph and am so grateful to Rochelle for using it as the re-run this week and I have posted my original story. At present my ship is a bit wobbly, due in part to OH not being well, but we will be back on course very soon).
Weathering Our Storm
Will you come with me, to Venice?’
An invitation to the place where we began would once have sent my heart soaring. Dare I allow it to do so again?
‘I’ll think about it, if that’s alright?’
Oh, the care we take with one another. I couldn’t ride out the maelstrom of his affair. I had to scream it out, to hit back verbally against the waves of pain and sadness that engulfed and threatened to overpower me.
But somehow the storm abated, he chose to stay. How ambitious we are, how determined to keep our precious ship afloat.
I’m grateful for the re-run this week and my thanks to Rochelle and Sandra. Things have been quite difficult the last few weeks, hopefully returning to something resembling normality. Thanks again to Adam Ickes for the photo.
Another photo prompt this week for the wonderful group of writers, who make up the Friday Fictioneers Family. Mother Hen Rochelle Wisoff-Fields takes charge every week, posting the photo – this week courtesy of Adam Ickes – and urging us all to ‘write what we see’. This is what I saw…
Copyright – Adam Ickes
Word Count: 100
Silence as the numbers are called. Nervous boys go to their allotted place, although challenged, no-one refuses. My number is called last. For one brief moment, as I join the other ninety-nine, I consider the challenge. My mother is ill and Mary’s pregnant, but The Glory will change everything, forever.
Outside, we line up shoulder to shoulder. The General reads the rules of ‘The Entertainment’.
You will walk until only one remains; to him will be awarded The Glory – anything he wants for the rest of his…
This was my post the first time round. Sadly, similar scenes are still being played out and the lives of many children are in danger every day. Thanks to Sandra and Rochelle for the re-run.
Word Count: 100
Danger From Above
The whitewashed walls reflected the sun’s glare. Alice adjusted her sunglasses.
Small stones skittered and bounced down a wall then, with a wail, a boy landed at her feet. He was small, dirty and frightened. Alice saw blood running down his left leg. She took off her rucksack, pulled out a bottle of water and some tissue. She bathed his leg while he stared defiantly up at her. A battered car screeched to a halt, Alice stared in disbelief as the driver pulled out a gun. She screamed as a shot rang out. Pocketing his gun the boy hobbled away.
I’m grateful for a re-run this week. After years of searching we finally have a holiday home in France – more about that later. It has take up a lot of our time and I have missed chances to post anything as the internet connection at present is so slow, so very happy to offer up this post from 2012.
Thanks as ever to Rochelle who is busy being an author and getting the third book in her series ready for publication
Two weeks into my retirement and hardly a word written! It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but then life has a habit of interfering. I have managed to scribble this, hope you like it. Thanks to Kent Bonham for the interesting photo and to Rochelle for steering us through the maze…
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
A Man of Vision
‘How can we help you if you keep the design in your head Antoni?’
‘I cannot draw a design, as it changes every time I think of it. It is a fluid, changing thing I cannot confine to paper. If you will help me, then you must work as I work.’
‘But this bears no resemblance to any cathedral we have ever seen.’
Antoni stopped listening.
Through years of turmoil and political unrest he worked on his masterpiece. He never finished it, but saw in his mind’s eye all the colours, the textures and the glory of his beloved cathedral.
Only one more week left at work … one good thing is that I will be able to spend more time writing and catching up with Friday Fictioneers. I haven’t done much ‘visiting’ recently and I want to say thank you for putting up with me and still visiting and commenting on my posts.🙂
Thanks as always to Rochelle for making time in her very hectic schedule to continue to lead us- sympathies with the dental work, I’ve been in the same boat recently, painful. Thanks to to Ted Strutz for the intriguing photo this week.
Genre: Family history
Word Count: 100
Early One Morning
May woke her brothers. The room was dark and cold. Condensation collected in puddles on the windowsill. Ernest pulled the blanket tighter.
‘Ernest, Walter, wake up. There’s water for a quick swill, your clothes are on the chair. Hurry up, don’t wake the others.’
They walked together alongside the canal, huddled against the cold, breathing out clouds into the morning.
‘Boys, hurry up! If we’re late and refused work today, Joe Stamford will dock our pay for the week. Think of ma and the bairns, come on!’
Joe Stamford watched them running across the yard and started to close the door.
A little bit of history… May in the story is my grandmother. She left school aged 12 and went to work in a cotton mill in Colne, Lancashire, with her two older brothers. They left home around 5.30am to walk the two miles to work every day. Conditions in the mills were very hard, if they were late one day, they were refused entry and could lose their pay for the whole week. They worked hard to support their mother and six other siblings as by now, their father was quite ill and without work for long periods of time.
This is a photo of her, much much later, with my grandfather on a rare day out to Blackpool. (Apologies for the quality.)
Hope everyone is well. I’ve managed to post something this week and it should get better in the next few weeks, as I’m about to retire from work…Yippee! Thanks to Rochelle for the photo prompt this week and for always being here, despite her hectic schedule.
Word Count: 100
Holding tightly to my grandmother’s hand, we crossed the river to the island in the middle.
The stepping-stones were slippery and we had to take great care, the water was very deep.
My mother didn’t like me going there. I think she worried about the deep water. Her father had taken her there sometimes, when he was home from the sea. I’d never met my grandfather; he left my grandmother years ago, no one mentioned him.
We had a picnic and picked some flowers which my grandmother threw into the river. I asked her why.