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.
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
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.
‘For remembrance,’ she said, smiling.
for more stories
This was my original post for this prompt back in 2012. Can’t quite believe it was so long ago but, as the saying goes ‘time flies when you’re having fun’ and Friday Fictioneers certainly provides that in spades! Delighted to hear that Sandra Crook a stalwart of FF, is one of ten people short-listed for the Magic Oxygen Literary Prize 2016 and that our FBM Rochelle is busy with her next book and interviews on radio etc., etc., don’t know where she gets her energy from, wish I could borrow some 🙂
Image courtesy of Sean Fallon
The boy stands anxiously in line
Money clutched tightly in his hand
As one by one a box is taken from the pile on the counter
And handed to a mother, sister, grandfather, brother, father
He has none of these.
Nearing the front, he leans forward and tries to see if there is one for him
Then a brightly coloured jar catches his eye
It is full of cars, trains, planes and robots
Tucking it under his arm, he walks out smiling
His guardian waits to take him back to the home
Back to where the old toys are cheering
click to read more stories…
All over the world, (yes that’s right) writers are busy staring at the photo prompt and putting fingers to keys to say just what they see. Thanks to Sandra Crook for the photo this week and to Rochelle for leading us along the Friday Fictioneers trail.
Word Count: 100
An Enchanted Place
Fairies danced here once. My sister, cousin and I watched them at twilight as they danced about in the clover, their flimsy wings translucent and dotted with pale colours. No adult believed our stories, laughter and a pat on the head was their usual response.
Life moved on as life does, we three lived ours in different countries, until death robbed us of our cousin. Returning to this place where we played and laughed together, I feel the loss of the child I knew and the weight of the adult I’ve become.
I won’t come back.
The diggers arrive tomorrow.
Note: Our enchanted place is no more, except in my memory. Fifty houses now stand in the field I was remembering, where we ‘saw’ the fairies long ago.
Click on Mr Frog to read more great stories
I have been AWOL from Friday Fictioneers for too long; hopefully the reduction in workload will allow me to resume my writing which I have really missed, along with the interaction with my FF friends. Thanks as always to our ever supportive leader Rochelle and thanks too this week to Doug MacIlroy for supplying the photo prompt.
Copyright – Douglas MacIlroy
Word Count: 100
In The Shed
It’s in the shed, go and find it.’
Mum, I don’t like going in the shed, come with me?’
‘I thought you would have forgotten that little scare by now. Old Sam died two years ago. He was only seeking shelter from the snow after all.’
I wish I could forget the dirty old man I found lying on sacks in the corner. I was only five and with the curiosity and innocence of childhood had smiled and asked him his name.
The memory of his rough hands on me and the smell in the shed will haunt me forever.
I have been away from FF for too long. I haven’t changed allegiance, or gone off the rails, I’ve just been hibernating, recharging my batteries, call it what you will. Thanks as always to the indomitable Rochelle, who never fails to put out a prompt each week to tease our creativity, memory, humour. Write 100 words, that’s all you need to do to join this very supportive band of writers.
The prompt this week spoke to me of my childhood and memories of actually getting a garage of our own, something only people with cars had, and when I was a child, they were very few and far between.
Copyright Claire Fuller
Word count: 100
We Get a Garage
At the end of our street was a piece of waste ground. We made our dens there and played during school holidays; summers were long and warm in my memories of childhood
‘I’ve managed to buy the land, Vern,’ said our next door neighbour, unfolding plans on our kitchen table.
‘Will you help me build the garages… you can have one rent free?’
My father frowned, thinking.
‘Ken, you have a deal’, he said and they shook hands, smiling.
Years ago the planners bulldozed the garages, replacing them with little town boxes.
My old street is still there though, this is what it looks like today – lots of cars and not a garage in sight…
Read more stories…
An early prompt this week, thought I was still caught up in jet-lag-holiday-mode.
Once again, Queen Rochelle gathers her workers about her with a new prompt, this week the photograph is courtesy of John Nixon. I love the wizened looking trees and twisted roots, and guess the photo will provide the usual brilliantly inventive stories from the other Friday Fictioneers. You can read mine below the photograph.
Copyright John Nixon
Word Count: 100
The Games Children Play
‘You abducted him, admit it’
‘You say you know where he is’
‘So you took him?’
The world slows, the mist comes. I see a blindfolded child standing in front of a tree; five older boys are running away.
‘I can see him, in a wood’
‘You can see him in a wood, what sort of crap is that?’
‘I came here to help. I see things. I didn’t take him, but I can see him’
‘You see things? Then I guess you know what’s coming! Lock him up Ben’
I see the bough break.
You can read more stories here
I have missed the Friday Fictioneers community in recent weeks, due mainly to lack of inspiration and a lost muse! However, after my previous post, thanks to some very kind messages of support from Erin, Dawn, Ruth and John, that basically told me to ‘just get on and write’ I have a story; a memoir prompted by Sandra’s photo this week.
Thanks as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for organising the prompts and supporting all the writers, and this week to Sandra Cook for her lovely photograph.
Word Count: 100
‘Come on up. You can do it!’
I struggle, balancing on fat bales. My grandfather pulls me up and drops me on the hay. I pick bits of straw from my unruly hair then scramble forward to watch Joe start the tractor.
The sun is warm on my back, the air is still. I feel hot, the straw scratches my legs and they itch. My father waves his shirt to me from the open gate, he is laughing, happy.
At the farmhouse, my mother and grandmother wait with warm scones fresh from the oven…
That summer, long ago.
For more FF stories click here
To help with my personal reboot, I have also changed the appearance of my blog. There are a few glitches to iron out, but I hope you like the new layout.
When I first saw this photo, I thought of the brightly painted camper van that used to park outside our house. It belonged to the boyfriend of the lady who lived next door to us, it seemed a wonderful magical thing to my childish eyes. It was the 60’s, a time of great change in the world, the one that most affected me at the time was the music. Now I had The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, The Righteous Brothers, The Supremes, The Byrds….with tongue in cheek and your indulgence, I give you my trip down a musical memory lane
copyright Indira Mukerjee
Musical Memory Lane
Word Count: 100
Hey Mr Tambourine Man, you’re the king of the road and I’ll never find another you. Baby don’t go.
Just once in my life I want to be with the ‘in’ crowd. I’ve got a heart full of soul and you’re like a rolling stone.
Didn’t you hear me crying in the chapel? You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling and I want you back in my arms again.
You’ve got your troubles, but you keep singing the same old song and I’m tired of waiting.
Stop! In the name of love
I can’t get no satisfaction; baby, the rain must fall.
Thanks to Rochelle for conducting the Friday Fictioneers, we dance to her tune each week. Thanks for the great photo to Indira Mukerjee via Scott Vanatter.
It’s that time again!
It’s that time of week when we sharpen our wits
And try to work out a story that fits,
Just 100 words, not one more or one less
That’s what’s required from our good leader-ess.
She watches o’er our writing with candour and wit
Never tires of praising and commenting one bit,
Rochelle reads them all as Chief Fictioneer
For which we are grateful, let’s give her a cheer
Copyright EL Appleby
The Wondrous Heffelumpion
Word Count: 100
My grandmother knitted the wondrous Heffelumpion when I had the mumps. It was love at first sight. He went to school, university and kept me company in my first tiny flat. After much washing he went saggy, but I still loved him.
If my husband thought me odd for keeping H on my bedside table, he kept his thoughts to himself. Our children loved him, each in turn; when they had done with him I took him back.
My little granddaughter has now claimed him, taking him everywhere tucked under her arm. She calls him Mr Snuffles.
She loves him.
Some of her other smaller friends: Bagpuss & Ted
I was very late submitting my attempt last week and Friday Fictioneers wait for no woman, or man!
My grandmother told me many tales; some she made up, some she promised were true. In any event she should have written them down. She told me about the lamplighter and that my great grandfather liked to drink …
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields lights the path to Friday Fictioneers and we all follow as best we can. Thanks to her for the photo this week.
Word Count: 100
Granny told us many stories of the lamplighter. He lit the gas lamps in her town so folks could see their way home, or in her father’s case, to the alehouse. One night her father didn’t stagger home. They found him next morning face down in the stream, his jug still clutched in his hand.
Many supportive neighbours and a few of his drinking friends attended his funeral. My great grandmother baked all night, then lit the parlour lamps and held a wake, relaxing in her new found freedom, released from toil and childbearing.
She never mentioned his name again.
For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light;
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!
(from The Lamplighter – Robert Louis Stevenson)