Coffee Lovers


Dawn was right, there is one more FF for 2015… Rochelle has gone for a re-run and this is one of my favourite photo prompts. I love this photo and the work that Jean Hays does is quite exceptional.

Happy New Year everyone. I wish you a happy and healthy 2016.

Here is my post, you can read the original here

Photo Jean L Hays

Photo Jean L Hays

The smell of freshly roasted coffee wafts out into the street.

Jess sets out the freshly baked pastries, homemade chocolates, packs of ground coffee and waits.

First as usual, ‘Ms Skinny Latte with an Extra Shot’ and ‘Mr Double Espresso with a Cinnamon Bun’, (they’re getting closer). Then later, ‘Mrs Cappuccino’ and ‘Mrs No Coffee for Me’ who eats almond Danish like they are going out of fashion.

After the morning rush, she realises that two regulars were missing – ‘Mr Macchiato’ and ‘Mrs Flat White’…

Jess smiles, it was only a matter of time.

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A Bridge Trip


Thanks as always to Rochelle for her sterling work and thanks to The Reclining Gentleman for the photo this week.

Copyright The Reclining Gentlemen

                                             Copyright The Reclining Gentlemen

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

A Bridge Trip

Jerry limped into the bar on North Street and hauled himself onto a stool.

‘You got money this time Jerry?’

‘Not  ‘xactly.’

‘You know the rules, NO credit.’

Lowering his voice Jerry leant in, ‘Ben, listen, there’s a hole in the pavement on Murray Bridge. No sign. Nothing. I sorta tripped and hurt myself. A guy helped me and said I’ll get comperation, that’s cash aint it?’’

He wiped a grubby hand across his mouth, watching Ben pour a beer for a paying customer.

Ben laughed, then pushed a beer towards him, ‘Jerry, you’re unbelievable. Get a job, it’s safer.’

 

 

 

Keep Turning Right


It’s funny how some stories just jump into your head and almost write themselves.  That’s what happened when I saw the prompt for this week. Thanks to our Tour Guide Rochelle for never leading us astray and to Melanie Greenwood for supplying the photo this week. So pleased to have posted earlier this week in at Number 10 – wow.

6 February

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

Keep Turning Right

‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please’

The assembled group fell silent, listening intently as Harris read the remainder of their itinerary.

‘I’ll lead you into the maze, although it is absurd to call it a maze, but you’ll be able to tell everyone that you have been.’

‘Why absurd sir?’

‘Not a proper maze, you just keep taking the first turning to the right. We’ll walk around for ten minutes, then go and get some lunch. After lunch, we’ll take a short walk back to the river, where you will board the boat that will take you back to London.’

 ****************

If you have read Jerome K. Jerome’s ‘Three Men in a Boat’ you will know that the tourists Harris led into the maze at Hampton Court got lost for hours.

Hampton Court Palace

‘Three Men in a Boat’

Click Mr Frog to read more great stories  

The Lost Chord


One more sleep…

Thanks to Rochelle for shepherding us through another year of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks also to Bjorn for supplying the photo for the prompt this week .

Copyright Bjorn Rudberg

Copyright Bjorn Rudberg

Genre – Fiction

Word Count: 100

The Lost Chord

Hugo loved music, but whenever he sang people ran covering their ears. He played several musical instruments reasonably badly, only the piano had escaped his attentions. The Outdoor Piano Festival would change all that.

For months he cycled over to see Aunt Matilda and hammered out his versions of the classics on her yellowing ivories.

On the day of the Festival, Hugo was eager. Clutching his music he mounted the steps and played his piece to a stunned audience. He heard someone mutter ‘unbelievable’ and ‘he lost a chord.’

Pleasure turned to embarrassment as he dived to retrieve it.

————————

I wrote this a while ago for a prompt I missed; it has been dusted off and suitably amended. May I take this opportunity to wish my fellow Friday Fictioneers and all my friends and followers a Happy Holiday, however you celebrate it, and a healthy and prosperous 2015.

 click Mr Frog for more great stories

Mistaken Identity


A little later than usual, here is my effort for Friday Fictioneers this week. A big thank you to the lovely Renee Heath for the photograph this week and to Rochelle for all the time and effort she devotes to FF – we are all truly grateful. Bow, curtsey…

copyright-renee-heath

Genre: Memoir

Word Count: 100

Mistaken Identity

“Stop, stop. Stop!”

My son tightens his grip, his little nails dig into my hand.

“What’s the matter Sam, whatever’s wrong?”

I pick him up. His face is ashen. Two perfectly shaped teardrops hover in the corners of his brilliant blue eyes, threatening to spill over any moment.

I hold him tight.

“What is it? Tell me what’s wrong. Do you have a pain? Just tell me.”

Removing one arm from around my neck and a wet cheek from mine, he points at the fire hydrant and, in the smallest voice, whispers

“There’s a Dalek and I don’t like him.”

 

Click on the little blue froggy thing to read more stories        

 

By way of explanation…

We don’t have fire hydrants in the UK like the ones in the photograph.

In the mid-eighties we made our first visit to America. My husband is a film buff and a Western fanatic; the thought that he could see Monument Valley and walk in the steps of John Wayne had a lot to do with planning our vacation.  In the event we never got to Monument Valley, but did see some amazing and wonderful places on that first trip.

During the stopover in San Francisco, which was much cooler than the weather we had left behind in Los Angeles, our youngest son complained that his legs were cold.  My husband and elder son went off to find a shop where we could get him some trousers instead of the shorts we had with us, and we trailed somewhere behind.  I think we were approaching Union Square when the incident I have written about happened.

A new series of Dr Who had just been screened at home and while my eldest loved it, my younger son and I would hide behind the sofa when there was a scene with the Daleks. They could be pretty scary.

 

 

Musical Memory Lane


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

copyright Indira Mukerjee

Musical Memory Lane

Genre: Memoir

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.

 

 

A Role Reversal


I missed last week’s Friday Fictioneers; for friends and followers, my previous post explains what happened. All is still not well but this is not the place…

The lovely photo prompt this week, courtesy of Managua Gunn should provoke some great stories from the Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle as usual for continuing to spur us into action.

copyright Managua Gunn

copyright Managua Gunn

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

Role Reversal

She stands erect, eyes forward never moving, as we watch her from the corner of the square.

Her long blonde hair is tied back under her helmet, her uniform immaculate as always. I want to touch her, but cannot.

Occasionally she will come to attention, march to the post across the courtyard, turn and march back, but I haven’t time to wait.

Last night she wasn’t immaculate as she abandoned herself to desire. Passion spent, we slept entwined, waking early for her to take up her post.

We walk away. I have to get the children to school.

The Wondrous Heffelumpion


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

Copyright EL Appleby

The Wondrous Heffelumpion

Genre: Memoir

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

Small friends

Hell Raising


Thanks to Sandra for this week’s photo, and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for gathering us all together again this week. On seeing the photo, I was initially struck by a farming theme and as I could write what I know about farming on the back of a postage stamp, I quickly decided against even trying to go any further with it.

sandra-crook

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

Hell Raising

Occasionally tourists would stop at the end of the drive, snapping away.

Nicholas didn’t mind. Sometimes if the mood took him, he would get off the porch, wander down the drive and pass the time of day.

“Howdy.”

“Hello, nice to meet you. We’re on holiday from England, mind if we take a few photos?”

“Nope, you go right ahead.”

“We were wondering what on earth it is, that strange thing on your patio.”

“It’s just my trike.”

“You mean you actually ride it?”

Nicholas turned away, eyes blazing red. Should he show them, or would that spoil their holiday?