Copyright Dale Rogerson
Word Count: 100
It’s easy to forget.
My mother would say this in her ‘martyr’ voice, on her birthday, when there was nothing from my father.
The flowers he sent on the birthday after their divorce, were sent back to him chopped up in small pieces. He got the message
The years that followed were not easy. While my mother fumed, he apologised repeatedly to my sister and I. Although sad, we were adult enough to accept parents are only human, and deserve happiness too.
At his funeral, I held her whilst she sobbed, ‘I’ve lost him now.’
It’s not easy to forget.
Thank as always to Rochelle our ‘Fairy Blogmother’ for still finding time to sprinkle her fairy dust and to all other F’Fers you are a great group of writers.
Copyright Madison Woods
‘Dad, there a truck outside full of barbed wire, d’you know anything about it?’
‘It’s for river meadow. I’m sick of that bloody woman’s dogs worrying our sheep, time to get tough.’
‘You don’t know her dogs are to blame, more likely a fox.’
‘It’s her fault!
I don t know why he hated her. Since I bumped into her in the village, we’ve got on really well. She liked the fact our hair is almost the same colour.
My mother left us when I was small; it’s good to have a woman to talk to occasionally.
Dad wouldn’t understand.
For more stories (Sorry the little blue froggy thing is on strike)
We have sun today, it makes me think Spring can’t be far away and the daffodils in the garden obviously think so too.
Thanks for the photo this week go to Al Forbes – love the old cars – and a huge thank you to our FBM Rochelle for just being there. She has also been on the radio, you can catch her interview here
Copyright Al Forbes
Word Count: 100
Stella keeps her head down, conscious of the cut above her left eye. Though her cell phone has remained silent, she senses Robert is nearby; he doesn’t like to be disobeyed. ‘Honey, I’m sorry, it was an accident…’
Years of abuse made her compliant, silent, invisible. Today, on the anniversary of her marriage, something snaps. Drawing out what little money she has managed to squirrel away, she is on a bus heading north.
Feeling safe, she sleeps. The loud blast from a horn wakes her. Robert is driving alongside pointing a gun, mouthing silent obscenities, totally oblivious of the truck.
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Another wet week in Wales, no wonder it’s so green here…… Thanks as always to our fairy blogmother Rochelle and this week’s thanks for the photo prompt, go to the sometimes poetic always interesting CE Ayr
Copyright CE Ayr
Word Count: 100
Grace shielded her eyes against the glare. At the end of the track stood the white-washed farmhouse they’d been searching for. Forty years ago, for reasons that were inescapable, she had turned away from Jack and married Edward. She had kept their secret all this time, until Edward’s death set her free.
In the lavender fields of France, the powerful scent calmed her nerves. The long journey was almost over. Grace saw someone on a tractor in the distance and a moment of panic gripped her, she started to shake.
Amy gently took her hand,’go on gran, it will alright’
It’s a lovely morning here, the sun is streaming in though the windows as I write, it looks more like spring than autumn. In any event, it’s a lovely day to wish a very Happy Birthday to Rochelle and to my sister, who also celebrates today.
I watched a building, much older than the one pictured, being pulled down a few days ago, and wondered…
Word Count: 100
From a safe distance, I watch the demolition team start work. A small group of people gather at the safety barrier; I recognise a few of them, but doubt many would recognise me, now.
The place that was once my home but became my prison, is reduced to piles of rubble. A workman in the basement shouts something to his supervisor who runs across the street.
Mrs Goodman leaves the group of onlookers; she glances in my direction, a half smile forming on her thin lips as she walks away. We both know what’s been found; no point hanging around.
click here to read what other FF’s have written
Copyright – Ted Strutz
Word Count: 100
DIY – A Shortcut
John stepped back into the water trough a second time.
‘I hate bloody DIY! And why soak the paper? What’s wrong with old fashioned wallpaper paste?’
‘I thought it would be quicker and hopefully less messy.’
‘You thought. Here, make yourself useful, hold the brush.’
‘It seemed a better idea to do this while the boys were away.’
He grabbed the brush, held the paper off the wall and in one angry movement swept it down to the skirting board.
‘Careful, you’ve covered up the socket.’
‘Just shut up,’ he said, jabbing the point of the scissors through the paper.
The socket reminded me of the fiasco we had when we decided to decorate the bedroom our boys shared when they were small. It’s all true, apart from the scissors in the socket…but it could well have happened that night!
Thank you to Ted Strutz for the photo prompt and to Rochelle for continuing to light the way.
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.
Copyright – Georgia Koch
Word Count: 100
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.
Click here to read more great flash fiction
I love Chicago! Just thought I would tell you. We went there years ago and spent a week in the city before travelling on to Utah – don’t ask… Huge thanks to Rochelle for continuing to host Friday Fictioneers and supporting everyone who takes part.
Finally, my very best wishes to you all for a healthy and prosperous 2015
Copyright Jean L Hays
Word Count: 100
The bag was heavy but Molly dragged it to the station. Her face turned towards the sun, its warmth flowed through her body, easing the pain. Cosmic pain relief, she laughed out loud at the simplicity of it.
On the train she ripped up the left-luggage receipt and gently took out the torn and crumpled letter. It had been hidden, but not well enough. Eventually she had retrieved it. Carefully, she smoothed out the creases until she could read his words.
On the platform she scanned the faces of strangers, looking for him.
He was there, as he had promised.
“Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you.” – Charlotte Whitton
Read more stories here
I love the old desk in the photo this week and wonder how many ‘letters’ we will receive…
Thanks to Mr Fields for the photo and for Mrs Fields for continuing to mark our work and support our efforts.
Copyright Jan Wayne Fields
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
My words will be a shock to you and I beg you be seated whilst you read them.
When I refused Henry’s proposal, I know you were saddened as you wanted us to be sisters. My disposition would not have suited your brother and I believed the wedded state was not for me.
I write to you to confess that I was wrong in my belief and have accepted the proposal of marriage from Arthur Nicholls. The wedding will be in June, my dearest wish is that you will be my witness.
Your loving and devoted friend
Read more Friday Fictioneers stories – I insist
This letter could have been written by Charlotte Bronte to her dear friend Ellen Nussey. Ellen’s brother Henry did propose to Charlotte and she did refuse him citing her disposition as the main reason they would not get on. Charlotte married her father’s curate Arthur Bell Nicholls in June 1854. Sadly the marriage was happy but short, Charlotte died on 31 March 1855 in the early stages of pregnancy.
If you would like to read more the link will take you to the website of the Bronte Society
Bronte Society – Ellen Nussey
I haven’t taken part in many of the Writing 101 prompts, to be honest I haven’t written very much at all just recently. I did take a weeks’ holiday, but mainly it’s work that has just got in the way of me enjoying myself – I’m going to have to either get more organised or magic up some days with a few more hours in them! I found the latest prompt very interesting however; my post is not really about a fear, although I have always shied away from writing about crime, sci-fi etc – genres I find difficult for my style of writing, it was more the idea of trying to write in a completely different style that appealed to me, so here goes…
I’m waiting at the station. Penny is late. We agreed to meet at 10.00 the train leaves at 10.15 and it’s now ten past. I fiddle with the strap of my overnight bag, I do not feel comfortable waiting here on my own, but it is something I have had to get used to. Being on my own. I thought Penny was different from the rest, she is such a good listener and always says the right thing. She bolsters my confidence in a way that makes me feel good, wanted, desired even. Sarah started out like that and we had some great times together, but she ended up like all the others, her needs were more important than mine. Her and her perfect skin, no blemishes or imperfections, no acne scars to hide away under a generous helping of Max Factor. I could have forgiven her looks, if she had remained true. The train is here and no sign of Penny. I find it hard to believe that she has changed her mind. At least Sarah told me face to face, that was something at any rate. Not that it did her much good. My mother always said that everyone gets their comeuppance in the end and it was only fair that Sarah did too. I get on the train and take a seat by the window. There are a few people running down the platform, but no sign of Penny. The guard takes out his flag and puts his whistle to his lips, we will be off in a minute and I’ll have to make new plans. Shame about Penny, the one that got away, that’s what I’ll call her. Why doesn’t the guard blow his whistle we are going to be late. There’s a sudden movement at the other end of the platform. Oh it’s Penny, she is here after all. She is walking towards the train and stops outside my window. She is pointing at me and I wave; for goodness sake get on the train, I shout through the glass. She is holding up something for me to see. It’s a newspaper showing a photograph of someone who looks a bit like Sarah. I get up to go to the door, to get Penny, but my way is blocked by two large policemen.
You can read more about the Writing 101 challenge and this prompt here