I thought I wasn’t going to make it again this week – apologies to Doug for missing his very intriguing photo prompt last week. I have been attending a conference in Italy – no, it was not lovely, nor was I lucky. The trip went something like this – 2 hour drive – 2.5 hour flight – 2 hours on a bus – 3 hour conference – half hour bus ride – 3.5 hour dinner (no time to change after arriving) 1 hour to hotel – 6 hours sleeping – 1 hour working breakfast – 3 hours of meetings – 2 hours on a bus – 2.5 hour flight back – 2 hour drive back home.
Are you exhausted? I was!
Thanks this week to Bjorn Rudberg for the photo prompt and as always to Rochelle for brilliantly shepherding the Friday Fictioneers into some semblance of order each week.
For some reason, I saw Spanish Civil War…
Genre: Historical fiction
Moonlight on The Ebro
The Ebro shimmered in the moonlight, unimpressed by our consuming passion. We lay holding each other so tight, we could scarcely breathe. The Brigade left quietly, at daybreak.
I taste the saltiness of tears and open my eyes. The music of the street floats in through faded shutters, it stirs memories of ‘Viva la Quinta Brigada’ your anthem, our song.
I am old, tired. I’ve waited a lifetime for my passionate fighter, mi amante.
In the cool evening air, I feel again the pressure of your strong arms. I fall freely, as I did all those years ago.
For more information on the Spanish Civil War and of the men who went to fight against fascism in Spain – The International Brigade
I was very surprised and delighted that Rochelle had chosen one of my photographs for the prompt this week. It was taken at the end of a fiesta in Valldemossa, a lovely little town in Majorca where we spent a very enjoyable day.
It is so good to see the number of writers taking part in Friday Fictioneers increasing week on week, justification, if any were needed, for Rochelle to continue her sterling work.
Copyright Dee Lovering
Word Count: 100
A Very Private Dancer
The dancer moves across wooden boards that shiver beneath his feet. A five-year old boy watches, marrying the dance with the music in his heart.
The crowd holds its breath then finally erupts with cheers and applause.
‘Cristobal, Cristobal,’ their chants escape through the fluttering banners, rising up into the warm night.
Alone in the shadows, the boy makes up his own steps. Stamping and twirling in his own time, imitating the uncle he adores; determination etched upon his serious face.
All too soon the world will learn of his exceptional talent.
For now though, his world is enough.
Read more stories here
This story was inspired by the amazing talent of Joaquin Cortes, a classically trained ballet and flamenco dancer. He was born in Cordoba and moved to Madrid where he attended ballet school. His uncle was a well known flamenco dancer.