flash fiction

The Dress

/ Dee / 43 Comments

I sneaked off last week, did you miss me?  I spent a week in Spain, just outside Puerto Banus; I found the sun ( must tell Sandra) enjoyed some lovely food and a really relaxing time. I missed Friday Fictioneers due to poor internet connection, so have a lot of catching up to do. Thanks go as usual to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for keeping FF going each week, where would we be without her?

Thanks for the photograph this week go to Janet Webb.  It is  very intriguing and I’m sure it will provide some very imaginitive stories from the great writers who support Friday Fictioneers every week.

window-dressing-janet-webb

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

The Dress

Larry looked up, the dress was still there. It was magnificent. Molly would look fantastic in it. He imagined her on his arm, walking together into the Annual Dinner; making a great entrance, the talk of the club for once. They were broke, but she deserved something new. If it was still there tomorrow night, he’d climb up and take it.

Antonio looked up at the painting and smiled, he had the perspective just right.  He went back upstairs to his ‘studio’ and added the few brushstrokes needed to finish it.

Larry had never heard of Trompe l’Oeil

Standing Still

/ Dee / 20 Comments

Thanks this week go to Sarah Ann Hall for her photograph entitled “Aqueduct” and to the wordsmith Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for continuing the Fabulous Friday Fictioneers.

aqueduct-sarah-ann-hall

Genre: Romantic fiction

Word Count: 100

Standing Still

…In the distance, the spectacular Pont du Gard, a reminder of the Romans’ talent for engineering, built centuries ago to carry water from the springs at Uzes to the Roman garrison in Nimes.

I switch off my voice recorder. It’s early and hot, what exactly am I doing here? I should have ignored Sally’s advice to get back to work; she was wrong, I’m not enjoying it!

I enjoyed having a husband. Now I feel directionless, insular, empty, separate.

The air changes, becomes still. I can sense Adam is beside me.

I relax and breathe the sweet fragrance of life.

Vincent

/ Dee / 50 Comments

The photo prompt this week is courtesy of Ted Strutz. His photo of the Icon Grill in Seattle has prompted many stories from the talented group of people who, each week, submit a story or poem to Friday Fictioneers, which is hosted assiduously by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

 

 

Icon Grill courtesy of Ted Strutz

Icon Grill courtesy of Ted Strutz

Genre: Historical fiction

Word Count: 100

VINCENT

Hunched over a glass of absinthe, he listens to des prostituees making their arrangements with the drunks in the corner.

The pain in his head is back again.

He drains the glass, reaches for the small canvas at his feet and hands it to Albert; they also have an arrangement.

His paintings, though brighter than ever, remain unsold.  The allowance from his beloved brother is not enough.

Later, as Albert hangs the new painting of a vase of flowers next to one showing a pipe on a straw chair, he shakes head.

They are worthless, but they brighten the walls.

 

(Vincent Van Gogh, spent some of his last years in Arles in the South of France. Amongst others, he painted many scenes of café life. One entitled The Night Café, is of the interior of the Café de la Gare, allegedly frequented by prostitutes– des prostituees and drunks. They could stay all night if they had nowhere else to go. It is reported that he gave the picture to the owner in settlement of his debts. Although he painted many hundreds of paintings, he sold only one during his lifetime and was supported by an allowance from his brother Theo. Although these facts have been documented, the story above is entirely from my imagination).

 

 

Sweet Revenge

/ Dee / 41 Comments

I missed Friday Fictioneers last week. I couldn’t make the deadline and I really missed reading everyone else’s stories. I am back this week in time to submit a story, but then I’m travelling to France for a few days. I will catch up when I get back.  Thanks to Rochelle for never missing a beat, what would we do without her? Thanks to Kent Bonham for the photo this week, I’ve been lucky enough to have seen a lot of Gaudi’s work both in Barcelona and in Palma – totally unforgettable.

kent-bonham

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

SWEET REVENGE

I stand silently in the shadows, waiting.

A taxi pulls up and a man alights. I quickly cross the road and as he opens the door I slip in behind him, heart pounding. He walks on down the hallway without looking back.

I scan the names on the mailboxes. Elena Avila – Penthouse. My former friend has come a long way indeed.

I slide the small, instantly recognisable gold box inside. It’s been resealed; she will see the expensive chocolates nothing else. She has always taken other people’s things, this time it’s my husband.

I’ve decided she can’t have him.

 

 

Footprints in the Sand

/ Dee / 55 Comments

Once more we gather, we growing band of Fervent Friday Fictioneers, drawn together by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each Wednesday she posts a photo prompt to tempt us, this week the photo is courtesy of Janet Green. Join us as we try to write a very short story – 100 words, or a poem – same rules apply.

An eternity I was lost at sea in search of your love
Never finding shore nor
seeing one on the horizon
Lost in the vast emptiness that was
everywhere
Your ocean of love eventually giving me life
Binding us
together as husband and wife

(extract from “Sea of Love” – by Bill Turner)

 

wasp-nest

Genre: Romantic fiction

Word Count: 100

Footprints in the Sand

Wandering by the shore, her slender feet leave footprints in the damp, pale sand. The returning tide bubbles into rockpools and swirls over pebbles, she wonders how long it will be until all signs of her are washed away.

Her green dress billows softly on the breeze; a thin strap falls onto a freckled arm, resting there unnoticed as she stares out at the ocean. Reluctantly, she turns back to their rented holiday villa. Has the grey cloud of suspicion and resentment followed them to this tranquil little paradise? Seeing the expression on his face, she rather thinks it has.

(This is an extract from a short story I wrote about marriage; how it  can go wrong, what it takes to get it back on track)

 

Hell Raising

/ Dee / 49 Comments

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?

 

 

A Family Tree

/ Dee / 63 Comments

Once again we fire up our little grey cells and try to come up with a germ of an idea.  An idea that will grow into another piece of fiction fit for Friday Fictioneers.

Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for her dedication and time, keeping Friday Fictioneers growing straight and true.

Courtesy Scott Vanatter, permission-copyright Indira

Courtesy Scott Vanatter. Permission-Copyright Indira

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

A Family Tree

After the war we had nothing. Stripped of our possessions, we wandered the land searching for food, shelter, kindness. Maria, mourning her child, lost her mind. Men found her dancing in the field and amused themselves, then fearful of the consequences, tied her to a tree and left her.

“This can’t be true, who would do this?”

We found her after animals and birds had fed, we buried her.

“It happened” said the genealogist, handing me more yellowing pages, “there is a gravestone, with details.”

That night, the dream came again; a tree tied with red ribbons.

Now I understand.

 

The Lamplighter

/ Dee / 45 Comments

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.

lamps

Genre: Memoir/Fiction

Word Count: 100

The Lamplighter

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)

The Dancing Horse

/ Dee / 14 Comments

Friday Fictioneers are riding high! Lots of writers from all over the world race to join our group each week. Marshalled by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, we trot, canter and gallop along to the finish line with our interpretation of the prompt for each week.
The photo this week is courtesy of Doug McIlroy, a great fictioneer.

thirsty -DM McIlroy

 Genre: fiction

Word Count: 100

The Dancing Horse

In the high pasture hidden away, the old grey horse raises his head. Ears pricked, he hears the music drifting up from the valley below. Memories stir, the crowds and applause come back to him.

He sways in time with the music, then very slowly lifts his front legs off the ground, the muscles in his hind quarters rippling and straining with the effort to keep them in the air. He attempts a Levade, learned in a different life, long ago.

In the stables in Vienna, the name Maestoso Portia shines bright above his stall and fresh straw is waiting.

—-00—-

I saw the famous Lipizzaner horses at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna performing their Airs Above the Ground  a few years ago, it was a magical experience. Then later, I heard stories about how some of these magnificent horses had been stolen and just disappeared,  I wondered what happened to them. For more information on Lipizzaner Horses visit http://www.lipizzaner.com/

Riding on the curb.

Riding on the curb. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Waiting

/ Dee / 42 Comments

As a little white rabbit said “I’m late, I’m late…”

But I managed to pull something together eventually.  The thing about Friday Fictioneers is the big hook, once you’re on you just don’t want to wriggle off!  The photo this week is courtesy of Lora Mitchell and the Friday Fictioneers are lovingly corralled each week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

lilies-lora-mitchell

Genre: Fiction

Word Count:  100

Waiting

Martha stares out at the city one last time.

Seems she is always waiting.

She had waited for a husband to love.

She had waited a while for their first child.

She had waited in vain for their second.

She had waited for her husband to love her as she loved him.

 

She waits for the bus, holding one bag and one silent child, ‘can’t have any more that don’t speak’

She waits at her mother’s door for the comforting arms that will hold them both; for the heart that is bigger than the ocean, to envelop them in love.