Past Forgetting


4 August 2017

Copyright Dale Rogerson

Genre: Memoir

Word Count: 100

PAST FORGETTING

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.

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No Mention


Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

No Mention

The estate agent’s glossy brochure is very appealing. Family home, six bedrooms, five bathrooms, annexe suitable for student or older person, large gardens with summer house and various out-buildings.

No mention of the room at the top of the house.  The room with no windows. The room with thick carpets and sound proofed walls. The room with mirrors and wardrobes full of clothes – if those things could be called clothes. No mention of the camera or the screen with five padded chairs placed behind it.

I was fifteen when I was first taken there.

No mention of that either.

Good to be back, it’s been a while. Hope you’ve all been keeping well. Thanks to our Fairy Blogmother, our ever busy, very productive leader Rochelle.

 

 

City Girl


I’m grateful for a re-run this week. After years of searching we finally have a holiday home in France – more about that later. It has take up a lot of our time and I have missed chances to post anything as the internet connection at present is so slow, so very happy to offer up this post from 2012.

Thanks as ever to Rochelle who is busy being an author and getting the third book in her series ready for publication

For more stories – 

 

40again's Blog

(thanks to Piya Singh for the photo)

The auction guide said 75,000; the place was almost a ruin it would take a lot of time and money to make it habitable.

Rose pouted, her Manolos were scratched, her hair a mess. Sam smiled, “could be beautiful” he said.

Rose glowered and thought of what she could buy with 75,000+

It would never be beautiful, she frowned, it was an old ugly mess. She was a city girl.

Sam took her arm and led her inside, showing her his plans for Rose Cottage.

Rose made the front cover of ‘Homes & Gardens.’

Smiling, looking beautiful.

Friday Fictioneers devised by Madison Woods http://madison-woods.com/blog/ 

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Free Spirits


Thanks to Roger Bultot for the photo this week and huge thanks to Rochelle who continues her amazing balancing act – author, artist, Fairy Blogmother…

6 May

Copyright Roger Bultot

Genre: Family History

Word Count: 100

Free Spirits

‘Will you catch one for me Fred, please?’

‘They’re wild birds Florrie, I can’t catch them.’

‘Oh, please get me one Fred, please.’

That night he made a small cage and hung it from a branch of the apple tree.

‘That’s as close as I get to catching one for you, sis.’

The soldiers lined up early next morning. Fred looked very smart; my ma cried at the sight of him marching away.

‘Don’t forget to check the cage Florrie,’ he shouted.

‘I’ll check it every day till you’re home.’

I never caught a bird.

Fred never came home.

 

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Barriers


22April

Copyright Madison Woods

Genre: Fiction

Word Count:100

Barriers

‘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)

A Man of Vision


Two weeks into my retirement and hardly a word written!  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but then life has a habit of interfering. I have managed to scribble this, hope you like it. Thanks to Kent Bonham for the interesting photo and to Rochelle for steering us through the maze…

15 April

Copyright Kent Bonham

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

A Man of Vision

‘How can we help you if you keep the design in your head Antoni?’

‘I cannot draw a design, as it changes every time I think of it.  It is a fluid, changing thing I cannot confine to paper.  If you will help me, then you must work as I work.’

‘But this bears no resemblance to any cathedral we have ever seen.’

Antoni stopped listening.

Through years of turmoil and political unrest he worked on his masterpiece.  He never finished it, but saw in his mind’s eye all the colours, the textures and the glory of his beloved cathedral.

*******

For more information on Antoni Gaudi and his work, including his beloved cathedral the  Sagrada Familia 

 

 for more stories, click Mr Frog

Early One Morning


Only one more week left at work … one good thing is that I will be able to spend more time writing and catching up with Friday Fictioneers.  I haven’t done much ‘visiting’ recently and I want to say thank you for putting up with me and still visiting and commenting on my posts. 🙂

Thanks as always to Rochelle for making time in her very hectic schedule to continue to lead us- sympathies with the dental work, I’ve been in the same boat recently, painful. Thanks to to Ted Strutz for the intriguing photo this week.

25 March

Copyright Ted Strutz

Genre: Family history

Word Count: 100

Early One Morning

May woke her brothers. The room was dark and cold. Condensation collected in puddles on the windowsill. Ernest pulled the blanket tighter.

‘Ernest, Walter, wake up. There’s water for a quick swill, your clothes are on the chair. Hurry up, don’t wake the others.’

They walked together alongside the canal, huddled against the cold, breathing out clouds into the morning.

‘Boys, hurry up!  If we’re late and refused work today, Joe Stamford will dock our pay for the week. Think of ma and the bairns, come on!’

Joe Stamford watched them running across the yard and started to close the door.

                                  *******

A little bit of history… May in the story is my grandmother. She left school aged 12 and went to work in a cotton mill in Colne, Lancashire, with her two older brothers. They left home around 5.30am to walk the two miles to work every day. Conditions in the mills were very hard, if they were late one day, they were refused entry and could lose their pay for the whole week. They worked hard to support their mother and six other siblings as by now, their father was quite ill and without work for long periods of time.

This is a photo of her, much much later, with my grandfather on a rare day out to Blackpool. (Apologies for the quality.)

2016-01-30 13.10.11

Copyright D. Lovering

 

 

Jar of Happiness


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…

 

Tuneless


Thankfully the rain has ceased, but now the bright, crisp, frosty mornings come as a shock to the system.  Where did I put that de-icer? I know there’s a can here somewhere…

Many thanks to Rochelle  for continuing to inspire us and, this week, thanks to her husband, Jan, for the photo prompt.

22 January

Copyright: Jan Fields

Genre: Memoir

Word Count: 100

Tuneless

‘I want to learn the piano.’

‘You would like to learn the piano.’

‘Sorry. I’d like to learn the piano.  Please?

‘We can only afford one lesson each week and your sister asked first.’

I remember that conversation so well, though it took place a lifetime ago. My sister was my mother’s favourite then, and could do no wrong.

I was a tomboy. I bit my nails, climbed trees, ran wild and played with the boys.  Definitely not mother’s idea of a pianist.

The piano took some punishment for a few months, until my sister discovered the local ballet class.

 

An Enchanted Place


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.

13 March

 

Genre: Memoir

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