Life Reflected


This Friday Fictioneering is an addictive thing, miss one week and I feel dreadful. I have been trying to organise my time so I can do more writing -no, I am serious – and so far it has worked. Both last week and this I have managed to post something BEFORE Friday, very happy about that.

For those who are not yet aware and wondering what on earth I am blabbering on about, Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the one and only Rochelle you can read the rules on her post, then join us in our addiction. The photograph this week comes courtesy of the lovely Janet Webb

Copyright Janet Webb

Copyright Janet Webb

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

Life Reflected

The sky is a glorious palette of colour; the pale fluffy clouds, almost touching the treetops are tinged with a warm apricot blush. As the sun dips below the horizon, a deep orange glow spreads outwards, filling my room.

Birds are winging their way home, returning to safety in the thick branches of the tall oaks; their freedom strengthens my resolve.

My eyes focus on the reflection in the window and I smile. I’m not the frail old woman I see there, I am strong. I am ready now to find Jack and tell him why I couldn’t meet him.

Read more stories – 

PS  Something seemed to go wrong with WP apologies if you just got the background picture when i hit publish the first time.  Hopefully sorted out now.

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Timeless


Suddenly, it’s Wednesday again and time for Friday Fictioneers (don’t ask, just accept it, we do) ~Writers from all over the globe come together to submit their 100 word stories or poems, inspired by the weekly prompt sent out by our lovely purple leader Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  It is her birthday today so join me in sending her the warmest of birthday wishes.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROCHELLE.   The photo this week comes courtesy of the lady herself, my story follows the photo.

    

Copyright - Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 100

Timeless

“It’s just clutter, nothing of value, why can’t I throw it out?”

“That’s my grandmother’s button tin you’re holding.  Remember how we used the big buttons to teach you to count?”

Laura glared at her mother and sighed.

 “You don’t need any of it.”

“How do you know what I need?”

“I look after you mother, I think I know.”

Isobel watched as her daughter walked around, calculating  how many boxes they’d need.

“Laura, you pop in briefly, collect my prescription, get my groceries, but you can’t give me what I need.”

“And what would that be?”

Isobel smiled

“Time.”

 

 

 

Life’s Cycle


It’s Wednesday it must be time for Friday Fictioneers. The photo this week is courtesy of AnElephanCant – (an elephant obviously can)  and we Fictioneers are following the yellow jersey of our tour leader Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  Join us and meet new and interesting writers from all over the globe, we have fun but be warned, it is very addictive and your Wednesdays will never be the same again.

 

anelephantcant

 

Genre: Poetry

Word Count: 100

Life’s Cycle

We rode side by side in silence lost in thought

Happy in companionable silence

Our love was new in that early carefree time

When you looked at me and saw perfection

And I looked at you in adoration

The years unfolded bringing joy and heartache

At times it seemed in equal measure

We rode out less as our children came

And interrupted our treasured togetherness

We argued and fought like any married couple

Until we found our new direction and grew close again

The same but stronger

Now too old to ride, our cycles gather dust and hold

Our memories

 

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.

 

 

Still Living at Bankside Farm


Another week, another photo prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for Friday Fictioneers. The photo this week is courtesy of Janet Webb and you can see how others have interpreted the prompt here

copyright-janet-webb

Still Living at Bankside Farm

“I did find it mum, it’s a ruin though. Look. I took a photo for you.”

She smiles up at me

“I’ve found your old home, it’s a ruin.”

She takes the photo and stares

“My room looks out over the bottom meadow, towards the mill.”

I sink down beside her, taking her hand

“Mum, remember. You live here now, not Bankside Farm. You haven’t lived there for years.”

She giggles then whispers,

“I saw Jed with the cows this morning, he blew me a kiss.”

My plan didn’t work.

I look up at the face I love, and smile.

 

( I am researching my family tree, and Bankside Farm was once home to some of my ancestors. It does look a bit like place in the photo now)

 

 

Remembering the Song


Another week, another photo prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for Friday Fictioneers. This amazing photo is courtesy of David Stewart and you can see how others have interpreted the prompt here

Remembering the Song

Grey haired, quietly waiting,

I make no movements now for you to marvel at,

My joints seem permanently fixed,

Not flexible or free from pain.

Nothing could help me sway to your music now

Though I remember our song, few would think there ever was one,

Or believe that here there once was joy, pleasure, movement, grace.

They see a body, stiff, unyielding, closed, and think that it was always so

And that my mind must be the same.

They raise their voices and wave their arms about

I’m not yet deaf or dumb, just old.

I scream in silence.

Always and forever


It’s Friday, well it is here in the UK, so it’s time for Friday Fictioneers. Each Wednesday Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts a photo prompt and writers from all over the world drop everything ( almost) to write 100 words and post by Friday.  It’s a great way to meet some great people, so why not give it a try?. Here is the photo for this week, courtesy of Rennee Homan Heath.

Genre – Memoir (99 words)

Path to the beach

Blue skies, warm soft air, white sand,

The days of love and longing here

Long ago, crowd my mind and bring a smile.

We are older now and unable

To run up sand dunes, or lie together

As we did back then, lost in wonder.

We walk more slowly across the sand

Still hand in hand, lovers still but not

That hectic, frantic love driven by need and lust,

A gentle touch, a smile, an embrace now speak

Our love, we will remember always those first days

When we made our pledge, one to the other,

Always and forever.

Follow the link to other stories here

Lost years


Here is the prompt for Friday Fictioneers this week from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Genre: Memoir (100 words)

rochelle2

He should be here, you say with that trembling voice,

Will you ask him to hurry?

Why is he taking so long?

Years ago you voiced the accusations of your doubting mind

Out loud, deceit, faithlessness, disloyalty,

He had no chance to stay your ranting onslaught,

You were frighteningly ferocious, they say.

I was too young to know him,

Too young to understand the words I may have half heard before sleep,

You are too old now to realise that he can’t come back,

But I repeat again the soothing words

There there, don’t worry you will see him soon.

 To see more stories follow the link

While I was waiting for inspiration… Starting Over


Back Camera

Sitting in front of a blank screen is quite daunting when you have things you want to say and are not quite sure where to start. It is relatively easy to follow prompts for weekly challenges on travel themes or photography but quite another matter when you are attempting a writing prompt and waiting for inspiration. I envy the seemingly free-flowing blog posts of others, they seem confident and assured whereas I seem to flounder about for ages, shall I post this, and will anyone read it? And so it goes, more or less.

I should really be working, I have a lot to get through today but my heart isn’t in it. I can only get excited about so much paperwork and having checked on the latest accounts – fine, the amount of stock we are holding – also fine, the remainder of my “To Do” list can wait a while.

I was reading recently about a writer who knew she wanted to be a writer from the age of seven. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do right up to leaving college; I envied friends who went into banking, accounting, nursing with a natural transition. I wrote letters, sent CV’s and though I got a few interviews none of the jobs was ever going to set my pulses racing. I waited for the thunderbolt that never came and in the end I went to work for my father who had his own business developing new plastic products for the automotive and leisure industries. We made oil seals and spoons in seemingly equal numbers; the production was interrupted occasionally by something different, but this didn’t happen very often.

I learned a lot of new words like, extrusion, purging, polytetrafluoroethylene, polymers, petrochemicals, which made my new found typing job quite difficult – you must understand that this was in the days of the typewriter and if you wanted more than one copy, you used pieces of carbon paper, one mistake and you had to do the whole thing again! I quickly moved on to marketing.

As my father’s daughter, I had to work harder to gain any promotion; I had started on the bottom rung when I first joined him, making the tea for everyone, even cleaning the toilets and rest areas, running errands, filing and general office work. He wasn’t going to let anyone say I got where I was because he was my father. Although I wasn’t too happy, I understood his thinking and just got on with it. The upside was that the other employees accepted me more readily when they saw there was no favouritism.

I worked for him for about five years, until he employed “The Office Manager from Hell”. I shall call him Nerd because that’s what he looked like, a Nerd. He made my life a misery because he could, and because he knew in his own twisted way that I wouldn’t complain as that would mean raising the “favouritism” flag.

I tried to like him, tried to overlook that plain fact that I could do his job with not much effort, as I had incorporated much of the role into my job before he arrived. He was thin and weedy and I liked my men tall and strong looking, but I tried to overlook his physical failings and concentrate on being a good colleague. The final straw was when the money in the petty cash tin in the safe didn’t balance; he sighed and asked me why there was money missing. There wasn’t, he had just added it up incorrectly. He held out his hand like Moses receiving the Ten Commandments and asked me for the keys to the safe.

I left amid much family argument.

The only downside to working for my father was our ability to carry on work related issues over dinner, much to my mother’s annoyance. This stopped quite abruptly when I left as my father didn’t speak to me for a while. He said later that had I told him about my treatment by the Nerd, he would have stepped in and done something about it, but the Nerd was the son of the bank manger…

My next job was working as head cashier in a supermarket, but more of that another time.

My grandmother would be laughing too


One day last week, I was buying quite a lot of bedding in a well know department store; as I walked toward the cash desk I was accosted by a slim young girl, wearing a large smile and brandishing a clipboard. She produced a card advertising a 10% reduction on purchases in return for signing up for a store card. The offer was only valid for a short time and she felt sure I would want to take advantage of it.

I usually smile sweetly and politely refuse such offers, I have had enough plastic in my purse and wallet over the years to make something really useful; but for some unfathomable reason I found myself sitting down with her to discuss the agreement for the card.

She took me through the form, asking for my name and address, pretty standard stuff, then asked for my bank details to check if I was credit worthy, and for a utility bill to check I lived where I said I did.  A utility bill is not something I expect most people would carry with them when they go shopping I told her, and in any case, I never have any utility bills in my name.  This caused her some concern as the form had to be fully completed or it wouldn’t be processed and I would not get my store card.

I actually felt relieved and said we would forget the card but thanked her for the thought.  I got up and went toward the cash desk.  The young woman followed me saying that she was sure she could get “them” to forget about the utility bill and as long as she completed the rest of the form, we would be good to go.

She asked me a couple more routine questions and then, against a backdrop of people patiently waiting to pay for their purchases, she asked me my age.  I stared at her, deciding whether to be rude or just walk away.  I mean, what sort of question is that to be asked when you’re out buying some new sheets and a couple of duvet covers.

I had a sudden flashback to a day out with my grandmother. I think I was seven years old or so and we had gone to the office my grandfather’s employer.  He worked on boats, and was often away delivering one boat to new moorings or bringing another one back to the boatyard. At these times it was arranged that my grandmother would collect his wages.

The man at the desk was not the one who was usually there, he was someone my grandmother didn’t know and he asked her lots of questions. She was uncomfortable with this and I remember her voice rising as she tried to deal with him.  Eventually, after exhausting his long list, the man asked her how old she was – ‘just for the record.’  I remember the intake of breath as she tightened her grip on my hand; she squared her shoulders and said to the little man behind the desk “Not that it has anything to do with you, but I am as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth” and taking the wage packet off the desk, she dragged me out of the office.

I looked at the glossy young woman with her nice smile and shiny clipboard and said “Not that it has anything to do with you, but I’m as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth”

I could hear a few people laughing behind me and knew my grandmother would be laughing too.