Thanks to Roger Bultot for the photo this week and huge thanks to Rochelle who continues her amazing balancing act – author, artist, Fairy Blogmother…
Copyright Roger Bultot
Genre: Family History
Word Count: 100
‘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.
click Mr Frog for more stories.
My thanks to Rochelle for her photograph this week and for the continued support she gives to all the Friday Fictioneers. Each week she posts a photo prompt and urges us all to ‘say what we see’ – I apologise in advance for my mood this week. The news stories and film clips from the many war-torn regions of the world have occupied my thoughts for most of the week, to write anything in a lighter vein has proved difficult.
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Genre: Creative nonfiction
Word Count: 100
In Harms Way
In the early morning we claw at the overnight rubble and debris searching for the missing. The children are terrified, the women distraught. The angry and patriotic young men talk of taking up arms, while their mothers weep.
What rains down on us from the heavens is making our land barren, what little food we had is almost gone. Clean water is rationed and in short supply. Cats and dogs lie dying in our streets; it is only a matter of time.
War mongers and posturing politicians lie safe in their homes; their strategy reduces ours to dust, to memories.
Man was made to Mourn: A Dirge – Robert Burns
Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn, –
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!
For more stories click
‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.’
From the poem ‘For the Fallen’ by Laurence Binyon