for Friday Fictioneers, and loosely based on Rochelle’s picture of glass roses.

 

 

I saw Rosey on Saturday in the mall. Said she was getting some glasses.

‘Wine glasses? Beer?’ I asked.

She giggled, poked me in the ribs then trotted off.

I was enjoying a quiet pint last night. Suddenly there was an enormous crash. Someone had walked straight into a drinks-laden table! I spun round to see a young lady wiping the laps of three beer-drenched guys with her scarf. Then she turned and headed my way.  It was Rosey sporting an enormous pair of spectacles.

‘Hello, Rosey’ I chuckled. She raised her glasses and peered from beneath them.

‘Oh, it’s you! Like my specs?’

‘Nice, but you can’t see anything!’

‘I know’

‘Good idea then?’

‘Probably not!’

‘Drink?’

Chardonnay, please.

This is my 124th story about My Friend Rosey. The last one, ‘My friend Rosey, an inflatable dummy and some gin’ can be found Here! My favorites are on a dedicated site simply called My Friend Rosey.

 

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle who also provided the photograph.

Post 1771

for Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #1

Whilst looking for a prompt site to fill the gap left by recently departed Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, I came across Fandango’s new project!

If my story has a ring of familiarity about it, it’s possible you read a similar tale from me a couple of years ago. I promise something more original next time!

 

 

Sometimes whilst walking among the trees she saw him. They played hide and seek for a few moments then he was gone. Her friends said she imagined him. The sun playing games with its shadows they said. But she knew different.

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He sat cross-legged on a tree stump, in one hand a piece of willow, in the other a shiny blade. He chipped, smoothed and whittled until the little wooden whistle was perfect. He left it on the stump, a token of his love for the fair maiden with a promise that whenever she blew a merry tune he would appear.

One autumn day as she waved farewell she dropped it on the leaf-strewn forest floor. She was never to see her whistle again, nor him.

Each day she walks among the trees, kicking aside the leaves seeking the place where one passionate summer’s day she lost her little wooden whistle.

 

 

The prompt is this image by Watanska at DeviantArt.com.

Post 1770

 

 

for Friday Fictioneers

 

“Who’s there?”

“Disguise”

“Disguise who?”

“Disguise in love with you!”

They did it every night when John got home.

“Why the funny voice?”  Lea giggled.

“Knock-knock”

“John, you’re scaring me”

She opened the door, just a little. A man in a hoodie barged his way in and thumped the lightswitch plunging the flat into darkness.

“Get out” yelled Lea.

He lowered his hood and shone a torch from beneath his chin.

“I said I’d find you Lea”

What the hell do you want Mike?”

“Stupid question Lea. I’m collecting what’s mine”

Nothing.

“Knock-knock”, louder.

“Lea, knock-knock sweetheart!”

Silence.

John unlocked the door.

Lea was nowhere to be seen.

 

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Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo is by J Hardy Carroll

Post 1769

for Wordless Wednesday

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…as featured in this week’s Daily Mail Weekend magazine which named it

Post1768

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

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His clothes were gone, most of them anyway. Their joint account, empty. His special whiskey had gone, his crystal glass too.

‘I’m so sorry’, the note said. ‘By the time you read this, I’ll be at sea’.

For months they’d been planning to get away. They’d spent their savings and more buying the yacht. Every spare minute had been spent preparing the craft for the trip of a lifetime.

‘I feel so guilty’, the note said. ‘But I had to leave’.

Clutching the note in her hand she wandered out into the street leaving the door hanging open behind her.

‘Right now you must be angry’, the note said.  ‘But one day you’ll understand’.

Did he think she was stupid? Did he honestly believe she didn’t know what was going on? She knew. Oh yes, she knew. That’s why she made a couple of discreet ‘adjustments’ to the yacht. Don’t worry, she’d made plans too.

‘You’ll forgive me’, the note said.  ‘In time’.

Rain splashed her face, as she strolled into the park. She tramped across the sodden grass to the stream, made a paper boat from the soggy note and dropped it into the fast-flowing water. A wry smile spread across her face as it tumbled downstream, then sank.

 

Post 1767

 

Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Susan Spaulding. This week’s photo is by  Subramanya Bhat.

 

 

 

for Weekend Writing Prompt

 

 

 

 

Just above the horizon,

A golden moon glows in the deep blue yonder

midst a scattering of silver stars.

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Staring into infinity,

I  wonder what lies beyond.

The pressures of the day now gone,

I’m at one with myself, at one with my thoughts.

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Heaven puts on a show.

Silver streaks shoot across the sky

Four, five, ten, more.

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Then stillness returns

There is nowhere I’d rather be right now

Nowhere.

 

Post 1765

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Weekend Writing Prompt is hosted by Sammi Cox

Friday Fictioneers

 

 

‘If we don’t get there soon, there’ll just be empty bottles and burnt bits left’ yelled Fred. Charlie was struggling to keep up.

Reverend Godfrey greeted them on the village green. ‘Gentlemen, you look exhausted’.

‘We are Vic’ said Fred. ‘Where’s the beer and burgers?’

Oh, err, well, Miss Fothergill and Widow Applethwaite have iced buns and tea in the tent, but you must vote first’.

‘Vote?’                                      

‘Why yes gentlemen, for our Carnival Senior Princess. My money’s on naughty Lottie Lovette. Marvellous for ninety-three, and that bathing costume…’

They looked towards her and she winked.

‘B..b..but the barbecue….’ stammered Charlie.

‘Goodness, no chaps, that was yesterday’.

 

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Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle. This week’s picture is from Anshu Bhojnagarwala.

Post 1764

 

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Wordless Wednesday

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Fishing boats on Hastings beach

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for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

I enjoy a good nightmare. It’s like watching a horror movie without paying for a ticket. Plus, I’m usually the star! I fancied one last night so I ate loads of cheese, it always helps, hopped into bed and nodded off in seconds.

I was wandering down a dark street searching for something, I don’t know what. Golden sunbeams lit my way. It was so quiet. I saw a little dog curled up in a doorway. It raised its head and smiled at me.  I smiled back.

Then it all kicked off. The sweet little dog grew into a fang-toothed monster. I ran. It chased. I tripped. It roared. I fell. It towered over me, green slime dribbling from its gaping mouth. I tried rolling away but it put a massive paw on my chest. I struggled. Then it raised a back leg and peed all over me. It was like a foul-smelling waterfall. Nasty.

Suddenly I jarred awake. I was a bit damp, but I won’t go into details.

As nightmares go, it wasn’t the best. If I’d paid to watch it, I’d have asked for a refund. But at least I‘d have had some popcorn to eat.

 

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Thanks to Susan Spaulding for hosting Sunday Photo Fiction and C. E. Ayr for the picture of his pet.

 

 

 

for Friday Fictioneers

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This isn’t right.

It is.

Where is everyone?

On their way.

So, we’re the first?

Well, yes, obviously.

Where’s the stage?

Be here soon.

Sorry, this isn’t right.

It is.

It’s not.

It is.

It’s not.

Stop complaining. We’ve got a prime position.

Where’s the loo? I need a pee.

For goodness sake, go behind a bush.

This isn’t right.

Not again, I told you….

What’s today’s date?

July the…. seventh?

No, it’s July the first.

Oh…well…erm…

The festival’s next week you idiot!

Yea, but we’ve got a prime pos….

If you think I’m staying here for a week think on.  I’m outta here.

 

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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and Renee Heath for the photo.