for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

I once worked aboard that ferry. I ran the snack bar.  It wasn’t so much the job I enjoyed, it was meeting the people.  Most were going to the island for a holiday. 

I remember the time a tiny hand popped up clutching a plastic bucket and spade.  I bent forward and peered over the counter to see an excited little boy.  ‘I’m going to build sandcastles mister’ he said!

But that wasn’t the main reason I recall that day. 

As I watched as the passengers climb from their cars, I played my usual game with myself;  she’ll ask for an espresso, he’ll want a coke! 

One car just about made it onboard it in time.  It was blue.  A Ford I think.

Soon I was busy serving.  A girl asked me for a glass of water.  She looked agitated.  She took it away then sat with her head in her hands.  I didn’t think any more of it.

When the familiar ‘ding-dong return to your vehicles’ message rang out, off everybody went.  I was clearing my tables when I found that glass of water.  And some keys.  A bag too.

Just one car remained onboard.  It was blue.  A Ford I think.

 

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting. The photo is by Artur Malishkevych

 

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Abysmal and the word limit 93.

 

 

‘Order’ yelled the red-faced judge as his wig slipped,  covering one of his bulging eyes.

‘Justice’ chanted the rowdy crowd.

‘Enough of your abysmal behaviour’  the judge hollered slamming his gavel, the head of which broke free and bounced into the clerk’s lap.

‘Justice’.

‘Order’.

‘Justice’.

‘ORDER!’.

The jury’s heads turned this way and that like an audience at a ping-pong match.

The door opened to reveal the ghostly figure of the murder victim. 

‘Not him’,  it hissed, pointing a quivering finger, ‘but her’. 

Then it shimmered and disappeared.

How odd was that?

 

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for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt

 

The rising sun shines silver through an early morning mist.  Droplets of dew glisten on blades of grass which quiver in the breath of a gentle spring breeze.  A walk beside the lake.  Just one man and his dog. 

So peaceful.

In distant houses, alarms wake folk from their slumbers.  Soon the quiet will be shattered by cars spluttering into life, children shouting goodbye as they pile into buses. The endless drone of the city beyond will provide a soundtrack to the wearisome working day.

But for now, it’s peaceful,  so very peaceful.

He stops to watch a mother duck proudly floating across the lake, her precious babies paddling frantically in her wake.  

Behind a fence, brightly coloured slides and seesaws enjoy the last minutes of solitude before chattering mothers propel their shrieking offspring through the gate in bag-laden buggies.  Swings move lazily back and forth awaiting their first passengers of the day.

He wishes it could always be as peaceful as this.

Soon the chugging mower and rumbling roller will be trundling back and forth preparing the green for the cricketers.  The crack of leather on willow will be music to the ears of the white-attired gentlemen as they bat, catch and run.  Their proud ladies will make cucumber sandwiches, pour endless cups of tea and butter home-baked scones.

He turns and walks into the copse.  Sunrays, like silver spears, pierce the swaying branches.   The dog scampers this way and that, then off into the trees.  A few minutes more and they’ll be home.  He’ll hand the park back to his neighbours for another noise-filled day.

A jarring thump. He shoots forward and stumbles to the ground. A heavy boot flies into his face as someone tears at his pockets then drags the watch from his wrist. 

The peace is shattered.

The dog rushes to defend its master, the silence assaulted by frenzied barking and the terrified cries of the assailant who suddenly becomes the victim.  He limps away then disappears.

Peace returns.

Quiet, but for the whimpering faithful hound as he sits beside his master, licking his face, willing him to recover.

Alone in the park.  Just one man and his dog. 

So peaceful.

for Friday Fictioneers

 

 

My friend Rosey and I love visiting Farmer Fred. 

Once Rosey tried milking a cow and squirted herself in the eye.  Another time, whilst stroking a lamb a ram butted her back-side!  As for her five-legged horse…!

Last time, we drove across the fields.  I had the tractor, Fred, his Landrover, Rosey a 4×4 buggy.  ‘Race you to the barn’ she said shooting off into the distance!

Unfortunately, she missed the brake pedal and careered straight through the barn doors.

We eventually caught up to see her grinning head poking out of a heap of hay!

We are going again Saturday.

 

To read more stories about Rosey, pop across to My Friend Rosey

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting, and Dawn Miller for the picture.

Click Froggie to join in the fun!

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

So there I was, wandering around the car boot sale or flea market as they’re called across the pond.  I paid a few bob for some old books and a quid for a bookcase.  Not bad eh?

Then I saw it.  The most beautiful picture I’d ever seen.  Something seemed familiar about it.  Like I’d seen it before.

I told the seller.  ‘That’s called day-jar-voo mate’ he said, ‘day-jar-voo’.

I had to buy it.  After a bit of bantering, it was mine.  But I still couldn’t think where I’d seen it before.

I was so proud of it, I took it to the pub to show my mates.  It got a mixed reaction as they’re not connoisseurs of fine art unlike me.

Next day I showed Mum.  You should have seen her face! 

‘Of course you recognise it.  You painted it at school, framed it and gave it Dad and me for Christmas in 1960!’

My turn to pull a face.

‘It’s been in the loft for years and the other day I asked Frank to sell at the boot fair.  I didn’t expect you to find out!’

Anyway, she’s said she’d refund me and stick it on her wall.  For now!

 

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting. The photo is from Morguefile.

*We had the same photo prompt last week which is what gave me the idea for my story!

 

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Sculpture and the word limit, 71.

 

 

I like being a sculpture. 

Yesterday, a bloke said  “I wish you had a pair like that” and his wife slapped his face! 

Here’s another lot, time for my stony-faced expression!

Look, some old folk.  “Magnificent …  splendid … ravishing”.

Hello handsome, fancy stroking my marble?  Oooh, cheeky boy!

Good, lights out.  Time for a chat with One-Tit-Tina and Noseless-Nick.  Headless-Harry too; no doubt he’ll be talking out of his ass as usual!

 

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for Friday Fictioneers

 

Old Bert peered out the window.  It was raining, pouring. 

‘Nothing on the telly,  crossword’s done and I’m clean outa’ whisky’,  he muttered.  ‘I’ll have an early night’ .

His ancient joints clicked and crunched as he heaved himself to his feet and tottered to the bedroom.

He bent to massage his aching knees and bumped his head.

‘Ouch,’ he said rubbing his brow.

He climbed beneath the sheets and in minutes old Bert was snoring like a pig. 

Come dawn the only sound to be heard was the pitter-patter of raindrops on the windowpane.

He didn’t get up in the morning.

 

 

Any similarity between this tale and a certain nursery rhyme is purely coincidental!

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and providing this weeks picture.

Click on Froggie to join in the fun!  Don’t worry about him, this is pure fiction and his name’s not Bert!

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

I was in the library scanning the bookshelves for a copy of my favourite book, ‘The Charms of Dandyism, or Living in Style’  by Olivia Moreland, Chief of the Female Dandies.

I spotted it and as I attempted to slide it from the shelf, it pulled back.  I pulled, it pulled.  I pulled harder, it pulled harder.

Suddenly it came free and I flew backwards landing on the floor. 

I peered under the bottom shelf and spotted a pretty pair of ankles.  I climbed back to my feet and peeped through the gap left by  ‘The Charms of Dandyism blah blah blah’,  and looking back at me was the sweetest blue eye I’d ever seen.

“Hello, I’m Charlotte,”  said a cute little voice. 

“Hello, I’m Danny,”  said I. 

To cut a long story short we agreed to share the book and so started a new chapter in our lives. 

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting.  Photo Credit Morguefile

 

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Elysian with an allowance of just 56 words.

 

 

 

Look at this mess. You cherubs and your abandoned toys.  Good folk enter the Elysian Field only to find the Stairway to Heaven littered with plastic frogs and action men.

Dying once is bad enough, but tripping on the steps and dying again’s not on.

Get this place cleared up before the Boss sees it.

 

By the way, the painting is Action Figures by Edith Vonnegut.

for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto Photo Prompt

 

 

What’s happening to me?  Words once flowed from my mind in an endless stream.  Now they don’t.  I just sit here fiddling with pens, screwing up paper and bending paper clips. 

We used to go to a club on Mondays and sit in a circle reading stories we’d written.  Or was that Tuesdays?  We did, didn’t we?  Yes, I remember standing up and reciting a poem about my cat. Or dog.  That was me, wasn’t it?  Or was it you?

It’s Thursday tomorrow I think.  I hope so because we do something special on Mondays, don’t we?  We go to a club.  That’s right.  We eat lunch and have a choice of fish and chips or something else.  What is it?  Oh I know, fish and…chips.

You used to take me shopping today. Or was that Fridays? 

Sorry, do I know you?