WEP

Write…Edit…Publish

gaby.demo (1)

mermaid_by_rerekina-d54eymaA silvery sparkling sea rolled into the golden sandy cove where beneath the boughs of a swaying palm sat a bejeweled mermaid, Queen of all she surveyed. In her arms, she held her merbaby, Le Princesse de la Mer.

‘It’s time for you to go my child’ said the Queen. ‘For I am tired and you must  take my place’

Where must I go?’  asked the child

Over the horizon’ said her Mother.

If I go in too deep I might drown Mummy’ said the child.

No my child, the creatures of the ocean will protect you’

How will I know when I am there?’ the child asked.

‘You will know little one. You will know’

And with that, the Queen was gone. The child looked around but saw no one. She was alone.

She swam through rainbows of fish and forests of coral. But the elusive horizon came no closer.

How far is the horizon?’ she asked a dolphin. ‘As far as you can see and more’ he said.

Which way is the horizon?’ she asked a starfish. ‘That way child’ he said pointing in five directions.

How long will it take?’ she asked an oyster. ‘How long is a string of pearls?’ it replied.

I’m tired, may I ride on your back?’ she asked a seahorse. ‘No young one’ he said. ‘You have to make the journey alone in order to claim your throne’

She was exhausted and clinging to a passing piece of driftwood fell into a deep deep sleep.

A while later she awoke, rubbed her eyes and saw before her a sparkling rock, upon which sat glistening golden throne.

Mermaids appeared from every direction, then circled around her frolicking and laughing with joy. Forming a nest of arms they gently lifted the child high above the rolling azure waves.

Take your place upon the throne Princesse de la Mer’ said a voice from above.

For this is the place over the horizon, this is the place where you belong’.

 

 

 

Badge 1Written in response to the prompt at Write…Edit…Publish which is ‘In too deep’

Picture ‘Mermaid’ by Rerekeena at deviantArt

Six Sentences

Post1630. Friday February 16

Six Sentence Stories

 miss-fajardose.regular (1)

I’m lounging in my armchair before a crackling log fire, in one hand a bulbous glass of fine vintage port, in the other a Montecristo Turbo Corona Grande cigar: six and one-eighth inches of heaven itself

I clip off the end before the ceremonial lighting; not a match, not a lighter, but a seasoned wooden taper.

I draw in the smoke, slowly, for cigar smoke should be savoured not swallowed, then hold it in my mouth until I taste cedar wood and cherries.

Perfect rings of smoke rise above me, fragrant halos which slowly fade leaving an aroma that transports me back to the smoky bars of Havana.

As the music of Mozart wafts over me, I close my eyes and enjoy an hour of perfect peace and contentment.

 

When the time comes to say farewell to my smoking partner, I don’t stub it out for to do so would show a lack of respect; no I let it fade away naturally, for someone once said the end of a good smoke is like losing a friend who had time to sit and listen.

 

x

 

This week’s cue word is Smoke.

A 100 Word Story

Friday Fictioneers

 

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It’s back again. February. Every year it turns up around the same time. It’s peering at me through the window like a miserable grey demon.

It’s the middle of the day but it’s more like dusk. I can see the sea from here. It’s grey. Rising from the distant horizon the sky is grey, even the seagulls squawking overhead are grey. There’s a blanket of snow. Blankets are meant to keep you warm. Not this one. The only bit of colour I see is a lone daffodil bravely standing there to remind me that spring is waiting just around the corner.

images

Thanks once again to Rochelle for hosting, and to Dale Rogerson for this week’s photo.

dale-rogerson-snow-photo

Two Hundred Words

Post 1630. Sunday February 11

Sunday Photo Fiction

 

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Her application was successful. Today, a new job complete with accommodation.

Having packed her few possessions into a bag, she looked around the room where she’d led her solitary existence. Empty drawers hung open, the bed stripped. An old grey television, her only companion, sat on a crate in a corner beside a lank, stained curtain hanging limply across a grimy window. The only sound, a drip-drip-dripping tap.

A clunk echoed down the murky hall as she closed the door behind her. She called out a last goodbye to the seemingly invisible people who lived their quiet lives behind closed doors.

Stepping over a heap of junk mail scattered across the crooked doormat, she opened the door to a new life beyond her grim chamber of loneliness.

A shaft of sunlight welcomed her; a ray of hope, a sign of better things to come. A lady walking her dog smiled, baby in a pushchair waved. A gipsy woman peered from beneath her scarf, winked and pushed a bunch of lucky heather into her palm.

Something bright and shiny caught her attention in the gutter. She picked it up. I was a lucky charm. Her lucky charm. The one she lost many years ago.

 

Word count 201

 

whiteThis week’s photo is provided by J Hardy Carroll.

Six Sentences

Post 1629.  Thursday February 8

 

jmh-jenpau.regular

The rules of cricket are simple.

There are two sides in the field, one is in and one is out.

Each man that’s in the side that’s in goes out, and when he’s out he comes in and the next man goes in until he’s out

When they are all out the side that’s out comes in and the side that’s been in goes out and tries to get those that came in out.

Players that are still out are not out.

When both sides have been in and out including the not outs, the game is over.

cricket events

At this week’s Six Sentence Stories the cue word is Pitch

A 100 Word Story

Post 1628. Wednesday February 7

Seeing the picture of the Hotel Henry Berrisford in Guatemala reminded me of something that happened to me when I was in Prague several years ago!

 

 

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The hotel is grim but I’ve paid so I’ll stay. In need of sustenance, I enter the smoke-filled bar and sit at a wobbly table.

A surly-faced woman hands me a menu. I utter the one word understood in any language, beer. A foaming flagon is plonked before me and I order a two-course meal, knowing not what to expect. The first arrives. Bread topped with cheese, topped with cabbage. I struggle through it. My empty glass is refilled then my second course arrives. Grey meat topped with cheese, topped with cabbage. I eat what I can.

Another beer arrives and another and…I’m beginning to like this hotel!

 

js-brandThanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and J S Brand for the picture.

Flash Fiction

Post 1627. Tuesday February 6

 

x

We had fun didn’t we, here on the beach. Remember how we ran into the sea and splashed and laughed and … laughed. Oh, how we laughed. Then we ran along shore leaving footprints in the sand, up and down and round and round, and played hopscotch and built castles and drew a heart and…

… and then the tide came in. Washed it all away as if we had never been there. Gone. Away.

The sea is still here, the beach, the sand, but not your footprints. Only mine. Just my footprints follow me … mine alone.

Alone.

 

Word count 95

photo-20180205154613659Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
and Yinglan for the picture.

Sunday Photo Fiction

Post 1627. Sunday February 4

 

 

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“Here comes Fred says Mavis to Doris. Sure enough, around the corner he comes, pushing his wheelbarrow. Squeak squeak squeak.

“Mornin’ ladies” he calls out as he carries on down the street. Squeak squeak squeak. “It’s ‘bout time you squirted some oil on that wheel!” says Mavis.

If anyone needs something delivered, collected or transported, Fred’s your manYou rarely see Fred without his barrow. He takes it shopping, he takes it to the pub and leaves in the car park. After his wedding, he carried his new bride from the church to their reception in it. It was decorated with flowers with Just Married painted on the side!

Everyone looks forward to seeing him and his barrow in the carnival procession as it squeaks along in time with the tiddly-om-pom-pom of the Salvation Army band. Last year it was a yacht, the year before a spitfire. This year? Goodness knows!

Squeak squeak squeak. “Here comes Fred” says Jack. “What’s that in his barrow?” asks George. “It looks like a bird cage with a parrot in it George,” says Jack.

“Mornin’ gents,” shouts Fred as he passes. Squeak squeak squeak goes the barrow. Squawk squawk squawk chirps the bird.

Word count 198

 

22-dawnmiller-february-4th-2018The photo prompt at this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction is provided by Dawn Miller.

A 100 Word Story

Post 1626 

Friday Fictioneers

 

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Gerald was a master carpenter, his wife Mildred produced intricate embroidery. For sixty years they worked side by side in their workshop, creating works of art to order.

When their once strong and nimble fingers weakened it was time to retire, but not before they made something special for themselves. And so it was, they crafted two each of their most elaborate pieces ever. Soon after they passed away, within days of each other.

*

Two magnificent oak coffins, each bearing a beautiful silk blanket sat side by side in the chapel. Little Molly stood between them, lifted a violin to her shoulder and softly played her grandparent’s favourite song…

 

 If I were a carpenter…

 

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and also providing this week’s picture.

stumps

Flash Fiction

Post 1625. Tuesday January 30

 

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A pinch of his fingers and the flame went out, the heady scent of lilies that moments earlier filled the room repressed by the reek of smokey tallow.

He sat back and sighed.

*

Days, weeks, months he’d waited. A vigil beside her bed. Did she know he was there? Could she sense the sadness he felt?

There she lay in a tangle of wires and tubes like a discarded puppet. No. It wasn’t fair, not on her, not on him. It was pointless. ‘Why?’ he wondered.

‘Why not?’ he thought. So he did.

Then he stood and felt his way across the darkened room, into the hallway and out into the street. The glistening sun assaulted his weary eyes and a blanket of warmth embraced him; welcomed him to a new beginning.

What became of him nobody knows. He just left, never to be seen again.

 

Word count 149

photo-20180129154606147Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is hosted by Priceless Joy and this week’s photo prompt is by Goroyboy.