A story and a poem…

for Friday Fictioneers

I had two stabs at a piece this week and couldn’t make my mind up which to use, so I’ve been greedy and posted them both!

 

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He’d dismissed what they’d said about her. Called it idle gossip, jealousy even. Whatever they claimed, he came back with an answer, an excuse.

He’d been blind to what was happening. So close he couldn’t see it. Blinkered, his mind placed obstacles before his eyes. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t. Not her. Never.

But it made sense now. He can’t explain what brought on that sudden moment of realisation. It was like something lifted him up enabling him to see above and beyond the wall of denial.

They’d been right all along, he was wrong.

And now he knew she’d wronged him.

 

*

 

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I will he said

You won’t said she

I will he said

Just wait and see

 

You’ll fall she said

I won’t said he

You will she said

Now listen to me

 

I won’t he said

you will said she

Don’t you dare

climb up that tree

 

I will said he

No don’t said she

as he began

to climb the tree

 

Whoops

Help

Ouch

Mum?

 

Told you so

 

…and that is why I don’t write many poems!

 

finding-a-signalFriday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle and this week’s picture is from Susan Eames

Prod the frog to see what everyone else is up to!

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Chit chat…

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

whitev

 

I thought you were going to build a wall

I was, but I looked at the pile of blocks and I thought I’d rearrange them to make a pyramid instead.

What’s the point?

That bit up there!

Haha, very funny…not!

Hey, yesterday I saw a bloke stop in the middle of the market place and point to the sky and...

Yea, I know who you mean. Everyone around him begins to stop and look up, then he wanders off with a big grin on his chops!

That’s ‘im.

Tell you what, that would be a great way to run your own pickpocketing business!

Don’t go getting ideas mate!

A riddle for you…what did the one baby pyramid say to the other baby pyramid?

I don’t know. What did the baby…..

How’s your mummy! Get it, get it?

Oh, groan, double groan!

Sorry!

Now, are you going to help me to dismantle my pyramid?

Why, have you changed your mind?

Well, Beth’ll be back from the shops soon and she’s expecting to find me building a wall, not a pyradoodle.

Okay, come on then, but it’ll cost you a beer.

white

 

 

dscf8652Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Susan Spaulding who also provided this week’s picture.

Prod the frog to see other’s stories!

 

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My first contribution…

…to Friday Friday Foto Flash Fiction

 

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She was a sweet lady. Everyone called her Auntie! She used to sit on a chair outside her door and stitch and sew. Everybody knew her. She made pretty little pouches embroidered with flowers, butterflies and birds. She filled them with fragrant dried petals; lavender, peony and rose. Potpourri pouches she called them. She used to give some of them away. She gave me one once. It’s still in my wardrobe and it smells divine. What she did with the rest I had no idea.

I was walking down the alley one afternoon and I saw a young man hand her a package. There was something strange about him. He looked a bit shifty. Anyway, she quickly tossed it through the door as she saw me approach. ‘Hello Auntie,’ I called out as I walked past. ‘Hello dear, what a lovely day’ she replied.

I glanced over my shoulder to see her hand a bag to the young man. Then he scurried past me and out into the street beyond.

I thought no more about it; until that was, I heard about a police raid on Auntie’s stone cottage.  I picked up a local newspaper and it was front-page news. Apparently, it wasn’t just scented petals she was filling her little pouches with! The fragrant ones were to throw us off the scent if you know what I mean!

She’d obviously received advance information because she’d fled. Disappeared. I reckon right now she’s sitting on a sun lounger beside a pool on a distant tropical island sipping Martini – and embroidering pretty little pouches!

Needle Icon.Needle with thread.Sewing needle.

Thanks to Donna McNicol for hosting.

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Photo: https://morguefile.com/p/1109948

Ninety-six words…

for Friday Fictioneers

 

rushtick.regural

 

He had to do something with the money. He needed it to work for him. But where to invest it? He had to decide, and quickly.

There were several options. Some safe but not very profitable, others risky but with a chance of reaping enormous rewards.

There was only one way to decide. A stab in the dark. He closed his eyes and prodded the paper.

*

The ground shook as the horses thundered past, each jockeying for first place – except his which trotted by like a disinterested donkey.

Right. Race two. Number six looks hopeful, but…..

 

 

pastedgraphic-9Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle. This weeks picture is from J Hardy Carroll

 

Prod the donkey to see what others have written!

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A flash of fiction…

for Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge

 

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He didn’t seek fame. His creations were for his pleasure alone. In his studio, a crumbling cottage amid the trees, the unknown artist stared at a blank canvas, his mind empty, his thoughts an open space. His inspiration, his trusty muse had deserted him.

Frustration turned to anger and with a blow of his arm, the easel flew across the room smashing a window to smithereens. He trampled over reams of ripped paper, torn canvases and crumpled paint tubes, then crouched in a corner, head resting upon his knees, and wept. 

Through the crisscross lead of the broken window, a sunray penetrated the gloom and caressed his weary hand. He looked up to see shadows flickering upon the peeling walls. They danced, they tripped and spun. Then the awful silence was broken as a bird landed on a nearby branch and whistled a merry tune.

He unfurled his aching body, then righted his easel and grasped an unused canvas from the heap on the floor. He adorned his palette with paints and with a flick of his wrist a picture began to form. Then another, and another then more.

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It was years before the studio was discovered. A glimpse of heaven one reporter wrote. Inspirational said another. Nobody knew who the artist was or where he’d ended his days. Not a name, not a signature, not a single clue.  

 

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The picture is from Aron Jäger@unsplash.com

 

A short story…

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

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Hey ma’am, houza about me ‘n you head’n downtown for summa that southern fried chicken an a can a Mount’n Dew?

Bertram, for the last time, will you please stop putting on that accent. You are watching far too many American television programmes. If you promise to behave I’ll take you to that McDonald’s place for one of those hamburger things, but there’s to be no more talking like a cowboy.

Hey woman, tis just the way I is…though on second thoughts Constance my dear, I think I may prefer fish and chips and a drop of lemonade.

Don’t you mean fish and fries and soda?

Yea-ha, now you’ze at it too honey chile!

I sometimes wonder why I married you Bertram, now come along before I change my mind.

 

 

2019-05-19-terri-smeighsSunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Susan and this week’s picture is by Terri Smeigh.

 

Prod the frog to see what others have written!

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One hundred and one words

for Friday Fictioneers

 

whitezz

zzzzI told my friend Rosey about a man who tried swimming across the English Channel, but two-thirds of the way he felt tired so he turned back. It was, of course, a joke!

She adopted a quizzical expression and started an interrogation.

But he’d have swum further.

Rosey, I wasn’t being serious.

You should be. He could’ve drowned.

It’s a joke!

You can’t joke about something like that.

Rosey, it didn’t happen.

But you said it did.

OMG Rosey, I made it up!

But…but…but…

Rosey, would you like another drink?

Oh yes! A large Chardonnay, please!

Phew, subject closed. It works every time!

 

whitenbv

belton-lap-poolThanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and supplying the photo.

Prod the frog to see what others have written!

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