One for sorrow, two for…sorrow.
Her life, an empty basket. Nothing remained, nothing worth keeping. She’d spent years chasing shadows, avoiding shadows too; swimming against an ever incoming tide. She walked a path that led to nowhere. Her ideas, ambitions, her hopes came to nought. Ever one to be wise was she, but after the event. She tried, she really tried.
Few attended her final farewell. ‘She who would valiant be’ they mumbled, ‘gaist all disaster’.
Three for a funeral, four for…nothing really.
Thanks to Susan Spaulding for hosting Sunday Photo Fiction, and to Joy Pixley for the photo.
Taken in Ashdown Forest, East Sussex, home to Winnie the Pooh and the Hundred Acre Wood – just before I got very wet!
I’ve been telling you tales of My Friend Rosey since 2008, and to date, I have published 122 stories about her on my blogs! Here’s a little one, number 123! My favourites can be found on a dedicated site simply called My Friend Rosey.
My friend Rosey asked me round yesterday. She answered to door looking like an Egyptian mummy! She’d been using toilet paper to practice bandaging as part of the first aid course she’s doing for work
Her first session was on cuts and bleeding. Unfortunately, she passed out at the sight of the pretend blood, so ‘dealing with fainting’ was brought forward a week!
The lesson on artificial respiration was a hoot. She was ‘volunteered’ to clamber astride an inflatable dummy and pump its chest. With each downward press, she went ‘woo’ – ‘woo-woo-woo-woo’! Then the dummy joined in with ‘wee’ between presses – ‘woo-wee-woo-wee’ they went! Then its legs started popping up and down…and then it burst!
Anyway, I digress. She sent me a text. ‘Cum round try hendricks’ it said. Being my prefered gin, I naturally accepted. Actually, she wanted to practice the heimlich manoeuvre on me. She blamed in it on predictive text. Yea right! I should have guessed.
I’m delighted to report I came through it with all my ribs intact and yes, she did give a drop of gin!
Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers and H R R Gorman for the picture.
In a concrete bunker midst the trees, an artist stares at a blank canvas, his mind empty, his thoughts an open space.
With a blow of his arm, his easel hurtles across the room. He tramples across discarded canvases and crumpled empty paint tubes, then crouches in a corner, head resting upon his knees. His inspiration has deserted him.
Through a rusty iron grid crisscrossing the broken window, a sunray permeates the gloom. He looks up and gazes at shadows flickering upon the peeling wall. They dance, they trip, they spin. The awful silence is broken by the merry song of a whistling bird.
He unfurls his aching body, rights his easel and grasps a canvas. He adorns his palette with paints of many colours, then with flicks of his wrist pictures begin to form. One, then two, three, more.
It was years before the studio was discovered. A glimpse of heaven one reporter wrote. Hidden treasures said another. Nobody knew who the creator was. Not a signature, not a single clue.
Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Susan Spaulding. My tale is very loosely based on her photograph!
I don’t like parties. I usually just stand alone, nibbling food, and sipping warm wine. But this time, I was determined to enjoy myself.
Grabbing an unsuspecting girl’s hand I swept her into the midst of the dancing revellers. Unfortunately, she slipped from my grasp, flew across the room and collided with a food-laden table.
I decided to slip away. As I tiptoed to the front door a latecomer barged it open unaware I was standing there, smashing my nose and the glass in the process.
I don’t like hospitals, especially when the young lady sitting beside me is covered in food and nursing a broken wrist.
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo is from Dale Rogerson
Bexhill beach at low tide.
It used to be our field. Now it’s a building site, new houses apparently. I played there with my parents. Played hide-and-seek, flew a kite. The funfair used to come. Roundabouts, chairoplanes. I won a goldfish once! And the circus came with clowns, acrobats and a lion in a cage. Years later I played footie there with my mates. I had my first kiss there and my first…well, you know!
Then I got in with a bad crowd. We did things we shouldn’t, horrid things. One night we had a fight with the other lot, a terrible fight. Things got out badly out of hand. That night we buried…something, in the rough ground in the corner.
The builders stopped work this morning. They found something, or what’s left of it after all these years. The Police are there, crawling all over the site like a flock of yellow ants.
Grrrr. Why am I telling you this? How stupid. Mention anything to a soul and you’ll regret it. Keep it zipped. OK? You’ve been warned.
FFfAW is hosted by Priceless Joy. This week’s photo is by Yinglan.
It was nice of him to offer me a lift on his yacht. I’d always wanted to visit the uninhabited island across the bay. Off we went, bobbing up and down. He shouted ‘duck’. I looked to port and starboard, but couldn’t see one. It was then the boom swung round, bonked me on the head and knocked me overboard. He didn’t notice and just kept going.
Anyway, I swam ashore and had a nice time wandering around the island. I paddled in a stream, picked a daisy, drew my name in the sand, picked another daisy then got bored. Then it occurred to me – I was marooned. What now?
This kind of thing must have happened before because some thoughtful soul had left a blackboard and chalk on the rocks. I wrote HELP on it and hoped someone would see it.
Somebody did. A pretty girl landed her paraglider alongside me. She told me to jump on her back, so needless to say I did. Then she ran along the shore until we shot into the sky. Weeeee! I stretched out my arms like aeroplane wings. Bad move. I did a free fall down into the briny.
I suppose I could get to like this island.
Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Susan and the photo is courtesy of Fandango.