for Friday Fictioneers

 

 

We stood as a solemn verger, rod in hand, led the robed choir to the candlelit stalls. 

We sat.

With a sweep of their leader’s hand, the choir burst into song.  At first, soft as a whisper, then, loud as thunder.  The concinnity of voices and harmony took my breath away.

I shivered.

Thirty voices swooping and swirling, this way, that way; up, down then up again.  All thoughts drifted from my mind as music filled every corner of my being.

Too soon the choir fell silent, turned and disappeared from sight. 

For a few moments, I sat in hope of catching an echo.

 

As a member of Friends of Cathedral Music, I regularly visit Winchester Cathedral to listen to their magnificent choir.

 

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle and this week’s photo is from Ted Strutz.

 

Click the Froggie Choir to join in the fun!

 

 

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

I’ve changed from fiction to fact this week.  I hope you don’t mind! It’s based on some notes I made when I gave up my own village pub, The Brewers Arms several years ago.

 

 

 

 

I’ll miss this place and its characters.

I served farmers, local crafts folk, tradesmen and a retired bank robber.  A lord and lady, and a couple of faded celebs too.  All ages.  Some not old enough to be drinking, others old enough to know when to stop – but didn’t.

Sing-song Sid would suddenly start warbling and everyone joined in.  When Gladys the Guzzler went to the toilet, she’d drop her false teeth in her Guinness. “Drink this and they’ll bite your bloody nose off” she would shout.  People would dance between the tables; on the tables even!

I remember a dart landing in someone’s burger,  our resident mouse running along the bar, and my dog Daisy depositing something very unsavoury on the floor of the packed restaurant bar!  I recall riotous after-hours lock-ins, screeching karaoke divas and quiz nights with Google cheats!

Now, standing alone in this empty bar I still hear laughter, raucous singing, and the crackling log fire.  I smell pub-grub, beer and Smooth Stan’s overpowering aftershave!

As I turn the key and walk away for the final time I take with me nothing but happy memories.  What more could I wish for?

 

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting. The picture is from the  Morguefile photo collection.

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where this week’s word is Looking-glass and the limit just 64 words.

 

 

They say mirrors don’t lie but that’s untrue. There’s a mole on my left cheek but my looking-glass shows on the right. 

Also, it makes me look fatter, although that could just be wishful thinking.

In the Hall of Mirrors at the funfair last week, one of them made me appear tall, slim and very handsome.

I wonder if they sell them on Amazon. 

 

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for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto Photo Prompt.

 

He never meant to be a burden,  but so it had been from his unwanted birth ‘til that day.

           So out he went into the darkness of a winter’s night …

His mother simply couldn’t cope, poor soul.  No fault of hers.  He knew she’d be better served without him.

            down the road, climbed a fence …

He’d reached out to touch her heart but in vain.

          crossed the field and entered the woods …

He hoped that by leaving his heavy load would be lifted from her shoulders.

          up a slope, over some rocks …

By the light of dawn, he’d be far away, in another place.

          along a narrowing track.

For the first time, he felt able to give her something. Her freedom.

          He watched the sunrise … 

He felt he’d failed.

          then lost his way.

She felt she’d failed.

          He disappeared.

 

for Friday Fictioneers

 

Park-keeper Pete locked the gate and headed for the pub after a busy day minding the ice rink.

The pub was packed.  All eyes turned toward Pete as he entered, holding aloft a clip-board.

He picked up his pint from the bar.

The crowd fell silent.

He took a sip.

‘Come on Pete’, called an onlooker.

He put down his glass.

The atmosphere was electric.

‘Right, now for today’s tally’.

Everyone held their breath.

‘Nine kids had accidents. Broken bones two, sprained ankles seven’  he shouted,  ‘which makes Jonny today’s winner!’

‘Yes!’ yelled Jonny.

‘The betting’s now open for tomorrow’s session’,  bellowed Pete.

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and to our friend Dale for the photo.

 

Click on Froggie to join in the fun!

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For this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction I’ve taken one of my recent tales and padded it out a bit!  We all have days when we look at a picture expecting a story to appear, then … nothing.  What do I do?  I go people watching. 

 

 

Got my coffee, my pad and pen.  Now, let’s look around.

He looks a bit shifty.  Swap his woolly hat for a fedora, spectacles for sunglasses and suddenly he’s a member of the mob.

He watches his target, then reaches for his weapon.  Slowly he…he…

No, perhaps not.

There’s a young lady holding a baby.  How sweet.

The faerie child cosied up to its mother. ‘One day you will fly and sprinkle faerie dust and…’

Aaaachooo!  Sorry about that!  Now I’ve lost my train of thought.  Oh look, a man with a dog.

The police alsatian strained it’s leash as it eagerly followed the scent. The handler released it and …

Oh no, it’s doing a poo. That’s completely put me off.

There’s a vicar eating a sandwich and drinking wine. How appropriate!

‘The body of  Christ’ muttered the priest placing a morsel of bread in the worshipper’s palm.  The kneeling man stared up at the stained glass window.  It was suddenly illuminated by a bolt of lighting.  Brilliant blue, dazzling green, blinding yellow, aqua marine, err … that plum colour …

Oh, I’m giving up and heading home.

He pushed aside his cup then stood, sending the chair crashing to the ground …

Whoopsie!

 

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting. The picture is from Morguefile

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Imperious and the limit 123 words.

 

 

It’s another Saturday night at The Red Lion. The usual crowd are in the far corner.

Unsteady Eddy’s tottering from the bar with their drinks, everyone diving for cover as he slops beer all over the place.

That’s Tearful Tina.  It takes nothing to set her off.  She sees a kitten, she cries. Someone says something nice, she cries.  When she laughs, she cries.

Imperious Pete’s in charge.  His domineering manner regularly triggers Tina’s torrents and makes Eddy clumsier than he normally is.

With Jolly Jill, Lanky Larry, Snotty Dotty and Windy William, you have the most eclectic crowd you could ever wish to …. avoid!

At last, here comes my friend Rosey.  She’s like all of them rolled into one.

Only kidding Rosey!

 

 

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for Friday Fictioneers

 

 

I’ve had a bad day.  I had an argument over a parking space, trapped my finger in the car door and dropped my phone whilst dialling the wrong number.  The ‘dead-cert’ horse I bet on still hasn’t reached the finishing post and my tub of ice cream melted on the way home.

So I thought I’d go to the pub, but I dropped my beer and cut my hand picking up broken glass.

Only one thing for it.  A comforting candle-lit bath, lolling in warm bubbly water, sipping malt whisky and listening to Beethoven.

Unfortunately, I slipped climbing in, bumped my head………

 

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Na’ama Yehuda for the tasty photo.

Click on the frog to join in the fun!

 

 

for Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

They’re selling his stuff today.  The auctioneer’s on his way.  It’s amazing what they found in his barn.

Bob farmed the land all his working life.  His parents did before him. But Bob’s son Jack hasn’t followed his families footprints.  No, he’s sold the farm with planning permission for a housing estate, so the gear has to go.

Bob had a couple of sidelines. For a start he made cider; strong cider!  He sold it to the locals. He shouldn’t have, but nobody said anything in case the licensing lot heard about it.   Bootlegger Bob some called him!

Then there was his other business.

Jack visited his Dad yesterday.  Bob has a private room in a retirement home.  At least, that’s what he calls it!  He hadn’t intended giving up work just yet, but as I said, it’s amazing what they found in his barn. He got a ten-year prison sentence for producing cannabis, the most profitable crop the farm ever produced until it was discovered in the barn’s roof-space!

Right, I’m off to the sale, I’ve got my eye on that barrel!

 

Thanks to Donna for hosting. The photo is from Pixabay

 

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Anew and the allowance, just 31 assorted utterances.

 

Once upon a time …

Not good, begin anew.

The young man …

No, start again.

The girl was …

Still not right.

They stood ….

Muse, help me!

Yes, got it!

Damn, outa’ words.