A sketch …

for Friday Fictioneers

 

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The ladies of the art club set up their easels and gazed at the pastoral scene.

Alice held a stick horizontally then vertically.  She saw a painter do it once though she’s not sure why.  Then she started splodging paint here and there.

Ruby scribbled outlines, cocked her head then nodded.  With farts and pops, her tubes dispensed little piles of paint onto her palette. 

Thora moved her brush slowly and precisely,  her nose inches from the emerging image.

Three hours later they finished.  Thora’s, too perfect for words,  Ruby’s, a riot of colour and Alice’s, well, impressionistic!

Next,  cucumber sandwiches and tea!

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palettesThanks to Rochelle for hosting and providing the picture.

Prod Froggie to join in the fun!

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A short story …

for Sunday Photo Fiction

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George received an invitation. The pleasure of his company was requested at a reunion of the class of nineteen thirty-one, transport to be provided.  He thought it odd.  Surely, he was the only one remaining. 

Nevertheless, on the appointed afternoon he donned his best suit, a crisp white shirt and even found his old school tie. 

Georges attempts at making conversation with his driver were met with silence.  He was just dropped at the hall, then the car sped off.

The door was ajar.  It creaked as he pushed it open. 

Through the gloom,  he could just make out ten figures, scattered around, motionless. One by one ten heads turned to face him.  Ten gaunt expressionless faces stared at him.

He began to recognise them. But they’d passed away years ago, hadn’t they? He’d attended some of their funerals.

As one,  they stretched out their arms toward him.   He shivered.   Deciding not to stay he turned to head for the door,  but where was it?  No door.  No walls, no ceiling.  Just … nothing.

Slowly the figures circled around him, hands beckoning as they closed in.  Closer and closer they came.  Then they were gone.  They were all … gone.

 

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bastard-hall_78Thanks to Donna for hosting.

Photo courtesy of Morguefile

Eighty-seven words …

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is hinterland and the limit 87 words.

 

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06A77368-C8E4-11EA-94A3-1245C74148D9‘Where are you going?’ asked my friend Rosey.

‘On holiday’.

‘Yea, but where?’

‘To the hinterland’,  I articulated pointing into the distance.

‘Wow,  really?’ 

‘Err,  yes!’

‘Are you flying?’

‘No’,  I laughed

‘Ferry?’

‘Of course not’!

‘What language do they speak?’

‘Why,  English  pet’,  I said in a dodgy northern accent!

‘What’s their food like?’

‘Very funny!’  I said.  ‘I’d love to chat but I need to finish packing’.

It was when she reminded me to take my passport I realised she hadn’t been joking at all!

 

There are masses more stories about My Friend Rosey right here!

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Words and voice

for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt.

I wrote, recorded and posted this piece twelve years ago.  Nobody commented.  So I thought I’d try again!

 

Let me read it to you …

 

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I sense silence. Yet all around I hear the sounds of nature.  The shingle crackles and grates under my feet, the rhythmic whoosh of the waves fills my ears and the shrieking of a hundred gulls gives a voice to the deserted shoreline.

Here I am alone.  Yet my companion, this hidden secret beach, is here to wrap me in splendid seclusion.  I am alone but I share my very being with the raw edge of nature.

Here I hear my own voice, though silent.  Here my thoughts surround me.  Here I am at one with myself yet enveloped by a greater force, one which allows me the freedom I crave whilst lifting me out of myself and cradling me in glorious isolation.

The beach is ever-changing.  Some days filled with wrath, others tranquil and calm.  Some days the sea is an enigmatic aqua, another as grey as granite.  I look toward the horizon and see my life uncharted.  What lies beyond?  Who can tell?

But here I can be myself.  Unquestioned, unchallenged.  Here I can think, consider, compose.

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A short story …

for Friday Fictioneers

 

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As I dropped the package beside the gate, a man sidled up to me.

‘Magnificent isn’t it, the house.  Lord Harrington once lived here’.

Really’  I said.

‘Yes, he had a butler.  Parsons was his name’.

‘Was it?’  I said as I walked away.  He followed me.

‘And a cook.  Mrs Jones.  She prepared the Master’s food and Parsons took it to his room’.

‘Fascinating’  I replied as I jumped into my truck.

‘He died of food poisoning.  Deliberate the police said.  Mrs Jones was blamed and went to prison’

‘And Parsons?’  I asked.

‘Disappeared’  he muttered as he wandered off.

 

 

the-gateThanks to Rochelle for hosting and Jean L Hays for the photo.

Click the servants to join in the fun!

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64 carefully chosen words …

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Cavalier and the limit just 64 words.

 

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Ladies and gentleman, The Laughing Cava….

‘He blew me a kiss!’

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Young lady, please …

‘He did it again!’

Madam!  As I was saying, Frans Hals …

‘He fancies me, look’.

Where was I?  Yes, in 1624 he painted …

‘Blimey, over 400 years old and he’s still sexy!’

Don’t be silly, you’ll say the Mona Lisa smiled at you next!

‘Funny you should mention that!’

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