‘She collects seashells, paints them pretty colours and makes necklaces with them. At the centre of each piece, two joined shells conceal a folded scrap of paper. On it, a secret message.
She walks along the sand offering them to sun-worshippers for just a few pence. She says they’re made by mermaids. ‘They’ll keep you safe so long as the message remains unread’ she says.
I bought one out of curiosity. I prised open the shells and cut my finger in the process. Badly. I bent down to retrieve the message from the floor and banged my head on the table. Hard.
‘You were warned’ it said.
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle. This week’s picture is by Priya Bajpal
Laying on the grass, I watched as the clouds played hide-and-seek with the sun. A girl’s voice sang in the distance. A pretty voice.
There’s another world
Above the clouds
A world where nothing hides the sun
A world where time has not begun.
I put my penny whistle to my lips and started playing a merry tune.
An unspoilt world
Untouched by man
A world which knows not needless strife
Untainted by the needs of life.
A colourful ball came to rest beside me. A child ran to retrieve it. ‘Sorry mister’ he giggled. I smiled
Above the clouds
There’s perfect peace
It’s miles above our troubled land
Unspoilt by greed and human hand.
Two squawking gulls fought over a scrap of bread. I flapped my hand then they flew away.
There’s another world
Above the clouds
An unspoilt world untouched by man
A world where nothing hides the sun.
Suddenly it became darker. I opened my eyes and above me saw a grey cloud. I waited for the pretty voice to continue, but it didn’t She’d gone. I put my penny whistle to my lips and played a sorrowful tune.
FFfAW is hosted by Priceless Joy. Our picture prompt is from Jodi McKinney
Crouching in a deep hollow, Captain Billy and his men had a perfect view of the trail. Soon their foe would pass the bunker. The atmosphere was tense, their nerves on edge. An arsenal of carefully picked weapons was close at hand. After days of practice and preparation, they were ready for anything. Breathe deeply lads, breathe deeply.
The attack came suddenly. The enemy advanced at speed bombarding them with missiles; a shower of soggy sprouts, rotten cabbage and turkey bones.
They retaliated with a cascade of mouldy mince pies, leftover pudding and sticky trifle. The food fight was in full flow but it was not going well for Captain Billy’s battalion.
Twenty minutes later, energy sapped, they emerged from the ditch with their hands held high, plastered in the rotting remains of Christmas fare. The loser’s punishment was to clean up the battlefield and return the spent weaponry to the garbage bins from whence it came.
Word count 152
Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Susan Spaulding. The photo is courtesy of C E Ayr
Ouch ouch ouch… my new cactus pricked my finger and now it hurts to type. Ouch. It was a Christmas pressie from my friend Rosey and it’s huge. Let’s try a different finger. Drvc##byyuuv07yh#. Perhaps not.
Christmas will soon be but a memory, chased away by the approaching New Year. How poetic! I call these in-between days Twixtmas!
What the hell was that bang? Hang on. Oh, a balloon just broke free and landed on that blasted cactus. Where was I?
Oh yes, 2018. It’s been…erm…err…mmmm. What exciting things happened? I bought some new shoes. Brownish. Nice. I had another birthday. Oh, found a tenner on the pavement. A good omen I thought. ‘This time next year Rosey, we’ll be millionaires!’ I yelled! (If you’re not a Brit you’re probably wondering why on earth I wrote that!) At least it paid for a couple of beers.
What else? Oh yes, almost forgot – I got married! Yeah! Actually, I didn’t, just winding you up. Not even wishful thinking. Thrice bitten, frice shy!
2019 will be the year I do… something. I’ll plant that cactus in Rosey’s allotment for a start! Yes, it’s gonna be great. I hope. Happy New Year my friends!
Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Susan Spaulding. This week’s photo is by Joy Pixley
Doomton used to be a lively place. Shops, pubs, clubs, a church. But not now. There’s more life in the graveyard.
Butcher Bill’s down there. Died from eating contaminated meat along with several customers. Landlord Len from The Flying Fox got bashed on the head by a flying bar stool one night and called time for good. As for Naughty Ned the youth club leader, less said the better. When Father Fred got fed up with preaching to empty pews, he called it a day.
They’re flattening the place next week and building a new estate with a shop, pub, club and a church. Best of luck with that.
Better late than never! Thanks, Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Randy Mazie for the photo.
It’s cold tonight, freezing cold and the snow is swirling all around us. My friends and I are going door to door singing carols. Some folk fling open their doors and join in the singing, others hand us mince pies and mulled wine. Some ignore us!
Right now we are heading for a door. A special door. It’s the door I’ve been looking forward to visiting all evening.
Gather around. One two three – The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown….
The door is opening, and guess who is facing me now?
…and I’m here tonight to bid you Season’s Greetings!
Thank you for taking the time to drop into my blog throughout this year and thank you for all the comments you left. Thank you also for entertaining me with your writing, thank you thank you thank you!
Now it’s your turn to join in with the singing. One two three – We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year!
I bet you don’t get many letters from teenagers. Actually, I feel a bit silly writing this. If my mates find out about it they’ll tease me rotten. I mean, writing to someone who doesn’t exist? But I see it like this. At church, I like pray to a god I’ve never seen. If he’s real then why not you?
I need a favour. Daddy’s away. Not ordinary away, he’s a soldier in Afghanistan. I miss him sooooo much. It’s like so unfair he’ll be there at Christmas. He said don’t worry, they’ll have turkey and stuff and they decorate their cafe. So I thought it would be wicked if you could give him a present instead of me. It’s very cold there so a woolly hat would be nice.
Please say you will.
I’m sorry about that smudge. I try not to cry when I think about Daddy, but a tear just dripped on the paper and it made a mess where I tried to wipe it. I should start again, but if I don’t send you this, I’ll think the whole thing’s stupid and I won’t write another one. I’m going to post it now. I don’t think I need a stamp.
Happy Christmas Susan, and thanks so much for hosting Sunday Photo Fiction. and providing this week’s picture.
Hi, I’m Reg and that’s my twin Len, Keith’s hiking boots! We’ve walked everywhere. Great Wall of China, Taj Mahal, Angkor Wat, Machu Picchu; our Inca ancestors had it tough! We like a laugh though. Once on a really high road in Bolivia, Keith asked someone to take his picture. Just as the camera clicked Len let his grip go sending Keith sliding down a bank! Once I jokingly undid my lace when getting out of a canoe in Peru, but unfortunately, I landed in the water, not Keith. I felt a right idiot, literally!
We’re old and wrinkly now; ready to retire. We just wish Keith was!.
Meet the real Reg and Len!
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and Adam Ickes for the picture.
It’s a busy time of year for Father Christmas. The deadline is fast approaching. Hopefully, his industrious elves have produced enough gifts. He’s given his sleigh a good clean and he’s made sure the reindeer have been exercising. He’s lost a bit of weight too; last year he found several chimneys worryingly tight. It wouldn’t do to get stuck!
Today he’ll be planning his route. He always has a fly around by daylight so he can spot any possible hazards and locate new houses that might have popped up since last year.
Over the remaining few days he’ll be sitting in gaudy grottos and having his picture taken with children here there and everywhere. There are a lot of impersonators out there these days, but as they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
You have thought that after all these years he’d be growing weary of his annual pursuit. But no, he’s just as perky as ever and as excited as the kids he’ll be secretly dropping in on this Christmas.
I wonder what he’ll bring me?
Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Susan Spaulding. Our picture this week is by Anurag Bakhshi