Friday Fictioneers : Trouble in leather

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


 

‘Trouble,’ judged Mum, eyeing Mickey’s leather jacket, the guitar slung across his back.

Still she let him come in as long as he took off his boots, left his bike helmet in the porch.

So the three of us gathered round the teapot, its bobble hat cosy, a plate of custard creams. The electric heater ticked into life – three bars as we had company – and Mum took Nana Cally’s cups from the dresser, a sure sign she wanted to impress.

She nodded to the guitar recumbent on the settee. ‘Can you play Danny Boy?’

I knew then we’d be okay.

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers, the hot ticket of writing prompts. Write, share, read and comment here.

And for those of you who fancy a sentimental wallow, here’s Eva Cassidy’s version of Danny Boy.

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Friday Fictioneers : City of a Thousand Scandals

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria


 

‘Always something to see,’ sighed Signora Bianchi, sweeping open the muslin drapes. Her pillowy bust pressed against my arm. She smelled of garlic and bread dough and crushed lavender. ‘City of a Thousand Scandals,’ she said with a sly wink and sashayed from the room, slingbacks slapping her heels.

She was right, of course.

That summer the city unfurled beneath my window – the bargemen rising with the sun, setting with the midday heat, the thieves and shysters and gigolos slinking out with the midges as the sun wallowed.

And then there was you, the biggest scandal of all.

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Indubitably the best prompt on Word Press. See here to join in, to read and comment on others.

This week’s entry reads more like an opening to a 1940s/50s novel, a young man caught in a foreign city, alone, naive … in danger?

Who do you suppose he’s taking to and why is this person so scandalous?

Friday Fictioneers : Mr Quail’s misplaced beak

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays


 

Mr Quail would strut down the local alleyways, along the garden paths, peacock feathers nodding from his pork pie hat, an early warning to those who valued their privacy.

His lapel badge read ‘Neighbourhood Watch’, the letters written in blue marker pen on a circle of grubby card, a safety pin taped to the back.

‘Always sticking his beak in,’ Gramma would say, sucking her bubble gum pink chops.

One day, the pork pie hat vanished along with its oil slick feathers and its owner.

‘Reckon he stuck that beak in the wrong place,’ said Gramma, smile shining pinkly.

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers, the grandest prompt around. See here to join in and to read other stories.

More apologies necessary as I’m late again. Work is crazy with no respite on the horizon, so apologies if I don’t get around to reading your story.

  • NB For those unacquainted with UK English –

Badge – this is a pin in US English.

Beak – a slang word for nose, so the phrase to ‘stick your beak in’ just means to be nosy.

Friday Fictioneers : If I could cast a magic spell

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot


 

If I could cast a magic spell I would not wish for doubloons nor gems large as apples, heavy as the ice that seals our well these bitter mornings past.

Ermine and mink, rivers of silk and satin hold no glamour in my heart. I seek no fortune or renown or any home outside our shuttered cottage, its mossy thatch, the scent of tallow and our lowing beasts.

The only spell I crave is to be made as stone, a sculpted woman with no flesh heart beating in its bony cage.

Perhaps then I should miss you less.

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the pic and write a tale. See here to share and read the other stories.

I struggled a bit with this one. Then I saw the back of that impressive sculpture in the foreground and thought of being turned to stone.

Apologies in advance. Due to work commitments I’m very late to the party and doubt I’ll Be able to read many other posts before FF comes round again. Sorry if I miss reading your story and many thanks if you take the time to read mine.

 

 

 

Friday Fictioneers : A demon in Pa’s seat

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Connie Gayer


 

A demon sits in Pa’s seat by the fire.

Head to toe brown, bulbous feet slick and shining, bear-like paws flaking crust. The demon smells dark, of fields after muck spreading and woods just before the first snow falls. The demon stares dumbly into the flames, wide bleached marble eyes, pinprick pupils black as his soul.

I shift, my bare feet cold on the flags. The beast looks up and I’m about to run –

‘Esther?’ The demon stole Pa’s voice.

This is the  night the river bank breaks, turning our farm to mud.

The night Pa’s mind is lost.

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Join in and share and don’t forget to read and comment. See here.

 

Friday Fictioneers : The goose girl’s freedom

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


 

The geese paddled into the stream, Gander and Poll exploring stones with their shovel beaks, Tops and Trip waggling stubby tails as the water parted around their scaly salmon legs.

Dodie’s skirts were tucked in her drawers, revealing legs pale as curd. The day was so hot sweat prickled round her bonnet, painted dark circles under her arms. She should get the geese back to the farm but the water was too delicious to leave.

And besides, what waited for her but crusts and bacon scraps, hard eyes, harder palms.

The cool kiss of water felt like freedom.

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the pic and be inspired but don’t forget to read and comment on the other tales. See here to join in.

Now, I know there’s a bit of a stretch between a plant in a crystal bowl and a goose girl by a stream, but bear with me.

The bowl is shimmery like trapped water and I wonder of our gracious leader Rochelle thought the same, judging by her own tale.

Rochelle’s plant – as any florist worth their salt will know – is a syngonium, commonly known (in the UK at least) as the Goosefoot Plant.

So now, do you too glimpse those geese paddling in a glistening stream?

 

Friday Fictioneers: A soft edge to Hetty’s world

PHOTO PROMPT submitted by Courtney Wright. © Photographer prefers to remain anonymous.


 

There was a dent in the hedgerow, a patch where the hawthorn had died. Enough space for Hetty to sit, knees drawn up against the wind, patched boots out of the wet.

Such a day for wind. Sharp as a knife, cold as the stolen glances she’d had from the Goodwives in the last village – worn to the bone baggages the lot, pinched tight as the buns on their heads. Pity the husbands.

A first snowflake fell. Soon a layer of downy white drifted in the trackways, softening the hard edges of wall and gatepost.

Sleep. Just for a while …

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the pic and write a tale and don’t forget to read and comment on the other stories. See here to find out how.