Friday Fictioneers: His beautiful complexity

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Denny sought significance in everything.

Dates were important, number sequences – on hoardings, in newspapers, on television – their sum, whether they were prime or perfect.

Natural phenomenon were noted, too. Snow that fell earlier than usual. The late migration of geese.

He’d collate the information he gathered, created charts of beautiful complexity with the findings, their arcs and swirls beyond my understanding, the notation written in an alphabet of his own invention

Those charts are all that remain of him now. Wonderfully unfathomable just as he was, they hang on my walls, the secret code to an alien universe.

***

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the picture and scribble a little tale to share with the group. See here to join in.

Friday Fictioneers: His fortune in a globe

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Joseph made it a habit to check the flower bulb hidden in the inner pocket of his coat each day, even when the sea was craggy with waves, or the crew limp as windless sails in the overheated air. And every day of the eight weeks it took to reach Portsmouth, the globe remained hard as a pebble, the papery skin sweet smelling.

As his hammock swung in the humid crack of darkness below deck, he imagined the fortune he could charge the plant collectors at Kew, the dresses he would buy Mary, the house he could leave his son.

***

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See here to join in.

I saw Josh’s lovely image and thought of all the plant collectors through history who often risked their lives on long sea voyages to find unusual and unclassified plant specimens and take them home.

Sometimes these adventurers would return to fame and fortune, like Joseph Banks or the tulip bulb collectors in 17th century Netherlands.

I wonder if my Joseph will experience success or failure.

NB – Kew is Kew Gardens in London, one of the most prestigious botanic gardens in the world since it was founded in 1759.

Friday Fictioneers: Searching for Len

Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Mum decided to sort the spare room in time for New Year. There was a pile to go to charity, black bin liners filled with old clothes and what Mum deemed ‘tat’ in the centre of the room.

On a scuffed table were items she wanted me to put in the loft for her. A black and white print lay on the table, an image of a man who died before I was born. ‘What did granddad do again?’

She paused in her sorting. ‘Worked at Heathrow, ran a grocer’s. Did I tell you about the time the police came for him?’

***

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Let the image inspire you to write a tale. See here to join in.

Reading Rochelle’s story about her grandfather led me to think about my own.

Horace Reuben Ayres was born in the East End of London within the sound of Bow Bells, making him a true Cockney. He was by all accounts a bit of a rogue.

He did run a grocer’s and work at Heathrow Airport later in life, but early on he was somehow involved in the boxing world (he was said to know the Kray twins, but everyone in the East End involved in boxing would have known them, I’m sure) and supposedly with gambling, illegal outside of racecourses in those days.

He went by a couple of different names – most people called him Len, though my mum doesn’t know why. My grandmother said he was born to a Jewish family, though if he was he was lapsed by the time Mum was born.

Despite searching, no one has ever found a birth certificate or a record of his birth, so we don’t know exactly how old he was and yes, the police did come to the house for him one day. He was in a reserved occupation during the war and left without permission which was a criminal offence. He apparently legged it out the back door while the police came in the front.

I wish I’d known him. He skirted the edges of the law but my mother adored him.

Friday Fictioneers: Sparkle

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

All existence was slate to him now.

The pressing clouds. The lake veined with ripples and reflected woodland. The lawn, preserved in ice. His own body – heavy, cold, grey. Even his heart felt sluggish, the beat glacial slow.

A flicker out on the water caught his eye. A glow – soft as candlelight – danced towards him. The ice, the sky, the dull, flat water, all shimmered gold and silver, sparkling.

A sigh of music, a sweet song of family from long ago, caught on the breeze and was gone. Through tears, he reached towards the light.

And was home.

***

Written for Rochelle Wisoff’Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Write a story based on the prompt photo, share, read others and enjoy. See here to join in.

Friday Fictioneers: Ruins

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Papa kept the photographs in a drawer in his study.

‘My portraits’, he called them, though when Meggy drifted in one long and listless Sunday she found no faces, only photographs of old buildings. The shiny surfaces snagged her fingertips, as if the spires and stained glass were reaching, tugging at her.

Decades later, when his camera had long since been boxed away, she would find the old man dozing, blanket tucked round skinny knees, the images hanging from his lose grip.

She wondered if he’d realised back then that people, like buildings, become ruins of themselves.

***

Written* for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Do visit here to take part and join this merry band of super talented people.

*Also written in my kitchen, while a builder friend fixes our boiler … along with the climate, the upcoming election and Brexit!

Friday Fictioneers: An item of little value

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria

Cora and Thomas posed to cut their wedding cake, blinking in the flash of cameras and good wishes.

Mother – proud in heather tweed and pill box hat – rushed forward once the cutting was done, levered off the top layer of cake, icing swags calving on the Axminster.

A box was ready, lined with crisp white tissue. ‘For the christening,’ said Mother, beaming.

Decades later, when clearing her great aunt’s house, Cora’s niece found a tier of greyed cake nestled in yellowed tissue.

It was tossed in the bin with other items of little value.

***

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See here to join in the fun.

I couldn’t think of a story concerning plastic boxes, but the swagged curtains reminded me of white icing on a wedding cake, so that’s where I went.

Notes

Wedding Cake Tradition. Not sure if it still is, but it was once the tradition for couples to save the top tier of their wedding cake for their first child’s christening, see here.

Axminster is the name of the oldest surviving carpet manufacturers in the UK. When I was a kid, we could only dream of a real wool Axminster carpet. It was nylon all the way for us!

Friday Fictioneers: Lost Treasure

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

When Josey was a little girl, she would spend rainy afternoons playing with her mother’s pot of spare buttons – pearlised cuff buttons, chunky wooden coat buttons, shimmery greens and blues from old skirts and blouses. Josey let them run through her fingers like sea-smoothed shells, listening to their their soft chink and slither, pebbles caught in a swell.

Now Josey carries a pair of nail scissors in her coat pocket. She snips the threads and cords while people aren’t looking, adds their buttons to her stolen treasures.

But the collection isn’t Mother’s. They don’t feel the same.

***

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. To join in and write your own tale, see here.

And many congratulations Rochelle on seven years at the helm – a more gracious, talented, generous and encouraging leader, we could not wish for.