What Pegman Saw: The unforgiving sand

Image: Google Street View

When I was a little girl, sand meant days at the beach building castles with a bucket and spade. Once the work was done we’d sit back and admire our hard work, eat shrimp paste sandwiches with crusted nails as the sea undermined the foundations, as the walls softened and melted into the brine.

No castles here.

The sand is too dry – it sucks the moisture from my skin, grinds at my teeth and the corners of my eyes. It’s harder too, filled with the rubble of ancient cities, fragments of musty tombs returned to the light, the secret corners of a lustrous palace laid bare.

The castles melt away and city’s fall. Only the wind remains.

***

Written for What Pegman Saw, the prompt that uses Google Street View as its starting point. This week we visit Old Dongola, Sudan.

Years ago I was lucky enough to visit Egypt, to the north of Sudan. Venturing into the Sahara Desert, I can vouch that the sand is pretty much as I describe here – definitely not fit for making castles.

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!

People’s Friend Serial Publication

Image: Niallskinner Pixabay

Snow falls over the Cornish village of Torre, blowing along the narrow alleyways, drifting against the door of the Free Traders Inn. The village lock-up shimmers with icicles, the sign above Grubb’s pawnbrokers’ sways but doesn’t creak – George Grubb gives nothing away for free.

Wind howls across nearby Merrin Moor. There are tales of a beast sniffing through the gorse so best to keep inside by the fire.

Up on the clifftop, Torre Point lighthouse winks over a churning grey sea, keeping its secrets close. The village is awash with stories of that lighthouse, of strange men coming and going, of boats out in a storm …

Of murder.

I’m delighted to announce I have another three-part serial about to be published in The People’s Friend Magazine.

A 19th century tale, expect sinister lighthouse keepers, a pipe smoking landlady, tangled secrets, blood, murder, smugglers … and a bear.

The first part is due out this Saturday, the 2nd of November, though copies are often available a few days previous to the publication date.

Three Line Tales: By the pricking of my thumbs

a cathedral ruin

The battle was over. Mab didn’t know which side was the victor, which the loser and she cared even less. Static fizzed through her wrists, conducted along the nerve endings to settle beneath her thumbnails – the familiar signal evil was approaching.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Moll, dusting ash from her sleeve. ‘I was watching the firestorm. Beautiful, the way it cleanses a city.’ She looked round her, at the fallen masonry, the ivy snaking over graffitied walls. ‘Nice. Oh, by the way, Cass won’t be joining us.’

Mab sighed. The two witches just didn’t have the same ring.

***

Written for Three Line Tales.

Despite loving the photo, I wasn’t going to take part in this challenge after reading Jane Dougherty’s TLT – Jane had done such a good job, there could be no better interpretation.

Then for some reason, the Macbeth witches sprung to mind. I thought the derelict cloister would be an appropriate meeting place for their modern counterparts – slightly more sheltered than a ‘blasted heath’.

There’s an interesting analysis of the witches here.

The title is, of course a quote, from the play.

Friday Fictioneers: Erasure

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

The photographs are dry and faded, curled like autumn leaves. They burn even better than I expected.

They are the last thing that connects us. I sold our belongings when I sold the house, forty years of a shared life distributed among house clearance auctions and charity shops, ready to be re-purposed or sent to landfill. There’s something fitting about that last, your jumpers chewed and clawed, used to line rats nests.

I watch the flames die, wait for a sense of freedom to descend but none does.

I can’t burn the memories.

***

Written for Friday Fictioneers, the writing prompt run by the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s. See here to join in the fun.

What Pegman Saw: Winter Ghosts

Image: Google Street View

Our village is overhung by the forest, the mountain a spiteful mother at our backs.

For generations the coming of warm weather would prod us from our nests of furs. We’d pick and pickle, cut hay, fill larders and log stores. Ready ourselves.

The cold was always hard when it came. People died, but only those buffeted by years, stripped clean by illness.

Then one year the snow lingered, soft grey ghosts of winter hiding in the shadows. Children scuffed the drifts with their boots, prodded them with sticks before moving on to other quarries.

Each summer those ‘ghosts’ retreated less, were harder to ignore.

This year there was no hay. The ground is too hard to cut even for the smallest grave and the saplings dwindle and die through an endless winter.

Summer haunts my dreams.

***

Written for What Pegman Saw, the prompt that uses Google Street View. This week we visit Maienfeld, Switzerland. See here to join in.

What Pegman Saw: Oversight

The hill cut the sky in half, a black shrug between the dappled water and slabs of slate grey cloud. Six pylons prickled the horizon, three groups of three, arm in arm.

Even here, the weight wouldn’t lift. The sky pressed down, hills pushed at his back, pylons watchful.

He tied another fishing fly, plucked the silken fluff from the shaft of a quail feather, twisted the cord, trapping more feathers. Once the fly was done, he added it to the others lined up on the pontoon.

They stirred in the wind, a twitch like the flex of dying muscles. He scuffed the bundles of feather and cord into the water.

“It’s time.” The aide was at his side, signalling towards the car. “They need your signature to go ahead.”

“Yes.” He watched the feathers float away.

***

Written for What Pegman Saw, the prompt that uses Google Street View as its jumping off point. This week we visit Newfoundland and Labrador. See here to join in.