Friday Fictioneers–Between or Among?

Time once again to seek inspiration from a photo and choose 100 words to tell your story.
The place to participate is https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/.
If you prefer to read, like, and comment, after reading my story, click on the blue link critter.
That will bring you to all the current stories.  Check back often to find more.

copyright danny bowman

Between or Among?

In the end, no one knew how it began because nobody passed it on.

It stayed “just between the two of us.”
“I only told one person.”
“Between you and me…”
“I know you won’t tell anyone, so…”

The death of a marriage,
the rift in a friendship,
the unspeakable hurt to a child,
the accidental ruin of a life,
all inexplicable.

Everyone wondered who had told.
He knew he hadn’t.
She’d only mentioned it to ____.

Mathematically,  1x1x1 = 1.
Gossip doesn’t work that way.
No one understood how “between” became “among.”

They’d all forgotten the game of “Telephone.”

Friday Fictioneers–Quite an interrupt-us

The Friday Fictioneers is a group of writers who weekly chose 100 of their best words to tell stories
based on a photo prompt.  The coordinator of our cadre is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Thousands of people compete weekly, maybe even pay bribes,
to supply the picture prompt. This week’s photographer is Sarah Ann Hall.

Anyone is free to either read and write or just read. If interested, go to Rochelle’s site:  http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and join in the fun.  If you just want to read (“likes” and comments are always appreciated by all authors), go to the end of the page and click on the little blue critter to access the rest of the stories.  

Warning:  stories will continue to be posted for some days, so check back often.
And now, without further ado, here’s the photo and my story for this week.

aqueduct-copyright-sarah-ann-hall

Quite an interrupt-us

Shade dapples us
as we lie in summer flowers.

I offer you prosciutto-wrapped melon,
place it gently in your receptive mouth,
lick the juice drops from your chin.

“The Romans were here,”
you elucidate.
My hand traces patterns across your body.

“They built this aqueduct.”
“An aqua duck?” I josh,
kissing your nearby ear.

The heat increases
as the afternoon lengthens.
I roll over, leaning into you.

You laugh as I tickle your nose
with a stem of grass and slowly
lower my face towards yours.

You sneeze.

A startled moment of frozen time…

then we collapse in helpless laughter.

Friday Fictioneers–Connected

Friday Fictioneers.

One hundred words, one story.
One picture, many stories.
Read more by clicking the link at the very end…
or join if you dare!

Icon_Grill_copyright Ted_Strutz

Connected

He almost didn’t go.  Too many miles in too few days, a week of writing deemed not good enough and erased, too many restaurant meals, too little exercise.  But he needed time to unwind before going home.

She sat, absorbed (as always) in a book, somehow more connected than those constantly online. He caught her eye, smiled, raised his glass.  Her grin and raised glass decided him.  Tonight he’d say hello.  He rose and…

jerked awake, sweating,  crying, catching that same grin in the picture frame as he rolled across the empty space on the other side of the bed.

Friday Fictioneers–Getaway

This week’s story is dedicated to Martin Richard  and the other two who were killed in the Boston bombing, to all abducted children and to their families.  Be sure to cherish the time you have with loved ones and do so every day.  The saying, “Live each day as if it were your last”, is important. because we really never know.

As for the rest, Friday Fictioneers come from all over the world each week to write 100-words stories based on a photo prompt chosen by hostess and enabler, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  You can find all the stories by clicking on the little blue creature at the end of my story.  If you do, be prepared for anything!  Fictioneers are adept at twists and turns,
murders and betrayals of all sorts, as well as the occasional nice, normal story.  And if you choose to participate,
you will find all the information you need on Rochelle’s site:  https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/.
Thanks to fellow Fictioneer Kent for today’s beautiful picture.

For all the Fictioneers, I’m on the road (a LOT) over the next week, but I will get to your story at some point.  Thanks for reading mine and for your patience.

copyright kent bonham

Getaway

Barcelona’s La Mercè promised both the perfect escape from my stalking ex (who’d suddenly mutated into a “caring” father) and a much-needed vacation.  My son Daniel waited impatiently but excitedly for giants, Big Heads, Correfoc’s sparklers, dances and music.

We laughed, ate, and stayed up late. The last afternoon, I hurried to the hotel desk to leave the key, Daniel waiting in the doorway.  When I returned, he was gone. I gazed wildly around the packed crowd, screaming his name. Whirling Big Heads and giants obscured my view as I searched for a Guàrdia Urbana, dream vacation dissolving into nightmare.

……………………………………………..

I want to thank Debbie of “Travel with Intent” blog for inadvertently sparking the idea for this story.  This week’s WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge was “Culture”.   Here’s the picture that started the whole thing and the link to her post, which is very interesting:  http://travelwithintent.com/2013/04/26/giants-bigheads-barcelona/.  And here’s a picture from her blog post:

Copyright Debbie of “travelwithintent” blog

 

Friday Fictioneers–Under Cover

Right after family and friends, the short list of things I love most in day-to-day life includes books. The love of books grabbed me as a little girl and I’ve been enmeshed in its web ever since. I unashamedly admit I’m a bibliophile and although I love the ease of my Kindle, I’ll never get rid of my books. Library levies are the only tax increases for which I’ll vote. I love the smell of a new book and browsing in a used bookstore is a joy that never diminishes.

So to honor the love I have for books, my inner muse rolled out a poem in the tradition of the poems of Rudyard Kipling, Dr. Seuss, Ogden Nash, and others (although I’m not comparing my humble offering to any of theirs), poems you might find in the old Childcraft books: the rhyming poem that rolls along, pulls you in, and flows trippingly from the tongue if read aloud (please try it). I hope I’ve achieved a little of that magic this week and perhaps you and your inner child, will enjoy this paean to books.

I’ve even manged to make it come in at exactly 100 words.

Copyright Claire Fuller

….

Under Cover

“Don’t judge a book by its cover”
May or may not be true
But you’ll never discover the story
‘Til you read it through and through.

A book will deliver you places
You can’t ordinarily go
More reliably than the Post Office can
Through the rain and sleet and snow.

It can make you think or make you cry
Turn your world upside down
It holds the power to mesmerize
Without making the slightest sound.

You’ll discover best friends and enemies
The truth and make-believe
And the most wonderful book of all of them
Is one you hate to leave.

…………………………………….

Click here to read all the current stories:

Friday Fictioneers–The Green Baize Door

APOLOGIES to anyone who gets this twice.  Somehow the original was deleted and I have to post it again.

For anyone unfamiliar with Friday Fictioneers, the short story is that we’re a group of people who write….well, short stories. Very short stories. 100-word stories. Stories based on a photo prompt, posted weekly on Wednesdays, on our master site: https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/. Anyone can participate, either by writing a story or by reading the stories or both. The little blue link creature at the end will also take you to the stories.

wasps’ nest_copyright janet m. webb

Genre: Historical fiction, or non-fiction, circa the Victorian era
For every Downton Abbey, there were many more houses like this.

The Green Baize Door

The servants rise in the dark from hard beds in cell-like rooms. After washing with cold water, they gulp their meager breakfasts. Doling out their tasks, the housekeeper waspishly admonishes them to be unobtrusive, eyes averted, neither seen nor heard.

On the opposite side of the green baize door, family members rise late before taking wing into the day. They live adorned in beautiful garments made by none of their own work. Predators and parasites, they buzz through life, taking nectar where they will, their lives sweet. They ignore the workers. Sometimes, they carelessly squash one. There are always more.

……………………………….

For those of you unfamiliar with the term “the green baize door”, here is an explanation:

“The ‘Green Baize Door’ was the dividing line between the two domains, and trespassing beyond meant going into foreign territory. The ‘Green Baize Door’ was a feature of almost every substantial house. It was generally an ordinary framed door onto which was tacked a green baize cloth, usually with brass tacks. It was the universal signal of the dividing line between the two halves of the house. The Bull children would not be tolerated by the servants in the domestic part of the house unless they were working under supervision. This was like walking into somebody else’s house. The servants would normally use a different route to get to the various parts of the house, and would aim to be seen as little as possible. This was not because they were considered beneath notice: on the contrary, it was so that they could do their work uninterrupted by the requirement to exchange civilities. Houses evolved so that domestic staff could go about their task without interruption, not to ensure the privacy of the residents. They had none. -Borley Rectory and the Green-Baize Door, Domestic life at Borley Rectory, by Andrew Clarke , copyright 2002”

From Jane Austen’s World, http://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/2012/01/27/the-green-baize-door-dividing-line-between-servant-and-master/. If you want to learn more, read the rest of her informative post.

Friday Fictioneers–Lavender Blue

How many years does it take for children’s songs to fade from your brain?  The answer seems to be an infinite number, so choose those songs carefully!  Our girls loved Sharon, Lois, and Bram and one of the songs they sang comes from Burl Ives and before him from folk song history.  It’s called “Lavender Blue” and the lyrics and lovely melody SL&B sang have been in my head all these years.  It inspired the title of this week’s story.

If you’re new to Friday Fictioneers, each week on Wednesday, a number of addicted writers wait with great anticipation for the photo prompt selected by our hostess-with-the-most-ess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  We then cudgel our brains a/o wait for the muse to strike us (hard), then craft our stories for the week with the best hundred words we can choose.  If you’d like read more stories, click on the little blue guy at the end of my story, sit back, and enjoy. Feel free to “like” and comment too. We writers love interaction with our readers. And if you’d like to join, the door’s always open.

 

copyright Sandra Cook

Lavender Blue

Lavender perfumes the patio where we linger over déjeuner with local wine, basking in the sun, relishing food chosen at the village market.

Once children are gone, it’s time to move on.  We took “move” literally, leaving the town where we’d lived and had a child.  Choosing Provence had been easy, finding the house more difficult. This house attracted us with its quirky sculpture. It remains a now-bearable reminder of the tricycle David was riding when the drunk driver’s car jumped the curb, hitting him as he joyously wheeled along the sidewalk.

Lavender perfumes the urn tucked in the garden.

.

*********************

Lavender Blue
(Sharon, Lois and Bram)

 Lavender’s blue
Dilly dilly
Lavender’s green
If I were king
Dilly dilly
You’d be my queen

Who told you so
Dilly dilly
Who told you so
I told myself
Dilly dilly
I told me so

Friday Fictioneers–Grave Choices

It’s finally April.  The sun is beginning to warm the earth.  I can’t wait for the new life of plants to begin adorning the earth and for the excitement of renewal and beginnings.

But life is only one end of the spectrum.  At the other end lies death.

Grave Choices

Beneath the lone, gnarled tree standing sentinel atop the wind-swept hill was the perfect spot for her grave. He didn’t use a backhoe.  Its noise seemed out-of-place at a funeral.  He dug the grave by hand, careful to make it deep enough to frustrate hungry predators. The hard physical work helped assuage his pain, allowing space for memories of the good times they’d shared.

He preserved the wild plants to replace afterward.  The tree would be her headstone; her body would go back to the land.  After all these years, she deserved the best.  His partner…his best friend….his beautiful mare.

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Want to read more?  Click on this little guy to link to any or all of the stories written in response to this prompt.

Friday Fictioneers–After Midnight

One of the great difficulties of writing is to make every word count.  Writing a story, or the introduction to a story, in 100 precisely-chosen words,  is a great way to practice that skill.  If you like to write, join us.  We are kind and helpful.
If you like to read, join us.  Our stories are diverse!  Click on the blue link critter at the very end, sit back and enjoy your travels.

(I’ll be traveling Friday-Monday, so it may take me some time to get to your story.  But I will.  Happy Easter or Passover to all of you.)

All three sayings in my story are from our family lexicon, the name has been changed to protect the innocent and, thankfully, the advice was heeded and the story is complete fiction.  Thanks, Rochelle, for the picture.

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After Midnight

“Nothing good happens after midnight” and “Never take a drink you haven’t seen someone open.” Dad’s oft-repeated sayings, sometimes accompanied by Francesca’s surreptitious eye-rolls.   Hot from dancing, she’d gulped from an extended glass, then felt woozy.  Gathering her wits to decline an offered ride, she called Dad, knowing he’d be up until she got home.

She half-sobbed,” I’m sorry.  Are you mad?”

“Stay right there, I’m on my way. You’re fortunate nothing happened and too smart to do it again.”  Then, as he did nightly, he added, “Dad loves Francesca.”

The passing headlights glowed in the warm darkness like nightlights.

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After Midnight

Friday Fictioneers–Going for the Gold

Why write a 100-word story? 

Consider the impact of three small words–”I hate you.”  Or “I love you.”  Then imagine 33 1/3 times more words and you can create a plethora of experiences and emotions.  Select those words carefully and you have more than enough to draw the unsuspecting reader into your story web.

Wield the scalpel with precision.  Cut to the chase.  Dazzle us.

Going For the Gold

Life had always been horses and jumping.  Those arduous, endless hours not doing “what the cool kids do” were her soul food.  The recognition earned as a major contender for an Olympic medal parlayed into an investment in her future.  Being the human half of a jumping team?  That was pure love.

The gold vanished, snatched by a massive oxer not quite cleared.  In the months following the Games, she dealt with the aftermath, gradually re-dreaming her dreams.

Class time.  Smiling at the sign, Olympic School of Therapeutic Riding, she propelled her wheelchair toward the ring, greeting students and instructors.