short story – lifehomeandaway

Rebirth

The sight of laundry hanging on a wash line, intrigued and unsettled Daphne.

It was so common place but yet so unusual in her world.

As a child, gardens had been a place for endless frivolities.

Yet there she found her father, by the fountain, neck grotesuely twisted, a knife pointing to the heavens from his chest.

It became an archway to nightmares, an end to childhood.

Like her mind that garden lay over run by weeds, struggling to find its self.

She despeartedly longed for her mind to be reborn, to shed the carcass of her old home.

Thank you Rochelle for hosting the writing event Friday fictiooneers. The rule is to write a 100 word piece in response to the provided picture. Please click the link to visit Rochelle’s blog. It will be worth your while. And click this link to read other stories and write ups.

Forgive me for the lack of response to the last two weeks participation and for being absent last week. I tried to merge my thoughts from last weeks photo with this weeks prompt. I hope the story is interesting. See you at your blog post.

Tender hope.

She starred at the board, and smiled.

There was a tick next to each item.

First the promotion, although it had been middle of the list. It was the first to be achieved.

The second was more dicey. But she had done it. Hosted multiple lavish dinners befitting their status.

Eric and her mother had beamed with pride.

On the side of the board was a sticky note. A single item.

She had not had the courage to put it on the vision board.

And she wasn’t going to either.

Her body and mind were not ready to try again yet.

One day, one less dollar

Adrian surveyed his enviroment with mild disdain.

Surely this is the valley of the shadow of dirt, he thought.

Granted winter had a way of making even the most tidy gardener look incompetent. What, with temperamental weather changes, blosterring winds and biting colds, he barely noticed his own front garden.

But the least one could do was send the garbage out when ever it found its way in.

He could not wait to deliver the order and be on his way.

It was simulatneous; his knock on the door, the piercing of his feet by the needle.

Thank you so much for the out pour of comments and likes last week. I hope to reciprocate the favour this week.

Keeping faith.

Photo prompt from Rochelle Wisoff – fields

Agnes died as she lived, quietly.

Born 9th of April, 1885. She died before the spring of her 86th birthday.

She was respected not loved. Honoured not cherished.

Agnes had no need to be protected. She was the protector.

It had been a tough life but Agnes bore her stripes with pride.

Like the rail tracks, the pages of Agnes’s dairy attested to secrets that ran the length and breadth of many geneologies.

The scandals they told would put the towns rails in a tight knot.

Who was Johnny’s father again?

But Agnes was a protector, a sealed vault.

Hope you had a restful christmas and that the new year brings a fresh view to things.

Hunters field.

Hermit the frog sat on the lily pad.

As still and silent as the lake beneath him.

Margeret the cattle egret sat in her nest,

As gentle and careful as she could, the eggs were due to hatch soon.

In the quiet they sat, knowing, winters descent was the beginning of scarcity.

Lox the mangy cat sat in the thicket.

As wound up as a spring ready to spring.

In the shadows he sat, knowing the advent of winter was the beginning more scavenging for scarce commodity.

More prey on his level, less in the air.

TAKE TWO.

“There were two little black birds sitting on a wall …”

The guileless voice of a four year filled the air.

It was a gorgeous summer day and mum had finally agreed that she could stay in the back garden whilst her teddies dried.

The teddies were still on the line.

The frog now had a limb that dangled in the wind.

The wings on the birds hung by nothing more than a thread.

As for cat, a hole with jagged edges marked were a tail had once existed.

The voice remained, a memory tenaciously secured by a grieving mother.

I have written two stories as both appealed to me and they could share the same titles. Which did you like most?

One’s shadow.

The image looked so familiar.

His stance is carefree, f a young lad who knows his worth but feels not the need nor pressure to guard it jealously.

His face smiles at me, a gaze so familiar. I feel as though I should know him.

But then so do many of the other faces. The wall is covered with pictures.

I feel they tell a story. Or is that one of those sayings mother used to repeat.

“Every picture is worth a thousand words.”.

Well, this could be worth a hundred words, if only I could remember them.

I would like to take this opportunity to ask you to support a charity fun run endevour carried out by myself and my kids. We are raising funds for St. Mungos’s charity. To give someone a very pleasant christmas. Please click the link for more information and to support us starightaway click on this link.

P.S all funds go straight to the charity. Kind regards.

Lands & times.

I am May Benchwater.

These lands are mine and my families to keep.

My father is Sir Hugh Hightower. He owns the land West of here.

We have lived here for eons.

Like the land you see, the Hightowers are an impossible people to conquer, even moreso to outwit.

The Benchwaters, however my new family by marriage are like the ocean. To trust their word is foolishness, to doubt it is to court death.

Hence, they make good allies. Beguiled with the tongues of the Benchwaters, an enemy is strategically subdued by the Hightowers.

It is a lovely heritage.

One foot in the grave

Victor hit the snooze button. Again.

It was Monday. Monday was never a good day to get up early.

Then Victor remembered, it was his last day at work. After this, everyday
would be the same.

…..Buttoning up his shirt vigorously, Victor wondered how ten minutes always
became thirty minutes on a Monday.

Where were his shoes? No, he needed a hot drink first.

He opened the cupboard door, then sighted something under the table.

Misjudging the distance, he knocked his forehead against the table.

Springing back up to right himself, he rammed straight into the cupboard
door.

Ahhrrgg Mondays!!

This weeks prompt reminded me of the comedy series One foot in the grave. I tried my best to write a story of mishaps, hope you enjoyed it. Click the link to read what wikipedia has to say about the series.