Words without voices

She giggled … “mommmm, you have to finish the story. What did great-grandpa sayyy….”

“Well, he said, you better leave this place you big for nothing oaf.” She laughed and tickled Sarah.

 “That’s not what you said last time mummy,” Sarah replied trying so hard to be coherent.

“Ohhh? What did I say last time?””

“You said he told the man to leave his Island or he would send his soul to the devil.”

“I told you that?” Oh my God. Marlene thought.

“Yes, you did mum, you change it every time. I wish great-grandpa wrote his stories down.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

So this is a long short, but the graffiti inspired my story. Thanks Rochelle for hosting the writing challenge Friday Fictioneers. Click the link to visit her blog.

And click on the link to read other stories.

Fractured people

Photo copyright owned by Sandra Crook

“Does this remind you of anything?”

“Does what ‘remind’ me of anything?”

“That,” pointing ahead, he continued “the castle there”.

“Ohh. Hmmm not really. What does it remind you of?”

“You know, the scripture, a city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Unfortunately, this one is broken, and relatively disused.”

“Indeed, it is, a pile of rocks on top a hill”

“A pile that serves as a tourist attraction.”

“True, but, a broken city no matter it’s history or filter applied cannot hide its cracks.”

“Not every crack must be hidden or examined.”  She concluded.


Thanks to Rochelle for hosting the writing challenge Friday fictiooners.

Click the link to read further stories.

Vantage point.

She had the vantage point at the end of the cul-de-sac. She saw all evil,
she heard all evil. She passed them along when it suited her.
Today was no different.
Hidden by the tree, her view tinted marginally by cigarette smoke. She watched.
She should call the police; she should do something.
Maybe after this last puff. No, she would wait, tomorrow was soon enough.
The danger electrified her clouded senses.
She watched them.
Stealthily she reached for the door, silently the slash cut her off.
They had thought of every contingency, she hadn’t.

Photo prompt provided by Dale Rogerson.


Thanks Rochelle for hosting the writing challenge Friday Fictionners. Click the link in her name if you would like to take part.

And click this link to read more stories.

Gilded curtains.

With a voice as smooth as soothing ice, Lynnette spoke “You will sell your wares such as they are to whomever comes knocking at this door, no questions asked. Is that clear enough?”

The stench in the room was suffocating, Iris could not wait to escape it. When had she become so callous?

The red mass by the wall trembled like a curtain fluttering to a gentle
breeze, except madam Lynnette’s house had no curtains only stiff blinds. Seeing it Lynnette smiled and walked away. Iris locked the door, recalling unpleasant memories. The cremation of another childhood had begun.

Photo provided by Jan Wayne Fields


Thanks Rochelle for hosting the writing challenge Friday fictiooners.

Please click the link to read more stories.

Sorry but I had to re-write the story as I felt the first post was not very comprehensive.

Perception.

Photo prompt copy right of David Stewart.

Three candidates rejected and it was barely 12 noon. “Might I ask what went wrong this time?” Keeping his back to her, Vincent replied, “the candidate was more enthused by the prospects of being out of lockdown rather than that of working at CLEAR VISION.” “How is this a problem for us?” Ellie replied “It demonstrates a lack of focus; any job would do.” “Pardon me, but doesn’t enthusiasm and a positive work environment go together.” “It’s not a given. Besides who wears a yellow shirt to an interview?” “Someone who hoped to perhaps brighten your vision.” Ellie replied.
Written for Friday Fictioneers, a weekly writing prompt hosted by Rochelle. They are so many fun ways to interpret this weeks prompt. Click on this link to read them.

A girls dreams, a woman’s reality.

“Ingrid pay mind to your customers. Mrs Lavender requires pears not peaches. I don’t know why the tiniest peep of sun rays and clear skies set your head tumbling.”

“It’s those books from Lady Margaret’s library.”

“What books?” queried mother. Her voice barely above a whisper which
bellied a tumultuous rising temper.

There was no doubt about it, it was definitely going to happen. Louise had
to be gagged at the nearest opportunity.

“It’s nothing mother, Louise is making things up, as always.”

“I’m not …” she yelped in pain she as her sisters’ fingers dug
into her left side.

Photo prompt courtesy / copyright of Brenda Cox.


Thanks to Rochelle for hosting this writing opportunity called Friday Fictioneers.

Stitched together.

Photo prompt courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Every little helps. Chris smiled as he emptied the groceries. He couldn’t agree more with the slogan.

He had started losing hope of ever completing his vision. Thanks to hunger pangs which led to an impromptu visit to the shop weeks ago, he had stumbled on the final piece for his project. Granted it had taken several visits to confirm a perfect match. There was no doubt about it, her lips were exactly like mothers’.

And soon they would fit the rest of her. Mother would live again. It was time to set things in motion.


Inspired by the art and decorative pieces in the picture.

List

A drop of sunflower nectar.

Feathers from a fire-crest.

Egg yolks from a cobra, an ostrich and a chicken.

Dew drops from the peak of yellow mountain.

Yellow food colouring.

Nascent petals from a yellow rose.

Five yellow jars and pebbles.

Now if only one could remember what was supposed to go where. Oh, it was no
use! The list was only as helpful as it was clearly labelled. And this list
wasn’t.

Well, someone was going to end up with a toxic breakfast or a less than
interesting display for yellow is the colour of science.

Written for Friday fictioneers organised by Rochelle. Thanks Rochelle.

Tides

PHOTO PROMPT © Carole Erdman-Grant

The snipping sound of the scissor was lost in the background of celebratory jeers and claps.

For some it was the triumphant ending to a remarkable project.

For others it was the beginning of new adventure, the chance to start again.

And for some it was just another tick box exercise for the state. An effigy to dissuade a guilty and blood stained conscience from losing all it’s humanity. It was always the same, the politicians could never sustain their quick fixes to deep seated problems. Like a drug addict high on new fix, there was no doubt in their minds the building would fall into disarray a few years, when it’s shinning surface no longer impressed the media. When ghosts buried behind the walls rose to life again.

For Eloise it was already a little too late.

Her flesh was the foundation for all this hope. Her blood, the current surging through the light bulbs.

Alba would never understand a society that indulged it’s appetite voraciously, then plugged it’s rectum just as tight with asphalt. It never led to much.

The old build dubbed “iuventus seditio” Vesna’s altar, by the teenagers, had been torn down. In its’ place stood a new structure christened “youthful springs” by the adults who wanted a new life for all these teenagers who wandered lost through the street with nothing to do.

Thanks Rochelle for hosting the writing event Friday Fictioneers.

Quotes related to the story:

“There are two hundred million idiots manipulated by a million intelligent men.” PE

Every positive value has its price in negative terms… the genius of Einstein leads to Hiroshima.” PP

“so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.” PN

Red is for emergencies

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

The red phone rang.

Kendrick grimaced, Eric smiled and Emily laughed.

It was exactly 18:00pm, there was no doubt who would be on the other end of the phone.

“It’s your turn tonight, I got it last week.” Eric grinned.

The grimace on Kendricks’ face grew even worse.

“Hello, good evening, dial up take away services. How can I help?”

It was the same thing every Wednesday night.

First came the order, then two hours of complaining about everything on the plate.

The toast was too soggy, the egg was dried out, and on it went.

But he never sent it back regardless of the offer to pick it up.

Kendrick was getting tired of it. Wednesday’s were starting to drag.

Maybe next week he would unplug the red phone.

Thanks Rochelle for hosting Friday fictioneers.