Mother’s Gift – Friday Fictioneers – March 24, 2016

 

“Perfect!” Stephen said rubbing his hands together, “I think that’ll get the message across!”

“Uhm, don’t you think that that’s a bit much?” Jason said, looking doubtfully.

“Nah!  My Mom’s got an original outlook … she’ll love this!”

The next day, Mother’s Day, Stephen blind-folded his mother and took her out to the back garden.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” he intoned proud of his handy-work.

“Oh my Stephen! Now this is original indeed!” she beamed though uncertainly at him. “Just one thing, would you mind terribly if I paint the commode sky blue?”

“Ah! I should have thought of that!”

© G.s.k. ‘16

100 words

 

Friday Fictioneers

Ducks – A “Wildlife” Sketch in Six Sentences – March 24, 2016

ducks in a pond

Ducks … they’re one of the major attractions of Lake Garda and are with us all year around, having found the climate warm enough for them to avoid the long winter haul to the south.  Our “wild” variety are mallards and they’ve sometime mixed with domestic ducks creating some interesting new liveries.  This time of the year, spring, is always fun where ducks are concerned.  The males begin to search out their ladies love stalking the poor dears in groups until she gets exasperated and flies off with a “qua, qua, qua” that sounds almost like a disdainful laugh.  By June though the couples will have been formed and the chicks hatched.  The tourists arrive with their children, delighted by the families of ducks scooting along the beach and sand.

© G.s.k. ‘16

 

  • WELCOME!

  • the cue this week is DUCK
  • six sentences, no more, no less
  • any genre
  • use that cue any way you like
  • come back and link up
  • hop around and read some more

It’s All How You Look At It – Flash Fiction – March 20, 2016

148 03 March 20th 2016

Copyright Al Forbes

 

“How interesting is this!”  Marcus gushed as they drove up Susan’s drive way in the country that Sunday morning.

“What are you going on about Marcus?” she said slightly irritated, dawn’s early light was not her favourite light of the day.

“Don’t tell me that you don’t see it!  There!” he pointed at the old blue painted door with its pealing centre … “a city, reflected in a bay!  It could be the sky-line of New York or Sydney – I’ll just have to draw in something characteristic to fix the location!”  he said as he clicked off several shots of the door once the car had stopped.

He then ran to the boot of the car where he kept his emergency box of paint supplies he always travelled with.  He insisted one never knew when inspiration might strike … and as a auto-defined conceptualist graffiti artist he wanted to be prepared.

© G.s.k. ‘16

Sunday Photo Fiction – March 20th 2016

 

The Cloister in the Castle – Gothic Horror (Introduction) – March 17, 2016

castle

What could have prevented his departure, a cool breeze maybe a mystic wave, surely no bright lights no vulgar acclaim nor any new miracles.  She asked herself without hope of receiving  an answer, nothing really could have kept him there.  Once the watch had announced that it was twelve, and in the plaza the clock bells rang the hour. The deed was done.  Midnight. He was no more.

In the sky hung the gibbous moon, how silly to think of croissants and tea but then sillier still to think of him.  He or any other.  Her new pale sisters sang matins.

What could have prevented his departure, a cool breeze maybe a mystic wave … here in these dark corridors, surely no bright lights.

Reading from her Breviary she harmonizes with her sisters. The shadows creep closer with each “Ave” in the cloister.  Her soul was consumed with the memories of him, his smell, his breath near her cheek as he helped her dismount from her steed.  His hands upon her waist.  She would have been more pleased if his hands had been on her bare skin.

Of course he was not destined to be hers.  He was yet another sacrifice to her new master, his destiny had been written from the moment he’d been chosen to accompany her to this place, once he’d seen her face he was doomed.

The Mother sang the last “amen”.  One of the clock.  The Father behind the grate welcomed her to the cloister where she would be immured for eternity.  Her husband by proxy had died of the plague.  Her father had confiscated her husband’s treasure for his needs and closed her,  his own daughter up in the convent and no one but the young knight knew where she was.  And now he too was gone.

Once in her cell the night fell upon her and her soul was at last taken by the demon who inhabited the cloister.  Her father, the Duke, had paid his debt and his wealth was assured.  He’d sold out his son-in-law and his own daughter to the demons of the night … and one day, though he didn’t know this, he too would be consumed by the demons, but unlike his daughter, his would be the pit of eternal fire … hers the living death of the night creatures.

© G.s.k. ‘16

Weekly Writing Prompt #28  Week 14th March 2016

DOOR Template Instructions

(5) Words: | WAVE | COOL| PREVENT | BRIGHT | WATCH |

The Novitiate – Gothic Horror – March 16, 2016

pulled by clouds- Brooke Shaden

– Brooke Shaden

The glare of the sullen sunset beamed upon the lone novitiate who would be ordained to the night, in the cathedral-like structure dedicated to Lady Nyctophilia – patroness of those who lurk in the gloom. Ironically, she’d been quite the eristic and really very clever in her negation of vampires and the sort, yet there she stood, looking like a puppet with irregular strings attached about her head, ready to be pulled into the very heavens.  One couldn’t deny however,  that she really wasn’t quite herself.

Going back just a few hours before, she’d walked into the Metropolitan to meet her young man, a handsome swarthy gentleman, *oriundo from Sardegna, or so he’d said.  She sat down at his table and he asked the waiter to bring him the lady’s drink and the soda siphon.  She’d gotten used to his quirky idea that he should personally splash her drink from the soda siphon. This time however, the siphon had been sophisticated and contained a subtle drug.  She drank her drink and gradually began to feel detached from herself.

He led her out of the hotel and that  was the last time anyone from her set would ever see her.  He put her into a Rolls Royce which actually belonged to the “Lady Nyctophilia”, known to everyone else as the Countess of San Severino.  She was driven to the Cathedral of the Night.  Once she arrived, she was disrobed and a tiny tattoo was placed upon her just above the erogenous zone known as the mount of Venus.  What followed would terrorize you or I, but she was beyond terror, in the Rolls the swarthy young man, had made passionate love to her and she was now his, in body and soul – as testified the two tiny marks upon her neck.

© G.s.k. ‘16

 

*oriundo – native (of a place, especially a native of Italy but living abroad)

Photo Challenge #104 and Wordle #101 “March 14, 2016”

1.Glare 2. Nyctophilia (a love or preference for night, darkness) 3. Novitiate (the state or period of being a novice of a religious order or congregation. the quarters occupied by religious novices during probation. the state or period of being a beginner in anything. a novice.) 4. Structure 5. Tattoo 6. Eristic (a person who engages in debate; conversationalist. the art of disputation.) 7. Erogenous 8. Irregular 9. Adjust 10. Lurk 11. Siphon 12. Terrorize

Black and White – Haibun – March 12, 2016

 

Truth they say is black and white, Marco thought as he walked along the street, intrigued by the odd afternoon light caused by a pause in the storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the wind picked-up shaking a plastic bin bag drawing his attention to it. Someone had discarded an umbrella or maybe something else, he wasn’t sure. How odd; the light refraction caused by the weird preamble to the storm made everything a little mysterious. The world seemed black and white yet things were anything but clear. Hard to see any truth here.

bold contrasts
enlightening
his inner truths

© G.s.k. ‘16

(100 words)

Friday Fictioneers

B&P’s Shadorma and Beyond 

A Journey to Freedom – Short Story – January 10, 2016

Suddenly an undefined dissatisfaction roiled inside irritating as a dripping faucet.  She roamed around the room absent-mindedly .  Then grabbed her pen and began to write.  After about 15 minutes of intense scribbles, she crumpled up the sheet of paper  towing it and the pen across the room.

She roamed into the kitchen .. looking for something she wouldn’t find.

The phone rang and for twenty minuets she replied with monosyllables and grunts to the long rambling of her friend’s soliloquy.  A blow-by-blow description accompanied his account as he went into the gory details of who said what and when and how bad it made him feel and of course she’d pay and indeed was paying … her own mind was drifting and she thought, will it never end, when suddenly it did  (he was getting no satisfaction at all from this conversation and decided to call his friend Mark instead).

She turned on the computer and chose a YouTube playlist of what was supposed to be “soothing music for relaxation”.  She began to fix dinner, as the food simmered in pots, she set the table.  There it was again …  a random rolling wave that rolled over her head so that  she felt light-headed.  A voice but not exactly a voice,  in her mind,  whispered:  now would it really matter if she just gave in … just once, It’s been five days now because she was strong, so, she could just go for one more, she was strong enough to do that, just one more cigarette, what the hell would happen if she smoked just one more cigarette … and then as it had come on, the moment passed.

She looked at the chart.  That was the third one today, better than yesterday.  Just a few more days now and the attacks would become negligible. Then she’d really have to be careful, those late comers were traitorous when they popped up she knew.  She wouldn’t be going through withdrawal again if she’d resisted a couple of years back. Hell 15 years without smoking just to be back at square one.  She felt sort of mad at herself but she was also pleased that she was back on track.  She anticipated that surge of energy that was soon to be hers, the tastes and smells that would be intensified.  Just a few more days she thought.

 

 

The Party – Short Story – January 2, 2016

ginestra flowers

Walking into the room shaking snow off the cherry red coat she was wearing, she looked around the feeling a little out of place.  At that moment she heard her name being called from across the room and went towards the sound like a lost soul in the desert goes towards water.

“Ah Virginia, how nice to see you, but dear!  Why don’t you take off your coat! Here, let me help you.” a tall pleasant woman said doing just that. “Now, let’s get you a drink!” the woman said as she handed the coat to a nondescript greying gentleman of about seventy.

Virginia took the drink her friend had offered and sipping it let her eyes roam around the room.  The chatter of the people reminded her of the old rusty springs of her Grandmother’s double bed.  Odd she thought, her Grandmother had passed away forty years before.  People came up to her and they greeted and kissed her.  They exchanged what is commonly called small talk and eventually drifted away.

“How have you been doing …”

“Isn’t that just terrible news about Anna and Mario …”

“Seems the government is going to fall again …”

Small talk for a small world she thought. After a few moments she found herself standing alone in the room and somehow felt more comfortable.

Her mind wandered and she imagined herself walking again in the woodlands of Tuscany among the trees of the Maremma. It was 1987 when she’d met Gaitano and they’d gone for the first of their many walks in those woods.  The yellow ginestra flowers were in bloom then, he’d always loved those bright broom flowers. He’d pointed out the different kinds of bird’s nests to her; she’d been impressed by one huge nest that had been made in the bough of a large tree, she couldn’t seem to remember now what bird that had been.

She was pulled out of her thoughts when another guest entered the room.  A buxom woman of around sixty with a carrying voice. They’d once been close friends a few years back, but she’d gone off to America and they’d lost track of each other as sometimes happens.  As soon as she had hung her coat up she made a bee-line for Virginia.

“Ah, Virginia my dear!  What a sight for sore eyes.  I’m just so very  happy to be back home!” she said as she kissed Virginia on both cheeks, “I’ve had a really harrowing time out in the sticks of North America, I can’t wait to tell you all about it.  But first, tell me my dear, where is Gaitano that adorable husband of yours?”

A sudden hush fell on the room and even the usually self-confident woman felt the collective embarrassment and she realized that something was off.

This happened more rarely now that he’d been dead for nearly three months, but still, sometimes it did happen but it no longer bothered Virginia like it had done.

“Oh my dear Carla, you haven’t heard.  He passed away last autumn. We scattered his ashes in the Maremma.” Virginia replied.

Carla with tears in her eyes embraced her friend.

© G.s.k. ‘16

(This is a work of pure fiction based on parties I’ve been to in my youth. Bastet)

hung, cherry, wearing, bloom, snow, springs, bough, trees, again, roam, woodlands, seventy

Fresh New Resolutions – Flash Fiction – January 1, 2016

Photo Credits: The Write Life

Marian walked round and round the room, trying to decide what resolutions she could make for the upcoming new year.  She’d made lists in the past, but they never came to much, she needed something unique, something fresh but most of all, something she could actually bring off during the year in course.

She thought about the time she’d resolved to give up smoking,  it took her eight years to find the well-power to pull that one off and what about the time she’d resolved to lose those extra kilos, well, she pulled that one off too, but only three years later.  However much she tried she never seemed to meet her resolutions on time.

She began her list once again. She wrote this and that then deleted one thing and another, feeling absolutely frustrated.  Then finally an idea hit her.  Why did she have to make negative resolutions?  Why not make resolutions that actually suited her personality, her tastes, her culture?

So with the power of her new understanding she wrote, “New Year’s Resolutions” at the top of her document and began her list yet again:

  • Eat at least one piece of chocolate a day.
  • Go out and eat a pizza with friends at least once a month
  • Go to the cinema at least once a month and watch a romantic movie
  • Meet up with her best friend weekly at the coffee shop and swap gossip
  • Sit down and write on her blog for at least an hour a day
  • Chat on Facebook with her friends and post kitten photos and videos

She sighed with a sense of accomplishment.  For once she was absolutely certain she’d be resolute enough to follow through on time with her new year’s resolutions.  She copied her list using Picasa onto one of her favourite kitten photos and put it onto her desktop, drank the dregs of her tea and went to bed content as the clock struck twelve.  Fire crackers went off around town. At last,  the new year was born and she said to herself, just before dozing off,  happy 2016!

© G.s.k. ‘16

 

Fresh, adjective: not previously known or used; new or different, recently created or experienced and not faded or impaired, (of food) recently made or obtained; not canned, frozen, or otherwise preserved, (of a person) full of energy and vigor, (of a color or a person’s complexion) bright or healthy in appearance, (of a person) attractively youthful and inexperienced, pleasantly clean, pure, and cool, presumptuous or impudent toward someone, especially in a sexual way.

New, adjective: not existing before; made, introduced, or discovered recently or now for the first time, not previously used or owned, of recent origin or arrival, 2 already existing but seen, experienced, or acquired recently or now for the first time.

Resolute, adjective: admirably purposeful, determined, and unwavering.