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Post 1613. Wednesday January 10

Friday Fictioneers

He suspends a silky thread from a corner of an open window. Crouching unseen, he patiently waits for a breath of breeze to carry it to the other side. It moves, and waves then floats up and across. Perfect.

Slowly, painstaking, he starts to weave his web. Round and round, up and down, in and out. Once done, he admires his work then awaits his unsuspecting prey. Minutes pass, more minutes still. Then from nowhere an unsuspecting insect flies into the web's sticky centre. Panic-stricken, it struggles to break free. Thrashing, spinning. But to no avail.

Dinner is served!

Word count 99

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting, and Victor and Sarah Potter for the photo.

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Post 1660. Wednesday January 3

Friday Fictioneers

As this is my first post of 2018 I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you all ...

Bonne Année! Gleðilegt nýtt ár! Heri ya mManigong Bagong Taon! Waka mpya! Buon anno! Gelukkig Nieuwjaar! Xin Nian Kuai Le! けましておめでとう, 0 San Nin! Fai Lok! ¡Feliz Año Nuevo! Mutlu yıllar! Sťastný nový rok! Godt nytår! Hyvää uutta vuotta! Godt nytt år! Szczesliwego Nowego Roku! Feliz Ano Novo! S novym godom!

...or in other words... A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Oh hello! She’s got me hanging out the washing again. She’s obsessed with cleaning you know. Yesterday she washed the washing machine because it’d had dirty clothes in it. Last week she complained this garden looked dirty. It’s made of dirt I said!

She even accuses me of being dirty. Me...dirty! “Wash your hands, take off those mucky clothes, get your muddy shoes off the upholstery, when did you last change your underwear? You’ve got a dirty laugh and a filthy mind”

If I outlive her, I’m insisting one song be played at her funeral. Mud, mud, glorious mud! All together now…..

 Thanks Rochelle for hosting and Roger Bultot for the photo.

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Post 1658. Wednesday December 27

Friday Fictioneers

He slid his last remaining chips across the baize to square nineteen, just as he did every Friday. He watched the roulette wheel spin in one direction as the ball rolled in the other.

Such was his life, always going against the flow in the hope that one day, just one day a twist of fate would land him where he yearned to be.

Once again he went home penniless and would remain so until next payday when he would do it all over again. One day surely the roulette wheel would become his wheel of fortune and nineteen his lucky number.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Ted Strutz for the photo.

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Post 1654. December 20

Friday Fictioneers

Every day, just before opening my cafe I would hear the tap-tap of her umbrella on the window.

‘Hello dear’ she would say as she walked in and hung her knitted hat and brolly on a hook.

She always did that!

She would study the menu for ages before calling me over. ‘Dish-of-the-day and a nice cup of tea dear’ she would say.

She said that every time!

One day, last February when I delivered her meal, she was sleeping.

She never woke up.

Her knitted hat still hangs on the hook. It’s not my cafe anymore, but it’s still there. I like that.

She probably would too.

Thank you, Rochelle, for hosting and Björn Rudberg for the photo. I helped myself to just one of the hats!

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Post 1650. Wednesday December 13

Friday Fictioneers

As night drapes a blanket of darkness over a slumbering world, I slink away into the stillness of the street. I hear the rustle of fallen leaves, the rattle of a discarded can cartwheeling along the gutter. I spin my head toward a screeching owl for I am not alone on my nightly journey. I turn again as a fox skips from one overfilled dustbin to another. A bat swoops. Fluttering moths frantically fly around a street lamp whilst a spider weaves a web with which to harvest the flying fruits of dawn.

We are the creatures of the night. Our night. Ours.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Sandra Crook for the picture.

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Post 1646. Wednesday December 6

Friday Fictioneers

Just weeks ago my window framed a palette of colour. Gaudy blooms, branches dressed in quivering leaves of green, and puffs of white drifting ‘cross a sky of deepest blue. But not today. Flowers have run to seed and trees resemble stark frosted skeletons. Grey clouds hang low and an icy wind whispers winter.

As I turn my gaze toward the orange glow of a crackling log fire, warmth fills my cheeks. Steam wafts from a comforting bowl of soup assaulting my senses. Here, winter is shut outside. As I draw the curtains, I am reminded that no matter the season, life is good.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Dale Rogerson for the chilly picture!
















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Post 1641. Wednesday November 29

Friday Fictioneers

‘Why’s that old toilet in your shed Maisie?’

‘It was Bill’s Pru. He died on it you know’.

‘Really?’

‘Yes Pru. He loved his downstairs toilet’

Did he?’

‘Yes . No one else was allowed to use it, not even me Pru ‘

‘No’

‘Yes. Every morning he read the newspaper in there’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes. One day the toilet paper ran out, and later I found the celebrity gossip pages were missing!’

‘Oh!’

‘I wanted it to be his gravestone’

‘Good idea’

'Yes, but the council said no’

‘No?’

‘Yes. So I’m going to put it in the garden with a plant in it. I hope next door’s kids don’t water it for me!’

‘Haha, funny!’

'Yes, haha!

Thanks Rochelle for hosting and What's His Name for the photo

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As I'm a bit pushed for time today I've taken the unusual step of resurrecting this little tale that I posted a while back. Not many people read it then so I'm hoping for better luck this time round!

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Post 1640. Wednesday November 22

Friday Fictioneers

I’m searching for the key, the one to unlock the secret of the life I seek, but cannot find. The key I was given in the cradle, the key to me. Where is the key to the box of memories that reminds where I’ve been? The key to total happiness, the key in which to sing a song that all can reach so we can sing in harmony.

Key means vital, fundamental,

Basic, main and quintessential.

Key means major, key means crucial

My key to me is ever central.

I need the key that winds my clock. Without it, the pendulum of life will stop.

Thank you, Rochelle, for hosting, and providing the picture prompt

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Post 1636. Wednesday November 15

Friday Fictioneers

As flames licked the smoke-filled sky, banging, crackling, and the sound of exploding windows filled the air.

A paramedic knelt beside a fire-ravaged man. ‘Up there, my little girl’ he whispered with his dying breath.

‘I hear something’ yelled the Fire Chief.  

‘Daddy, where are you?’

‘Look, there. We’ll never reach her, get the air cushion’

A terrified child climbed onto a window ledge, let out a chilling scream and jumped.

In a garden where an apartment block once stood, a young lady places flowers on a bench and strokes the words carved in its backrest.

Daddy, you passed me on your way up to heaven they read.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and J Hardy Carroll for the photo.

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Post 1632. Wednsday November 8

Friday Fictioneers

As I jumped from the bus holding my wife's shopping list, the wind snatched it, slapped it against a car windscreen and it was gone. I needed to phone home but being desperate for a pee, I thought I’d call from the public loo. Whilst attempting to single-handedly dial, I dropped my mobile into the toilet. The auto-flush kicked in and it was gone.

I decided to drown my sorrows a the pub.

'This list just landed on my windscreen' I heard a bloke say to his friend.

‘Ah, that’s mi........’  I shouted, knocking over my beer as I watched him throw it on the log fire.

I walked out and got the next bus home.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Marie Gail Stratford the photo.

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Post 1628. Wednesday November 1

Friday Fictioneers

'Make sure you behave yourself' said mum as she handed Tommy over to grandpa for a couple of hours.

He only left him for a few moments to take a telephone call in the hall. He cut his conversation short when he heard clattering coming from the lounge. A look of horror came over his face when he saw Tommy playing ten-pins on the floor with his precious vases. He said nothing, just knelt down beside him.

'Why are you crying?' asked Tommy. 'They aren't broken'. Grandpa traced the shape of a heart in the scattered ashes on the carpet.

'Kids will be kids my darling' he whispered.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Sarah Ann Hill tor the photograph.

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Post 1624. Wednesday October 25

Friday Fictioneers

Little Maisie heard sobbing from the weeping willow overhead.  ‘Who’s there?’ she asked. ‘Why do you cry?’

A fairy child fluttered into Maisie's palm. She wiped the tears from its cheeks with the tip of her little finger. 'I’m lost’ it spluttered, ‘and it’s getting dark’

'Don’t cry’ said Maisie. ‘I know where you live’. She carried the little fairy to the secret grotto behind her Daddy’s shed.

The fairy godmother showered Maisie with twinkling fairy dust and promised that forever more there would be a fairy to watch over her.

So should you ever see Maisie glance over her shoulder and smile, you'll know that a fairy is following just behind.  

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Roger Bultot for the photo.

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Post1618. Wednesday October 18

Friday Fictioneers

It's raining, thank you for sheltering me. I climbed you as a kid, remember? I fell once and broke my arm! I always tell you my secrets, they’re are safe with you. My first love and I carved our initials in your bark; look, they’re still there.

In summer, you shade me. In autumn, you roll out a golden carpet and in winter you stand naked and proud, you old show off! Then it’s spring again and you turn bright green.

You were there for those before me; you’ll be there for those who follow. But today it’s me you shelter.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting, and to Sandra Crook for the photo.