24/05/2017

CONCERT - one hundred words - a story for this week.

CONCERT

They spent hours getting ready, filling her bedroom with perfume, laughter and excitement. Sophie borrowed my purple earrings.

Chloe’s dad dropped them off, their precious concert tickets tucked into tiny handbags, mobile phones as fully charged as our girls. They promised not to get separated, not to drink, not to take drugs – all the usual things parents worry about.

Later, I waited outside as instructed – apparently it’s embarrassing being met. I’d been there ten minutes when the bomb went off, and the world was nothing but blood, nails and screams.


I only recognised Sophie by her purple earrings.

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Looking at J Hardy Carroll's photograph of devastation, I could only write about this week's dreadful happenings in Manchester. How other writers interpreted the image can be found by following the link from https://rochellewisoff.com/
ps. if you would like to read another of my stories, I'm on p68 of Visual Verse at http://visualverse.org/

18/05/2017

EAVESDROPPING - a short story in 100 words

EAVESDROPPING

Joe’s passion was people-watching. Each night he’d regale Monica with stories of businessmen meeting hookers en route to a motel, writers seeking material, runaways looking for lifts. After a decade he considered himself an expert.

These three women, he guessed, were young mums on a break from housework, though their conversation looked rather intense for that. Joe took the coffee to refill their cups and heard one say, ‘I’ll drive – my car’s bigger.”

How nice, Joe thought, an outing, and left them to their plans. 
He was almost out of range when the blonde said, ‘Remember to bring your guns.”
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This story was written for Friday Fictioneers, ably run by Rochelle, where writers from across the world use a mere 100 words to tell a story inspired by a photograph. This week's picture was taken by Roger Bultot and posted on  https://rochellewisoff.com/

10/05/2017

STRIKE THREE - flash fiction

STRIKE  THREE

I only noticed strike one in retrospect – he forgot names and muddled dates, but doesn’t everyone?

The second strike was more troubling. I’d often catch him standing with a lost expression, clearly wondering where he was, but a gentle word would bring him back. Never one to listen to other opinions, he became angrier, and so illogical it was useless trying to reason with him.


But when he backed the car into the gatepost, stormed into the kitchen shouting, “Who put that blasted pillar there?” and then demanded, “What are you doing in my house?” – that was strike three.
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Those who have lived through similar scenarios will understand where this story comes from.
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and also for bravely sharing the photograph of her accident - I hope the insurance covered it?

05/05/2017

GHOSTS OF WAR - flash fiction

This week's photo reminded me of two places - the market square in Le Touquet, France, where we have shopped on many occasions, and the Town Hall in the novel I am touting round submitting to agents at the moment. I have resisted the temptation to use an extract, though some of the story filters through in these one hundred words.
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to Sandra Crook for her photo that prompted my story and all the others here; https://rochellewisoff.com/

GHOSTS  OF  WAR

Tuesday afternoon was not the best time to arrive in a small French town wanting lunch. Shuttered shops exuded an air of desolation and Gerry voted to drive on, but I wanted to explore.
In the square, fallen blossom formed drifts around a dry fountain and the air was deathly still. Fear gripped us as the flowers adorning the colonnaded Mairie were transformed into flags emblazoned with swastikas, and heavy boots stamped the cobbles.

Then a shutter banged in a sudden breeze, and the flags were flowers again, but when I touched the walls my fingers found bullet holes.