AT THE WATER'S EDGE

 

AT THE WATER'S EDGE

Karen stood right at the edge, the ebb and flow of the moonlit estuary echoing her emotions. Each retreating wave dragged shingle from beneath her feet, and she fought to keep her balance, just as her mind struggled to maintain equilibrium in its turmoil of thoughts.

How could things have gone so wrong? She was tempted to let the tide take her, but when the wash of a passing ship knocked her over she scrambled up and back.

Back to life without him, back to prove she could do it alone.

No man was worth her death.

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I've been having deep and meaningful conversations with a friend about our former love lives - you can blame this sombre story on our retrospection. Though to be fair, the last time I entertained such dramatic thoughts I was a teenager! 

Thanks to Sandra Crook, a regular contributer of photos, for this image, and to Rochelle  https://rochellewisoff.com/  for hosting our select group of writers on Friday Fictioneers.

PLAYING THE MAN

 

PLAYING THE MAN

Back when I was just nineteen

I learned to ballroom dance;

how it came to happen

was totally by chance.

My manager’s young daughter

needed a chaperone,

so off to a dusty hall we went,

me and my plus one.

Because I was the elder girl

I had to play the man,

although I studied all the steps

a girl should know.

I can

even now dance properly,

but only if I lead –

try to steer me backwards

and I trip over my feet.

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There's a lot of truth in this story, although later I did, thanks to a talented friend, learn to follow a man's lead when dancing. Since then I put more self-expression into my dancing, but even those days are over. I turned 80 a few days ago and the sight of me gyrating to modern tunes is not something I care to inflict on anyone else, but my feet still tap, and occasionally I dance, alone in my living room where nobody can see!

Thanks are due, as always, to Rochelle for hosting our group of writers on her blog,  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and to Dale Rogerson for the image which prompted this week's stories. The 'Dance Studio' in which Juliet and I had our lessons was much less colourful, resembling as it did the entrance to a sleazy dive rather than the class establishment it claimed to be.

Two photos - one of me plus family and friends enjoying a pub lunch on The Big Day. The older man is the one who taught me to dance with a man! Taken by my elder daughter who flew in from Northern Ireland to surprise me.

And one with my younger grandson who was working but came round later.

I felt very loved.

A MIDNIGHT SWIM

 

A MIDNIGHT SWIM

They couldn't resist the lure of a free concert, and the waiter told them bikinis and sarongs were the norm. 

Starting on the vodka in their hotel, they mixed generous slugs into bottles of Coke, and went to the beach.

It was heaving with party-goers, the music loud, the atmosphere electric as they danced on sand that still radiated the day’s heat.

Lights sparkling on the sea looked different at night – mysterious and hypnotic. Dropping their sarongs, they slid naked into its silken coolness.

Beach cleaners found their sarongs at dawn.

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The dangers of mixing alcohol and the sea - many lives each year are lost this way.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and for this week's photo prompt. You can read other stories, or write your own and join in, by following the Froggie Trail from her blog:  https://rochellewisoff.com/

SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

 

SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

After I’d posted something controversial on 

social media the hatred and threatening

comments had spiralled out of control, so the flowers were a pleasant surprise when I got home that evening.

I didn’t recognise the scrawled signature, but I fetched a trowel and planted them in my window box, then picked up the watering can.

An unexpected odour wafted up – someone had filled it with petrol! That could have ruined all my plants, I thought, putting it down carefully. Really, this was going too far.

Then the grey box under the tap began to tick.

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Another image, another 100 word story. I have so many stored on file that I may have to make a book of them! Thanks to Rochelle for keeping all of her Friday Fictioneer flock supplied with inspiration, and to Rowena Curtin for the photograph. A friend who came to tea earlier today brought me flowers, but her intentions were purer than the giver of those in my story!

AND as it's World Book Day today, allow me to remind you that I have a slew of books for sale on Amazon.  Here's a picture of them all to nudge you into buying mode!

Or, for my local followers, a reminder that all seven of my novels can now be borrowed from the library.

...

Happy gardening!

A WHOLE YEAR

 

A WHOLE YEAR

It’s been a whole year since Pete disappeared.

A year of running the farm alone, getting a second job to put food on the table, and answering the children’s questions the best I could.

The scars have healed now and a kind of peace has descended, but I couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever turn up.

Then I turn the TV on this morning and there’s a news flash.

A picture of Pete’s car being hauled out of the river.

I really thought they’d never find him, but he’ll be bones by now.

Nothing to worry about.

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Thanks to Fleur Lind for the photo that prompts this week's slew of stories from Friday Fictioneers. To read them all, follow the frog link from  https://rochellewisofffields.files.wordpress.com/2024/02/from-fleur.jpg

 

TRAIL BLAZERS

 

TRAIL BLAZERS

They piled out of the car and the kids raced through the house to find Granpa.

‘Hey Granpa, what’s that old wagon doing here?’

‘To remind us how lucky we are. Look around – what do you see?’

‘The usual stuff – your home, the pool, Mum cooking with Granma.’

‘Exactly. A house with a kitchen, enough water to swim in. But my Great-granpa arrived here in a wagon like that one. All their goods, beds included. They had to find water and light a fire before cooking dinner.’

‘That’s ancient history!’

‘Not that ancient – it was only five generations back from you.’

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We should remind ourselves occasionally how far we have come - and in a relatively short time. I live in a cottage that only had a bathroom installed in the 1950s, and still has the old outside toilet. The cottage has two small bedrooms in which previous families have raised families of half a dozen or more children!

Thanks to Alicia Jamtaas for the photograph that Rochelle chose this week. You can read how others interpreted the image by following the frog link from her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/

 

WINTER SCHOOL

 

WINTER SCHOOL

Winters were colder in my childhood. Even in England snowdrifts were deep enough to dig a cave, snowmen were huge, and it was worth making a sled.

The walk to school was hazardous, the pain as chilblains thawed out was horrendous, but the best part was playtime.

The top end of the playground became a skating rink, where the most adventurous created slides. A run to pick up speed before you entered twenty yards of ice, your feet and body poised to reach the end without falling.

I remember the thrill to this day – the bruises are long forgotten!

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See that shining line in the snow? It's probably thawed, but it could be one of  those ice slides of my distant youth. Did they cause broken bones? Probably, but all I remember is the fun. Children shouldn't be too molly-coddled anyway, though no doubt these days such sport would be banned by a health and safety inspector. 

Thanks to Dale for the photo and, as always, to Rochelle for hosting FF.