They said the new woodsman had broken the bank, crashed his Jag, killed his wife. And I said, they said too much.
Springtime I traded my ex-husband’s discarded jacket and a bottle of whisky for a sack of charcoal. Later he mended my fences.
They said the new woodsman slept on a bed of moss, never washed and had a tail tucked down his patched old trousers. When I saw him rise naked from the river, shaking ribbons of sunlight from his shaggy mane, I knew at least two of those were untrue.
And I said, second time lucky. Maybe.
Welcome to Friday flash fiction here on a Wednesday, hosted by the indefatigable Rochelle and with a great photo from Alicia Jamtaas that sent me straight back to a little woodland tale/tail of yesteryear. So it’s Friday reprieve time – hope you enjoy it.
Thanks to all who visit and most especially those who stay to comment. For more woodland frolics from around the globe click here.
May your Love be beautiful and your children industrious.
May your days be short and your nights long.
Or vice versa.
And when that petrol guzzling, pollution spewing, metal box you insist on driving finally gives up the ghost may it not be with a crunch of brick on metal on glass on bone on soft tissue, but with a gentle splutter beside a meadow, where you will walk through wildflowers to a perfect little stone house with June roses blooming around the door, a fruit orchard beside and a For Sale sign holding up the rickety gate post.
Miranda Lewis 2021
Welcome to Friday Fiction, with our esteemed host Rochelle. Thanks to all who visit and especially those who stay to comment. Thanks to to Liz Young for the photo.
(For more instructions do visit Rochelle’s post on the link above. Please don’t post the photo for any other purpose than to join the fun.)
I have been reading Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones and loved her description of setting up a poetry stall at an event in her local town and just writing…. no re-reading, no revising just writing off the top of her head for the recipient and the universe. SO, I’m having a go at writing fortunes just straight off, 5 minutes max – a photo is a great start. I did have to revise this one a little because it came in over the word count, but mostly it is as it is…Good practice for writer’s block, writer’s perfectionism and all sorts of common writing aliments and now yours for the taking – your fortune, your choice…
Lucky us – a beautiful house in a tree-lined road! The gutters filled with Autumn leaves, but we bought a strong ladder.
You gave me that look when I said the old Lime Tree out front was growing too quickly. Its branches clawed the windows. You too stopped sleeping. The road split in two, masonry fell from houses. A sapling appeared in the sitting room.
If I wake at night now, it is to fox call or grunt of badger. Blackbird greets my day. That ladder takes me from sleeping platform of salvaged floorboards to mossy forest floor, where I sit… and breathe.
Miranda Lewis 2021
Greeting Friday Fictioneers, from this cold London Wednesday. The sky is blue, the clouds are perfect and the narcissus are managing to push through the frozen earth and remains of snow. Whatever else has turned upside down in this world, it’ll soon be spring.
Thanks as ever to our host and reader/writer in chief, Rochelle and to Alicia Jamtaas for the wonderful photo. For more home-grown tales click here. Thanks to all who visit and most especially those who stay to comment.
Also posted in Fandango’s One Word Challenge: Planet
My older sisters were both stunningly pretty. I claimed awkwardness and the sort of shy cleverness that upsets most people.
‘Look out for each other,’ Mum would call as we left for the beach. As if.
He looked after the dodgems noon until midnight, breaks around four and eight. Sometimes I met him for both. My cheek against his ribcage, I’d listen to his heart. He smelt of sweat and damp caravans.
‘Reckon she fancies him,’ one sister quipped and the other flicked back her hair. They turned and as he winked I licked the salty taste of summertime from my chapped lips.
Miranda Lewis 2020
Welcome to Friday Fiction where, as we hunker down in the Northern hemisphere to our various (vastly curtailed) mid-winter festivities, a gentle summer breeze blew through my sitting room. For more salty tales from around the globe click here.
Thanks as ever to our hostRochellewhose story definitely inspired mine this week. What is it about fairgrounds and pleasure gardens, throughout time and location, that allow their visitors to cross class barriers and other taboos?
Thanks also to Roger Bultot for the phot and to all who visit, most especially those who stay to comment.
Welcome to Friday Fiction where I seem to be bending those rules yet again – although this definitely weighs in under 100 words and does have a beginning, middle and end (of sorts). Thanks as always to our host Rochelle who keeps going through thunder storm and pandemic, whilst presidents come and (hopefully) go. And thanks also to Sarah Potter for this week’s photo. Stay home, stay safe and tour the world from the comfort of your own sofa right here.
Thanks to all visitors and especially to those who stay to comment.
Gavel parked the Rolls outside the restaurant – more of a pub really. He held the door and I lifted my silk gown high over the melting snow. We’d already had a cheeky sherry and giggled our way inside, Stefan so handsome in that old suit with the lapels.
I quickly realised how drunk Stefan actually was – a sherry or half a bottle of vodka? He could hardly sit up, let alone order. So much for our romantic dinner.
What was it that girl said to me? ‘You with Steve?’ ‘Stefan,’ I corrected and she laughed out loud.
Miranda Lewis 2020
Welcome to Friday Fiction and to my 100-word tale that can be read alone, or indeed in a small gathering of family members or friends isolating together. It can also be read as the third in a series, the first episode written in February 2017 and the second in February 2018. If I’m planning on turning this into a novel I probably won’t live long enough.
On that cheery thought, if you have been reading thank you. Do come right in and comment.
For safe travel around a world of stories click here. Many thanks as ever to our host Rochelle. And to Dale all hale for the snowy scene. (And actually Dale if you’re visiting, you also provided the snowy photo back in February 2018.)
Notes for Writers of Historical Twentieth Century Fiction
1.2 Social Interaction
Greetings: during the twentieth century people greeted each other with handshakes, hugs, upper arm grabbing and kissing on various facial parts, including the lips. (Huge potential for disease transference and death of minor characters.)
Alcohol: could be consumed in restaurants, pubs, parks and other public spaces. This could lead to carousing, sentimentality, revealing of vital plot secrets, dancing on tables and break up of superfluous relationships in which the writer has lost interest.
Relationships: the following were possible precursors to marriage – hand holding, dinner dates, getting carried away during the polka, long lingering looks, sexual congress and actual countryside walks.
Miranda Lewis 2020
Day 3 of London lockdown and I’m reading, writing, gardening – what’s not to love? All very ordinary; all very strange.
GreetingsFriday Fiction buddies around the world (no kisses of course, except virtual ones) and many thanks to Rochelle to whom I raise a glass of red – or I will later since it’s still early afternoon here and standards must be maintained. (photo copyright Jeff Arnold)
There’s the dress, the shoes, the hair – with or without tiara? And you must get the transport right. Pink Mini Cooper? Stretch Limo? Tacky, but what the heck.
My son preferred a lift in a vintage Cadillac and his Dad’s suit – fitted so well my husband never saw it again. My daughter, in gold home-sewn prom dress, walked there under a polka-dot umbrella.
But what a nuisance: the library taken over by chatting teenagers for weeks before exams, the park and playground filled with them hanging out doing nothing much afterwards. I won’t miss any of that.
Actually, it breaks my heart.
Miranda Lewis 2020
(Genre: unreliable memoir)
It’s Friday so I’m late once again to Friday Fiction and I find myself not very fictional.
Today, as schools close across the UK, I am just so sad for the children and young people, particularly those at crucial rite-of-passage stages of their education. No chatting instead of revising in the library for them, no prom night. My library will not be full of irritating teenagers this year as it will be closed; when I stroll through the park (alone) this May and even June there won’t be large groups of teenagers celebrating the end of exams and the start of a long summer by doing nothing in particular together. I still have exam nightmares but now realise there’s something worse than exams – no exams.
Thanks to our hostRochelle who deserves her ownFriday Fiction purple Limo to conduct her to story land each week, and to J Hardy Carroll for the photo prompt.
Thanks to all who visit and especially those who stay to comment. Keep well my fiction friends.
No such thing as a prom (that more recent import from the USA!) when I took O-levels in the long hot summer of 1976. But quite a bit of fun as I recall. Yours truly below!
I still like to look my best – my red coat with the high collar, a decent heel. It’s a smaller audience nowadays of course, but there’s the usual flutter of applause, the appreciative twitter. I bow my coiffured head in acknowledgement and reach for the rail to descend the stairs.
‘You’ve gone really pale.’
‘It’s that old crow at the end house. Says here she slipped and died in her own garden.’
‘What was she doing outside in this weather?’
‘Feeding the birds, it says. She was an understudy to the stars, there’s an old photo.’
‘Wow, what a beauty!’
Miranda Lewis 2020
Well this is a first, sending out my Friday Flash Fiction on the Wednesday…
Greetings to all those stepping out around the world and most especially to our leading lady, Rochelle who also provides the photo this week.
Thanks to all who visit and especially those who stay to comment.
After more than thirty years of teaching – passing on the intricacies of arithmetic, explaining the wonders of algebra, illuminating the paradoxical properties of polygons – I am ready for a restful retirement. I have loved teaching, but it’s a tough job that needs courage and commitment.
At the kitchen window I sip my tea. In the Autumn sunshine birds are singing fit to burst, but somewhere out there I know towns are flooding, forests are burning. We are at war with our own world. And war needs courage – education, love, courage and commitment. We can’t ignore it.
Always a teacher…
It’s Friday already so I’m rocking up late at Friday Fiction. (It’s difficult to explain I know…) And as seems to happen these days the real world has intruded and I am all out of fiction.
Thanks to Roger Bultot for the strange and wonderful photo in which I immediately saw a polygon with all its external angles beautifully illuminated. You can take the teacher out of the school….I do still see Maths everywhere (and I do love a polygon!) but I also see other things outside my window these days and they feel more urgent.