Tidying Up After
You left early, mid-sentence; grass uncut, the bird table you were attempting to mend face down on the patio. Mind you, you tidied away that last bottle to the very last drop.
Back home, I have taken to washing up teaspoons, burning old postcards, composting diaries. Don’t be alarmed; I am but a finger’s stretch closer to the shadows. I won’t say anything significant, at least until I’ve cleared this cupboard.
My partner on the other hand is accumulating wood and screws, enough to open a hardware shop. Or build an arc. Or in the event, our coffins. Now that’s tidy.
Miranda Lewis, 2018
(Genre: unreliable memoir)
Welcome readers and writers to Friday Fiction, hosted by the indefatigable, inestimable Rochelle, with thanks to Ronda Del Boccio for the photo prompt. Now you might be thinking it isn’t Friday and this isn’t really fiction, but on the other hand it is 100 words.
Thanks to all who visit and most especially those who stay to comment. To graze on a whole pasture of stories click here.
A Death in the Family
Strangely death and beauty are often companions. Closed lids hid the milky cataracts of his decayed old age. Pearl-pink pads decorated delicately curled feet. I placed a cheek on his curved back and felt the last of his fur-wrapped warmth.
The grave my husband dug on that dark January night made criminals of us all. No, not my granny, I quipped to a neighbour. The old cat. Tears flowed freely as we said goodbye and buried the box, securing the lid against foxes.
Alone at last; silent house. I open the freezer, reach deep for the wrapped package and cradle the frozen form in aching arms.
M J Lewis 2017
Welcome to the world of Friday Flash Fiction, hosted by the talented writer Rochelle. Thanks as ever to our seemingly tireless host and also to Liz Young for the photo.
The above is partly true – I’ll leave you to decide what is fiction and what is imagination! Thanks to all who visit and especially those who stay and comment.
The Jewelled Locust
The room was almost unbearably hot. A ceiling fan stirred the soupy air listlessly.
My grandmother’s face when she turned to me was yellow, skin taught over sharp cheek bones, eye sockets deep pools of purple.
She indicated the box of jewels. ‘For you and you alone. The very best.’
All I saw was the blood and toil of others, wealth won with deception and malice.
Outside, I opened the lid and handed a brooch to the child who guarded the decaying lobby. Fake emeralds, nevertheless valuable.
Unknown to my grandmother my half-sister and I still speak: different box, same lies.
M J Lewis 2017
Very late to the Friday Feast of Fiction this week, but such a stunning photo, thanks to Shaktiki Sharma. Thanks also, of course, to our esteemed host, Rochelle, and thanks to all who visit, especially those who stay to comment.