Under the Pier

Under the Pier

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 host Rochelle whose 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.

The Dorset Giant

unnamed

The Dorset Giant

He hides in full sight, his noble profile surveying the vast ocean. He has seen blood on this beach, the bludgeon and greed of the smugglers’ grim craft; ship wrecks and battles of sea and sky.

Today he yawns a dripping cave and winks a grass-fringed sleepy eye to the toddler who plays on the sand below. The seabirds bring him news of his cousins the clouds, his brethren the rivers and valleys, but for now he slumbers. For he knows, all this will pass and one day he will rise again and reclaim the land that is rightly his.

M J Lewis ©2015

Dorset is truly heaven on Earth, so thank you Sandra for your photo for this week’s Friday Fiction, and thanks to Rochelle for educating us, entertaining us and uniting us all as ever.

If you’re ever down Dorset way check out the Moonfleet Manor Hotel, not that I can afford those prices. The novel of the same name (Moonfleet by John Meade Falkner) is the classic smugglers tale, but I prefer the gothic brilliance of Daphne Du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn. (NOT the awful Hitchcock film!)

One day I will return to Dorset as a seagull and live on chips and cream teas. Click here for more fiction from around the globe.

 

 

Contradictions

fossil

Contradictions

I walked again on the beach at dawn, skirts clutched around me, bible in gloved hand.  Seagulls wheeled in the clear air, but my mind was far from clear. No stone creatures today, but I knew they were waiting, their silent scrolled forms trapped in rock.

After church I dared to talk with Mr Giles, the new curate.

Maybe they are God’s joke Miss Austen, a metaphor.

But why? What do they signify?

Or maybe God himself is a metaphor.

Dancing blue eyes met mine and I blushed despite myself; it was not at all the answer I had anticipated.

(Genre: Historical romance; Setting: Lyme Regis, Dorset)

M J Lewis ©2015

Drowning in end-of-year reports and wrote this late this week when I should have been working. Think I’m dreaming of seaside holidays and fossil hunting in Lyme Regis, mixing up my references to Jane Austen and famous fossil girl, Mary Anning. Then coincidentally I found this story on BBC News of the fossil find in Alberta. Fossils really do say different things to different people.

Thanks to Douglas M Macilroy for the stimulating photo and to our incredible host at Friday Fiction, Rochelle. More secrets from the deep here at this link.

Oh I do love to be beside the seaside

Thanks once more to Rochelle for harvesting the Friday Fictioneers 100-word stories. You’ll find the whole hoard in the store-cupboard at this little LINK. My story is set in September 2015, in the English seaside town of Lyme Regis (sandcastles, cream teas, fossils and Jane Austen).

Thanks also to Marie Gail Stratford for the photo prompt.

crystals

Oh I do love to be beside the seaside

Your beloved cove – it’ll be as good as new.

That’s my son, the oil company PR guru. But he didn’t expect me to go and see for myself.

We honeymooned there, my late husband and I; slept deep to the sound of waves, woke to the call of seagulls.

Last night I lay awake as the huge machines washed the sand and filtered the seawater.  After my morning coffee I rang a few newspapers, packed a bag and fetched my walking stick.

Eighty-five-year-old woman joins environmental camp.

My beloved son – doesn’t he realise who gave him those PR skills?

M J Lewis ©2015