The Princess without the Pea
Camping with ancestors you call it: corridors, attics, cellars; god knows how many bedrooms.
Mornings Gavel carries scalding tea up creaking flights to the bedroom, where we lie buried under heaps of eiderdowns. Through ice-frosted glass I look out over snow-blanketed fields to the far horizon. Not a soul.
Each afternoon I neglect to pack my suitcase.
Dinner is sardines with champagne in front of the fire, scent of mothballs rising from my stole, once owned, you claim, by a duchess who ran away with the under-groomsman.
Far away in a suburban cul-de-sac, a phone rings into the silence of my spotless house.
Miranda Lewis 2018
Welcome to Friday Flash Fiction!
We have not had real snow this year in London, for which I feel both grateful and jealous. Thanks to Dale Rogerson for the lovely photo and to our host Rochelle who travels the world of Friday Fiction through all seasons, all weathers.
Thanks to all who stop by to read and most especially to those who stay to comment.
For anyone interested this is a companion piece to this Friday Fiction, written almost a year ago. I’m not a quick worker!
If I could locate my heart…
I pay the taxi and slip along the long drive in unsuitable shoes, suitcase bumping my legs, past snowdrops dusted with snow. So lovely.
(Snowdrops in snow, foxes in gloves; a toad in a hole, a kiss for your two lips.)
The dining room will be cold as a cave. (Puts the mice off! ) You in scarf and dressing-gown, reading the paper.
Gavel opens the huge front door – ‘Morning Miss’ – as if I’ve just nipped out for cigarettes. ‘There’s coffee.’ He pauses. ‘And a fire.’
I hurry up the stone steps past sleeping lions. A fire!
It might begin to melt.
M J Lewis 2017
Here’s my 100 words for Friday Fiction, hosted by the writer Rochelle and this week with a beautiful chilly photo from Sarah Potter.
Not quite spring yet, but signs of it in my garden in the form of a tiny patch of snowdrops. I seem to have gone off on some country house vibe – did see a long drive lined with snowdrops, the house out of sight around the corner, when out walking last week.
Thanks to all who visit and especially to those who come on in and comment. Tea and toasted crumpets anyone? (Might need UK/US translation!)
The traveller’s eyes shone bright in the firelight; his cape steamed with the enticing odours of tobacco, damp leaves and the wide reach of the sky beyond the citadel.
‘It is both easier and harder to hunt in the snow: sound and scent are muffled, but there are tracks. Bloodied prints led us to a rocky outcrop where deep within a cave we found a girl, wrapped in a pelt of pure white, at her breast a wolf-cub of the softest silkiest grey.’
He shifted and held my gaze for all to see, as the memory ached within me.
M J Lewis ©2015
Inspiring photo prompt this week for Friday Fictioneers, from Doug MacIlroy, which I’ll be investigating properly now I’ve used it to go down some weird fantasy route. Can hear someone saying something about snow in Chile. Interesting…
Thanks as ever to our host, Rochelle. Many more stories to read here.