Dinner and Delusion

restaurant

Dinner and Delusion

You should have seen their faces.

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.)

The Princess without the Pea

dale-rogerson-snow-photo

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…

january-snowfall-nighttime

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!)

Miranda

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Wolf Girl

snowsacpe

Wolf Girl

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.