The Touch of his Hand
“Are you coming, my dear?”
Millie looked up at the sound of his voice. Tommy stood in the doorway, his hand outstretched, waiting for hers to join it.
She still remembered the first time their hands had touched, all those years ago. She’d shyly slid her fingers into his as they’d walked into the picture house – barely believing the handsome boy had chosen her. He’d squeezed her hand and given a flirtatious wink, setting her heart aflutter. That had been their first date. Many more had soon followed.
The touch of his hand had swiftly become the most important thing in her life: his caress set her senses alight; his support carried her through the hardest days. When his long fingers had slid the ring, the symbol of their devotion, onto her own, she’d known she was complete.
His death had left her adrift.
She’d simply marked time the since his passing, knowing she’d see him again soon.
“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet. Without any hesitation, she slid her fingers into his.
Word count: 175
To read the other entries, or to submit your own, click the little blue frog.
This post is for Priceless Joy’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge. This week’s prompt was provided by Artycaptures.
In remembrance of my grandparents, Millie and Tommy – gone but never forgotten.
Photo prompt © Jade M. Wong
A Mother’s Grief
“We didn’t do anything to it, Ma,” Aeliene said, a waiver in her voice that broke Shylie’s heart all over again. “We were just playing. It came out of nowhere and attacked us. Baen tried to stop it, but, he… he fell… and… and…”
Shylie gathered her daughter close.
Grief encased her as she beheld the body of her butchered son, leaving her as fragile as eggshells. The slightest movement could cause her to shatter, spilling her emotions out for everyone to see. But beneath the sorrow, anger began to burn.
“Are we going to continue like this?” she demanded, turning to the rest of the tribe, gathered nearby in silent respect. “How many more children must we lose before we do something about these monsters?”
They might be pacifists by nature, but fire smouldered within each and every one of them. Her people spread their wings and gave a mighty roar.
Those puny humans wouldn’t stand a chance. Not now.
For the dragons were going to war.
Word count: 173
To read the other entries, or to submit your own, click the little blue frog.
This post is for Priceless Joy’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge. This week’s prompt was provided by Jade M. Wong. Thank you, Jade!
Photo prompt © Fleur Treuniet via Unsplash
She loved to watch the unicorns as they took their ease amidst the meadow flowers. They shimmered with an allure that drew her eyes time and again. And if no one else could see them – well, that was their problem, really, not hers.
This post is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales. This week’s prompt is by Fleur Treuniet, via Unsplash.
Photo prompt – The Storyteller’s Abode
Time to Leave
The boats were full, despite the lateness of the day.
Ingrid paused, her foot poised on the gangplank as she looked back at the town. Her throat tightened as tears threatened to fall. How could she leave? The place was central to all of her memories: she’d married Jimmy in the church on the market place; borne her children in the local hospital. She’d walked those streets with steps both weighted with sorrow and made light with joy. Even the thought of leaving chilled her.
“I’m afraid it’s time, dearest,” Jimmy said.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have any choice. The town that had been so bright with life would soon be darkened by death. These would be the final boats to leave. On board, men and women clung to each other, their fear and sorrow almost palpable. Despite the exodus having begun days earlier, many had hoped the situation would change. Now, with ash clouds obscuring the sun, all hope was gone.
Ingrid gripped her husband’s hand and stepped on board.
Word Count: 175
If you’d like to read the other entries, click the little blue frog.
This post is for Priceless Joy’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge. This week’s prompt was provided by me. The picture was taken in York a couple of years ago, when we visited for the Christmas market. It was an incredibly cold day, and we were amazed to see the boat trips still going on – though at least no one was sitting on the open-air top level.
As always seems to be the case when it’s my own prompt, I found it really hard to write a story this week! Luckily, I did manage to come up with something in the end. This was inspired by a programme about Pompeii I was watching.
I hope you like it.
Anticipation clings to the air as the engine, wreathed in puthering smoke and steam, pulls steadily closer to the station. The gathered crowd jostles for position, each individual determined to find the best position available. Voices chatter excitedly, a thrum of excitement carrying along the packed platform. You strain your ears to hear the familiar huff and clank of the metallic beast’s approach.
Soon it will arrive. Soon it will disgorge its passengers.
And then the festivities can truly begin.
This post is for the WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge. This week’s theme is anticipation.
The photos were taken in York two years ago, when we visited their Christmas Market. As my train obsessed nephew was with us, we couldn’t not pop over to see the steam train (the Christmas White Rose) that was just about to arrive in the station.
I wasn’t sure whether or not to include the second picture. I like the blur on the people, I feel it gives a real sense of just how busy it was. Unfortunately the train itself is also a little unclear, and I’d have liked it to be perfectly in focus. Eventually, I just told my inner critic to shut up and included it anyway. It was very hard to take a good handheld picture that day – everyone was pushing and shoving, wanting to get onto the engine’s footplate and talk to the driver. One woman even pushed my nephew out of the way so she could get on before him!
This might be my last post before Christmas, so I hope everyone has a great time, whatever and however they might be celebrating. As today is actually the Winter Solstice, happy Solstice everyone!
On damp winds they’re blown in, the thunder of their blades as they slice through the air echoing over golden fields. Stalwart defenders of the nation, here they’re far from war torn lands: no bombs or bullets to lay them low, only nature’s unpredictable buffets to keep them humble.
This afternoon I was down at the wildflower meadow with my notepad and my camera when two Chinook helicopters from a local RAF airbase began circling overhead. I quickly snapped a few shots of them as they passed over, thinking they’d soon be gone, only to realise that they were actually landing at the small airfield on the outskirts of the village. Now, that is not something that normally happens! I hurriedly made my way over.
Unfortunately, I didn’t actually manage to make it quite all the way to the airfield before they were taking off again, but I did manage to find a position where I could get a few decent pictures before they left. Luckily, several other villagers had also been out and about and one of them had managed to speak to one of the pilots. It seems that a bird had collided with the windscreen of one of the helicopters, forcing it to land.
I hadn’t actually planned to post today as I’m still in the middle of CampNano – meaning I’ve been busy editing and lengthening the flash fictions I’m planning to publish as compilations on Amazon. The other photographs and poems I’ve been posting lately have all ready to go since June! Another of those will probably be posted in a few days time.
This post is for Jacqueline’s Echoes of my Neighbourhood challenge.
This post is for Cee’s Oddball Challenge.
You must walk on tippy-toes as you creep past the giants’ lair. Take care not to wake them. Run if you feel their stares.
These oddball photos were taken at the Lost Gardens of Heligan, a fascinating place in Cornwall that we just had to revisit during our recent holiday there. We last went to Heligan thirteen years ago and its come on a long way in the years since. The place is called the ‘Lost Gardens’ because they were created at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries but were then left to fall into ruin after the First World War. The gardens were ‘rediscovered’ in the early 1990s and the project to restore them was begun. The teams involved have done a wonderful job and it’s great to see how the place has changed since our last visit.
Here’s another picture of the Mud Maid as she sleeps in the dappled sunlight.