Liz Young's Blog, page 15

SISTERS

SISTERS

 She was always the brilliant one, the shining star in our parents’ firmament. I was the plodder, with steady Bs to her A+ marks, forever in her shadow.

 I married a local boy and took Mum grocery shopping each week, while she lived forever in the spotlight, treading red carpets in designer gowns and killer heels, occasionally descending on us with bottles of champagne and exotic foods – a glowing goddess.

 Then my Lucy was born, bringing in her tiny hand an unexpected bonus – not even an Oscar trumps a grandchild.

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Here we go again - another week not much different from the last, and another Friday Fictioneers story to add to my collection. Thanks to Dale Rogerson for the photo, which appears to have been taken from the Royal Box, and to Rochelle, our indefatigable host.

AND while you're here, why not hop over to Amazon and buy one (or more) of my books to keep you amused until the Big Bad Virus has receded? You can find my latest offering by clicking on the book cover at the top of this page. 

 

BOXERS - a 100 word story

 BOXERS

Jackie had her life sorted out – husband, two children, a nice home – until That Woman started work at his office.

It was suspicious enough when he started showering every day rather than a quick wash, and going out for lunch instead of taking sandwiches, but buying new underwear to attend a conference was a dead give-away – did he think she was too stupid to notice?

She knew his habits too well. She also knew his weaknesses.

Boxer shorts washed with peanut oil would ruin his weekend.

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I am late on parade this week, and even today I am just squeezing this blog in between taking an old Acer Tablet to the school to be given to a disadvantaged home-schooling pupil, and going to my daughter's house to celebrate my granddaughter's 6th birthday. AND before anyone reports me to the Covid-Stazi, they're a single parent family and we are their support bubble!

Thanks to Rochelle for the photo prompt - I wonder if her desk is always this tidy? 

SANDCASTLES

 

SANDCASTLES

Juan built sandcastles. Every day he went to the beach, collected damp sand from the tide-mark, and constructed dreams. Tourists watched and took photographs – some even threw money into Juan’s bucket, although never enough – but Juan loved the attention.

Lucia wasn’t happy being the only wage-earner. “You must get a real job – the rent is overdue again.”

“I have a job,” Juan replied grandly, “I am an artist.”

But the next night he came home to find Lucia and their possessions in the street – the landlord had thrown her out.

It was time to stop living in cloud-cuckoo land.

Clouds = castles in the air = the train of thought that led to this week's story for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting it for another year, and to Na'ama Yehuda for the photographic prompt.
I won't wax philosophical - there will be enough of that around as it is - so I will simply take the opportunity to wish everyone who reads my stories a very healthy and Happy New Year. I shall be opening the bottle of Prosecco that we didn't consume at Christmas - how will you see in 2021?

IN TIMES LONG GONE

 

IN TIMES LONG GONE

“We have a son! I will teach him to be a good carpenter.”

“Are you sure? I know you promised but ...”

“Hush, Mary – I meant every word.”

She slept until voices woke her. “Find another shelter – my wife’s just had a baby.”

“The angel told us – that’s why we’re here.”

She moved her cloak aside, and weathered faces worshipped while baby hands bestowed blessings. But Joseph was protective. “You’ve seen him – now leave us in peace.”

“We all wish for peace,” they said, and returned to their flocks, leaving a lamb to warm mother and child.

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I was determined to squeeze a Christmas story out of whatever image Rochelle chose this week, and it was a struggle, but I hope you like it.

Too many people have talked and written about 'These Difficult Times' that I won't add to them, except to say that nothing can 'Cancel Christmas'. It will be different. For most of us it will be much quieter, which for some may be no bad thing. For others it will be sad, and they have my sympathy - I will not be able to visit my mother in her nursing home. But we will still celebrate whatever we believe in - the birth of Christ, or simply the love of family and friends - and it will be Christmas, despite Covid. 

Have a good one.

INVASION

 

INVASION

George returned from the war uninjured.

‘A miracle,’ his father said, happy to have his son back on the farm.

But his mother knew George hadn’t escaped unscathed. The meticulous way her formerly careless boy folded his clothes, the way he jumped when she dropped a saucepan, his insistence on closing all the curtains although blackout was long gone.

Her husband scoffed, ‘It’s just habit – he’ll get over it.’

Then her best coat disappeared, to be found a week later outside the village.

‘We were told to cover the signposts,’ George said.

Finally his father understood – not all injuries are visible.

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THANKS again to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers even while celebrating Hanukkah, and to Sandra Crook for the intriguing photo prompt. To read other stories, or to join in and write your own, follow the Frog Link from  https://rochellewisoff.com/ . And if you're not here next week, Happy Christmas to everyone!

AND if you haven't sorted out your holiday reading yet, or need books to send as gifts, why not try my LIVING ROCK series, available on Amazon.

WHILE I WASN'T LOOKING

 

WHILE I WASN’T LOOKING

A month stuck indoors was more than enough. I can’t get the hang of this Zoom nonsense, and phone calls aren’t the same as visits, especially when you’re deaf.

So the moment Boris let us out, I made a flask of tea and walked down to my usual bench for a look at the sea. It’s half a mile away, but that vista opens up my soul.

Or it used to. Some criminal at the Town Hall has taken advantage of us being distracted to pass plans for a huge block of flats.

Covid has a lot to answer for.

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This is my first venture into the world of writing for a while. I was hacked back in November and it's taken me this long to get my life straight - and my head! So please be kind if my story isn't up to scratch. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to Roger Bultot for the photograph.

Before all that happened I did manage to publish the final book in my LIVING ROCK series, so if you're looking for a Christmas read, for yourself or anyone else aged teen to adult, look no further. All four books are available on Amazon - A Volcanic Race, Wolf Pack, Landslide & Rock Festival. To go directly to Amazon for the final book, click on the cover image on this page.

LOCKDOWN BLUES

 

LOCKDOWN BLUES

I fought to stay in my own home – the small flat Dennis and I shared holds such happy memories.

“You’d have company every day in the nursing home, Mum,” Fran said each time she visited.

“A load of geriatrics,” I’d replied, “And I’d miss my garden.”

She refrained from reminding me I was eighty-six, and dropped the subject.

But this virus has made my home a prison. No shopping trips, no Age Concern lunches, the library’s shut, and my garden is in shadow all day.

To top it all, there’s nobody to talk to since my cat died.

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Unfortunately, this is the situation many old people find themselves in - and some not so old, too. We bless the day, last January, when we moved my Mum into a nursing home. It's just up the road from me, so I can visit regularly. Even in Covid times they have allowed distanced visits in the conservatory, and although we can't hug, we can talk. Today is Mum's 96th birthday, and I've arranged to visit bearing gifts. Here she is talking to my son.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MUM XX

Thanks to Sarah Potter for the image and Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog:   https://rochellewisoff.com/  from whence you can follow the link to read other stories.

THROUGH THE ARCHED WINDOW

 

THROUGH THE ARCHED WINDOW

That morning they’d woken up to the first snow-fall, but there’d been no time to play before work, and by the time they got home it was dark.

 Harvey’s mum switched on the TV to a recording of Playschool and began to vacuum the house, secure in the knowledge that he was engrossed in trying to guess which window Floella would choose.

 His scream sent her racing downstairs two at a time, but Harvey cried, “Look, Mum – we can make a snowman tomorrow!”

 And through the arched window she saw her husband, outlined in lights like a mirage, home from the war.

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Shamelessly sentimental, I know, but there were thousands upon thousands of servicemen and women who didn't make it home from the wars which we remembered in England this week. So this story is a tribute to them.

'We will remember them' the prayer says, and I also love a less well-known but very moving one - 'When you go home, tell them of us and say / for your tomorrow we gave our today.'

The TV programme Playschool was a favourite with my children, all now adult. Every week they were asked to guess which of three windows, square, round or arched, would take them to the next part of the programme. Mind you, I had to ask my elder daughter the name of a presenter!

LAS GALLETAS

This photograph takes me back to Las Galletas, the seaside village in Tenerife where we did our shopping for fifteen years. 

The bricks cut from volcanic rock, the rough slabs underfoot - even the icecream adverts and boxes of oranges are the same.

We sat in a shaded street just like this one for coffee, admiring the plants on a house opposite, sheltering in the shade from the fierce sun that eventually drove us back to England.

Thanks to Rochelle for the photo which evoked some happy memories. To read fiction from other members of Friday Fictioneers, go to her blog and click on the frog!  https://rochellewisoff.com/The rock from which those bricks were hewn is only one variety out of hundreds, and that inspired me to write my Living Rock books, so our time in Tenerife wasn't wasted.Click on the link to read the first book, A Volcanic Race, or go direct to Amazon for more.A VOLCANIC RACE: a LIVING ROCK book: Amazon.co.uk: YOUNG, LIZ: 9798679889521: Books

 

SLEEP OF THE ROCKMEN

 

All over their vast continent the Rockmen slumbered. From the mountainous western shore to the white chalk cliffs of the far east, tribes of Humans moved more freely, confident in the knowledge that their giant neighbours would not wake until spring. From the wave-battered south coast to the frozen north, animals roamed forests and grassland, undisturbed by the large hunters that gave off no warning scent.

In the volcanoes that dotted this young land, lava simmered gently, waiting for the Mother to wake and send more children for Her volcanic race, but no tremors disturbed the Rockmen in their beds. The danger that threatened their lives lurked unseen – deep beneath the earth pressure was building, slowly and inexorably, between two continental plates – unheard by any ear, million-ton rocks groaned – and, hidden in a frozen lake, a glowing rift widened.

Extract of an early version of A VOLCANIC RACE - first book in my LIVING ROCK series. Click on the link to buy it from Amazon.

A VOLCANIC RACE: a LIVING ROCK book: Amazon.co.uk: YOUNG, LIZ: 9798679889521: Books