Liz Young's Blog, page 17

MY GRANDPARENTS' HOUSE

 

MY GRANDPARENTS’ HOUSE

I have no conscious memory of the house in Victor Harbour where my grandparents lived. Mum tells stories of her brothers sleeping on the veranda, and of me crawling out of the garden one afternoon and being found, after a frantic search, eating fallen kumquats next door.

 But after forty years in England I flew back, and as the perfume of eucalyptus assailed my senses at Adelaide airport, I recognised the land of my birth.

And that house, with its cool inner hall and gingerbread-trimmed veranda, seemed familiar – or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

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This week's image is so reminiscent of the house where my mother grew up that I couldn't write fiction - this piece is 100% autobiographical.

Thanks to Ted Strutz for the memory, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog. Welcome home, Rochelle - I hope your holiday was restful. X

CARVED HEART - A STORY IN 100 WORDS

 

 CARVED HEART

At preschool, Sam and Josie shared paint-pots and finished each other’s pictures. They weathered the storms of senior school together, and at fourteen pledged eternal love, carving SJ inside a heart on a tree.

Then Josie went to university, promising, “I’ll be back.”

“But you’ll be different,” said Sam, sadly.

Josie became Josephine, MD of a successful company, her photo in the papers, while Sam built houses with his Dad.

Eventually Josie returned. “I should have stayed – we belong together.”

Sam showed her their carved heart, the initials divided by time. “Not any more, Josie – we’ve grown apart.”

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Here we go again with another Friday Fictioneers' image that prompted a 100 word story. I still haven't mastered Blogger's new format - why DO these site insist on changing thigs? - but my thanks still go to Rochelle for hosting us from her seaside holiday spot.

PARTING - A story in 100 words

PARTING

PARTING

“I’m sorry,” he said, “It isn’t you – I just can’t do it.”

“But why?” she wailed, willing herself not to cry – he hated tears – “What will we tell people?”

“It’s no-one else’s business.” He stood abruptly, knocking his chair over as he slammed out of the diner. She grabbed her bag to follow, but the waitress called, “That’ll be five dollars,” and when she ran outside he was a hundred yards away. She held her breath as he crossed the tracks just ahead of the engine.

In the interminable five minutes it took for the wagons to pass, he had vanished.

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This may be the last FF post I do for a week or two - Blogger have forced a new format on me which I loathe. For one thing I can't get rid of the underline in draft, though it isn't there in the preview, and although I've opted for black type it's blue in draft and a horrid pale green on the preview! So when the weather - and my temper - cools down a little I shall be fighting technology. Grrr!

BLUE - a story in a hundred words.

Foreword!

Memory's a funny thing.
I last saw this image in 2013, yet I recognised it instntly, and I also recalled the story I wrote seven years ago - I even remembered the title, so it was easy to find in my archives!
So here it is again, with only a couple of tweaks and no apology - I think it's worth another outing - what's your opinion?

Oh yes, and thanks to Jean L Hays for the photo and Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog.  https://rochellewisoff.com/
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BLUE

If I stand on a chair I can see people through the dolphin window. The postman’s face looks really funny all blue, like an alien. So does Daddy’s, but he turns pink indoors, which is so boring.
When Mummy came home from hospital last week I waved at her, but she didn’t wave back because she was holding our new baby. His face changed to pink in the house too, but I wished it would stay blue like my Smurfs.
Then yesterday Mummy screamed “He’s turning blue!” and the ambulance came.
Did I kill my baby brother with my wish?---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- For thos who don't know what they are, this is a Smurf. My children used to collect little plastic models of them, and there are several films.

MY MOTHER'S PAINTBOX - a story in 100 words

MY MOTHER’S PAINTBOX

Mum was never without a project – running up dresses on the Singer, knitting jumpers or darning socks in the evenings.

After we left home, she turned her talents to less mundane pursuits. I still have some exquisite lace she made for a petticoat, two of her wood carvings stand on my windowsill, and she loved painting watercolours.

She said she wouldn’t need her paints in the nursing home, and gave them away, but recently the activities have included painting and she yearned for ‘some decent paints’ – a hint of artistic snobbery resurfacing.

So I bought her another paint-box.

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Not fiction this week - the image reminded me of something so recent that I couldn't think of anythng else in the few minutes I had before rushing off the get my first haircut in six months! Thanks to Rochelle for the photo and for hosting Friday Fictioneers.  And now I must dash!    https://rochellewisoff.com/

PASS THE PARCEL - a story in 100 words

PASS THE PARCEL
When the social worker put Josie into my arms she was a silent, smelly little bundle – a two-year-old weighing less than our Christmas turkey. A life of being passed like a parcel between a drug-addict mother and a series of careless minders had almost killed her.
She slept in my bed that night and for months afterwards, gradually emerging from her shell, shrinking back when her feckless mother dropped in, but we fought off the woman’s attempts to reclaim her.
Now we’re about to hand her over to Martin – if he doesn’t treat her right he’ll have me to answer to.................................................................................................You don't have to be a birth mother to be fiercely protective, as I learned in my earlier life a a foster mother. Even some of my own children's friends became very dear to me.
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog   https://rochellewisoff.com/  and to Jean L Hays for the photograph.

KITCHEN SINK DRAMAS - 3 stories in 100 words each

KITCHEN SINK DRAMAS

This week's photograph prompted three stories, two of them also inspired by a friend's recent experience of the strain lockdown can put on relationships. I hope none of them are too close to home for any of my readers.
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KITCHEN SINK DRAMA 1
“I really don’t understand why you did it, after all these years.”“That’s just it – years of the same irritating little things are like Chinese water torture, drip-drip-dripping until you could scream. At breakfast, for example, leaving the lid off the marmalade, toast crumbs in the butter...”“I agree that’s annoying, but...”“Dirty socks on the floor, changing channels without asking...”“My Jim does that too, but even so...”“He promised to fix the tap months ago. I was making pastry with that drip getting louder and louder – it was just his bad luck I was holding the rolling pin.”................................................................................................ KITCHEN SINK DRAMA 2
Molly looked at Sadie in horror. “You’ll have to get married.”“What – and spend my life chained to the kitchen sink? No way!”“In my day nice girls saved themselves.”“We’re not in the Dark Ages now, Mum.”“Have you told him?”“Yes – he wants us to get married, but I turned him down. He did this on purpose because I want a career.” Sadie’s voice softened. “It’ll be okay, Mum – you’ll get your grandchild, just not the mother-of-the-bride hat.”Molly’s eyes strayed to the cupboard where she kept her knitting patterns and Sadie knew she was weakening.....................................................................................  KITCHEN SINK DRAMA 3
Belinda put his plate in front of Dennis – three bacon rashers exactly in line with two perfectly-browned sausages, crisp fried bread cut into meticulous triangles, the egg trimmed to a neat circle. She poured his tea and started the washing up – Dennis hated eating with used pans in sight.
His shout startled her, “This is dirty!” and a knife whizzed past her head to land in the bowl, cutting her hand. A bubble of rage burst in Belinda’s chest and, without conscious thought, she threw it back, watching with detached interest its slow-motion flight towards her husband.  ..........................................................................................................................
So there you have it, folks! My first impression of the photo was that it was of my own kitchen, but in fact it has more cupboards than mine, and any resemblance to my own home life is purely accidental. Thank you if you have read all three - feel free to state a preference - and apologies to Rochelle for breaking the 100 word rule - I don't do it often. :)

ON THE HUNT - a story in 100 words

ON THE HUNT
He sits slumped in the outpatients’ department like a fly-tipped sack in a side road. Drunk, or high on something, though it looks more low than high – a life out of control.Alone.I sit beside him, inhaling the sour, unwashed smell like perfume.A nurse asks, “You with him?” Hopeful.I shrug. “Sort of.” Non-committal.She shines a light in his eyes. “He’ll live.” Looks round the crowded Saturday night room and sighs. “Take him home.”I scrawl an illegible signature, heave him upright. “Come on, mate.”The nurse moves on, he's forgotten already.He’s mine now.  ..............................................................................................................Control was the word that sprang out of this otherwise unremarkable scene, though as it was Canada Day yesterday and my youngest lives over there with his Canadian wife and daughters, I was reminded of the wide Canadian roads and traffic signs waaaay up high - very strange to my English eyes. I guess they have to be that high up because the trucks are so enormous!Thanks to Na'ama Yehuda for the photograph and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog, from whence you can follow the frog link to read other stories.  https://rochellewisoff.com/

NUMBER ONE - a story in 100 words.

NUMBER ONE
Sean took over the business from his father when he was twenty, after working his way up from sweeping the floor, so when the pandemic forced a shut-down he was devastated. No money coming in and rent still going out – a disaster. As the rules slowly relaxed he bought masks and gloves, deep-cleaned the premises, posted a notice.
On The Big Day there was a long queue – his clients hadn’t deserted him after all. Unwilling to turn anyone away, he let them in four at a time, shampooed them quickly and sped along the line, giving every head a number one.............................................................................................................I have literally no idea what Todd Foltz'a photo is, but to me it looks like a line of bald heads. Once that idea was in my mind, the rest was easy - possibly fuelled by the fact that today I made a hair appointmentfor the first time in months.Thanks to Rochelle for hosting us on her blog, https://rochellewisoff.com/

WINDOWS - a story in 100 words

WINDOWS
     Looking out of this window I am twenty again, in my first flat, swallowing tears and trying not to admit I’m homesick to Dad, who is fixing my aerial. I might stay here all day.Yesterday’s window was open to Mediterranean air, the rattle of palm leaves in the breeze and click of cicadas.Tomorrow – who knows? As long as my memory still functions I can be anywhere I choose. Anywhere other than here.
I always imagined my last sight on this earth would be my children’s faces, not bare white walls, zigzag lines on a screen, and masked strangers........................................................................................................I'm still here, still fighting, still writing - though not as much as I should, but this pandemic seems to have frozen some of my brain! One bright note is that I am now in a bubble with my daughter and granddaughter, and was able yesterday to pick our five-year-old up from school, bring her home with me, and dig potatoes. Simple joys make life worth living.This week's photo prompt took me to a darker place, somewhere I hope not to experience personally, but I know people who have been there.Thanks to Rochelle for the photo and for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/