Liz Young's Blog, page 29

VANITY, THY NAME IS WOMAN

VANITY, THY NAME IS WOMAN


Sadie can’t pass a mirror without stopping to gaze at her reflection.“You’re vain,” I tease her, but it’s more than vanity, it’s obsession.First thing you see when you walk into her house is a full-length image of yourself. They’re everywhere – plain mirrors, ornate, large and small. No pictures, just mirrors.
Anyhow, I hadn’t seen Sadie for a week so I called round and let myself in. No sign of her, but all those mirrors spooked me.As I opened the front door I spotted Sadie waving at me - from behind the hall mirror.I slammed the door and ran...............................................................................................My house is full of mirrors too - perhaps that's why I had to write a story despite being in the throes of moving house! The two men with a van arrive at 8.30 tomorrow morning to move our furniture 50 yards along the road, and we've spent the past few weeks renovating the new cottage. Well, not new, about 150 years old, but it's new to us! And the past few days have been spent shifting boxes of books, clothes and kitchen stuff, and all the cr*p we've accumulated in three years of living here. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers - please forgive me if I fail to comment on your blog - I am by no means certain the internet will move as quickly as we will!

MAYHEM - a story in ninety-five words.

MAYHEM
‘A beautiful soul’, they said, over and over, and her father agreed, forgetting the hours he had walked the streets searching, the money paid in bribes to save her from arrest, in fines when the bribes no longer worked, and the shame.
‘A dreadful loss’, they said, and her mother wept, regretting each bitter argument over stolen jewellery and housekeeping money, remembering only pudgy arms and baby kisses.
To carry her soul to heaven they launched floating candles, which set the forest alight – their daughter blazing a trail of mayhem even in death.--------------------------------------------------------------------A quick story this week again - the only piece of writing I've done in a flurry of painting walls, filling holes with Polyfilla, and a multitude of trips to the DIY shop. Yesterday I spent half an hour crouched beside the toilet. No, I had not over-indulged the night before - I was pushing filler into gaps behind pipes with my fingers because no tool would fit. The joys of moving house!Thanks to Carla Bicomong for the photograph which is this week's Friday Fictioneers' prompt, and to Rochelle for organising us, despite her own crammed schedule, on https://rochellewisoff.com/
If you are on holiday, have a lovely time, and remember to pack a book. I have two on offer - Helter-Skelter, an historical novel which you can buy by clicking on the cover image on this page, and A Volcanic Race, a fantasy, also available on Amazon.

GLAMOUR - a story in one hundred words

GLAMOUR
“Why did you even start, Nan?”“How could I not? Smoking was glamorous in the sixties.I remember people like Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart – a sultry film star waiting for the handsome leading man to flick his gold lighter.We used to practise with sweet cigarettes after school, and bought packs of five Woodbines to share behind the bike sheds.A slim case was a standard twenty-first birthday gift, filled with pastel-coloured cigarettes. You bought menthols to be ‘cool’, or Abdullahs to appear daring.Smoking was normal – everyone did it.Nobody ever said it could kill us.” ..........................................................................................I'm still in the throes of renovating the cottage we are due to move into at the end of the month, so this week's story for Friday Fictioneers is the best I could come up with over this morning's cuppa. Thanks to Yvette Prior for the photo ans to https://rochellewisoff.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers.To my fellow FF writers, please forgive me if yours is not one of the few I manage to comment on this month. 

GRASS - a story in a hundred words

GRASS
It was strange, the way Barry disappeared.“Buggered off with his floozy”, Pauline said, but it was the middle of summer and he was a fanatic gardener. I’d seen him out hunting slugs by torchlight, his compost heap was a fragrant delight, and he even had a machine to grind meat bones for his lawn, so him leaving just then was a mystery.Still, Pauline did her best to keep it nice. “For when he comes back,” she said.“That lawn is even better than he left it,” I told her, “What’s your secret?”She smiled. “Bonemeal – lots of bonemeal.”....................................................................................................This week's photo prompt is thanks to Ronda del Boccio and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog at  https://rochellewisoff.com/Again I have only just made it, thanks to Margaret buying me a glass of wine that relaxed me enough after a week of moving-related stress to be able to write! My sinister story-line owes just a little to my frame of mind this week. Mwah-ha-ha!If you're going on holiday, don't forget to pack a book. My latest novel, HELTER-SKELTER, would make a perfect beach read, and by clicking on the cover on this page you can get your copy from Amazon.