Liz Young's Blog, page 3

THREE KINGS

 

THREE KINGS

“I’d like to meet this child born to be king of the Jews,”Caesar said, “You can tell me where to find him when you return.”

The wise men went on their way, following the star, foundthe child king and presented their gifts.

That night one said, “Caesar seemed overanxious to find thisking.”

“We should return another way,” said another.

“That road is a morass in the rainy season,” the third said, “butyou’re right – we mustn’t trust Caesar.”

When they didn’t return, Caesar killed every male baby in theregion, but Joseph had already taken his family home.

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A hundred words aren't enough to give this part of the story justice - how the Three Kings stopped at Caesar's palace overnight and told him about their journey. How Caesar didn't want any Jewish king stirring up trouble and, in the hope of killing Jesus, slew every male child under two years old. The Romans were unyielding masters in the lands they conquered. Thirty years later the priests denied Jesus was their king anyway, so all those babies died for nothing.

January 6th is Epiphany - known as Dia de los Reyes in Tenerife, where it was traditionally the day to exchange gifts. Now Christmas Day has become more universal, but in towns Los Tres Reyes - the Three Kings - ride through the streets on camels or horses, throwing sweets to the crowds.

Dale Rogerson took the photo which reminded me of those my daughter takes on her doggy walks in Northern Ireland - it rains a lot there too! 

ANY ROOF WILL DO

 ANY ROOFWILL DO                                

Joseph couldn’tfind a room anywhere in Bethlehem – the census had pushed prices sky-high.

Their wearydonkey saved the day, heading unerringly for the scent of straw in some stables,where Joseph spread his cloak and lifted Mary down. 

They were just in time, forher child was born soon after.

With the breathof cattle keeping them warm, they were nearly asleep when the shepherds foundthem.

“The angelsent us here,” they said, “but why is the King lying in a stable?”

“You wouldn’thave been allowed into a palace,” Mary replied. “Here everyone is welcome.”

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As I do every year I have tried to portray the birth of Christ in human terms. It is well-documented historic fact, but can you imagine what a journey that must have been for Mary, nine months pregnant, being dragged across country to the town of Joseph's birth, just to register in a census demanded by the governing Romans? They were fortunate to find a roof at all. But then - whisper it - the Gospels were written by men, who didn't consider such details worth recording!

This story comes with my good wishes for a happy Christmas and a peaceful 2024 - all over the world, as well as in the land of Jesus' birth.

 Thanks to Rowena for this week's photo prompt and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers so indefatiguably for umpteen years.

 

LA CUEVA

 

LA CUEVA de SAN PEDRO

Pedro de Betancourt, born in Villaflor, Tenerife in 1626, spent his adult years as a missionary in Guatemala, where he founded a hospital for the poor.

He died in 1667 aged 41. In 2002 he was canonized by the Pope - there was great rejoicing in Tenerife, where we were living at the time.

The cave where he sheltered as a young shepherd is now a shrine which people visit to ask Hermano Pedro's help or to give thanks, and to light a candle. The cracks in the cave walls are stuffed with handwritten prayers, including one of mine.

It is a peaceful spot, but not always, as it lies at the end of Tenerife's runway. When the wind dictates landings over the shrine, the sound of planes can batter you into the ground!

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This is one website where you can read more about Hermano Pedro's short life. https://elmedanoweb.com/en/hiking/her...  

Thanks to Susan Rouchard whose photograph conjured up this memory, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, even through Hanukkah.

HOUSEPROUD

 

HOUSEPROUD

Josie was awfully proud of her home

so everyone took off their shoes

at the door, though the smell of their socks

was a downside of her houseproud rules.

After one party her guests had all gone

and she tidied the hallway, to find

that a pair of red boots with white fur round the top

had mistakenly been left behind.

Then a jolly, fat man with a big, booming voice

appeared from the garden out back:

‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten to put on my boots

and I wonder – have you seen my sack?’

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Failing inspiration for a regular story, I dashed off a ten-minute seasonal poem this week, prompted by Ted Strutz's photo - if this is his hallway, he must have a large family!

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and Happy Hanukka to my friends, especially to those who celebrate it.

FIXING UP OLD CARS

 

FIXINGUP OLD CARS

Billie loved fixing up old cars, and Lauren tolerated hisexpensive hobby until he bought a tenth one. The entire street heard the ensuingrow. The next day he was gone.

“Good riddance,” Lauren said and celebrated by inviting allthe neighbours to a barbecue. The food was delicious.

Several barbecues later Bill still hadn’t returned, andLauren had converted the cars into garden features.

“How do you grow such gorgeous flowers?” her friends asked.

Lauren inhaled the scent from a fragrant bloom. “Bone meal –lots of bone meal.”

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*Evil cackle*

Thanks are due to Fleur Lind (such an appropriate name!)  for the photo that prompts this week's stories from Friday Fictioneers, which is led by our esteemed leader Rochelle on her blog https://rochellewisoff.com/ 

WALLS

 

WALLS

The walls were so ancient that even the graffiti wasprotected. Children ran heedlessly past them to school, housewives climbed thesteps carrying bags of groceries, men walked along with their attention on theirphones.

But Sarah noticed them. Sarah was old enough to have beenthat schoolchild, that housewife, long ago. Now she walked slowly, trailing herarthritic fingers over the old walls, feeling the weight of history, the griefof many thousands who had died for possession of these walls, her menfolk amongthem.

To Sarah each stone shrieked, ‘I am only stone – I am notworth those lives!’

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And still people are fighting over possession of places. Why cannot they live in peace, those who profess to love God? He is the same God, whatever we call Him, however we worship. Ask the mothers whether they think these wars deserve their children to be used as fodder.

Thanks are due to Rochelle for the photograph as well as for hosting Friday Fictioneers this week!

SOME HOLIDAY!

 

SOMEHOLIDAY!

Itlooked so tempting, reading the advert at breakfast with rain lashing thewindows. “And cheap,” said Dave, “We can’t afford more.”

Thereality was worse than Joanne had feared. Granted, the beach was golden sand,but it was covered in litter, the beds were alive with bugs, the food wasbland, and the dining area an uninviting outdoor space.

“Whatdid you expect?” Dave asked. “You said you needed a holiday.”

Joanneglared. “We’d have done better with day trips.”

Daveleft to vent his anger on the golf course.

Joannewent off on the back of a waiter’s motorbike.

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I was tempted to write about cages - I guess an uninspiring holiday might feel like a cage! 

Thanks to Roger Bultot for the image and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

Today is my mother's 99th birthday, which seems a vast age. I, my brother, sister and their respective spouses, took Mum out for lunch yesterday. Today I visited her in her care home, taking flowers and some cheese and crackers for her to share with her fellow residents as a lunchtime treat. The Home will provide a cake at teatime, so she's being well looked after, despite her protests that she 'doesn't want anyone to make a fuss'!! 

AFTER THE PANDEMIC

 

AFTER THE PANDEMIC

It was deadlier than a nuclear blast – anendless tsunami of viruses. Those few who didn’t die learned to hide, only venturing out at night to forage for food.

 Wild a

nimals invaded the towns with astonishing speed – pampered pets and abandoned children alike fell victim topredators or turned feral.

 

Within months the cities began to disappearbeneath foliage. Decorative trees cracked pavements in their search for water. Unchecked gardens and undergrowth reached though open windows to feed on unburied corpses. Mould consumed paper, fabricand, eventually, even plastic.

 

It was the end of civilisation – but not theend of the world.

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This could all too easily be the end of the human race. Certainly humanity, in the sense of caring for others, has disappeared already in many extremist groups. Religious differences, skin colour variations, and the prejudices we instill in our children, will seemingly never end. 

Thanks are due to David Stewart for the photograph and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

 

SOUL MUSIC

 

SOULMUSIC

‘I’ve got nomoney for such fripperies!’ Ma snapped, plonking a dented tin of beans on thecounter and demanding a discount.

Mr Harkergave Ma her change. ‘Enough there for a penny whistle,’ he said, but Ma marchedout, Micky trailing behind her.

Walking homealong the neighbour’s new fence, Ma found a discarded length of bamboo. ‘Hereyou are, love,’ she said, ‘a peashooter.’

But Mickyhad a better idea. With his pocketknife and one of Pa’s discarded corks he madehimself a pipe - finally the music in his soul found a way to soar.

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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting FF for the past eleven years - eleven!!  Also to Lisa Fox for the wintry image which prompts this week's raft of 100 word stories. To read the others, go to  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and click on the frog.

And I must dash - it's my morning at the chairty shop, which in half term is always busy, especially with children looking for bargains to make into Halloween costumes!

 

HOME LEARNING

 

HOMELEARNING

When raiders came they hid. The family was in peril from bothsides – blue didn’t marry green in the border lands.

No school would accept their blue-green children so Ma taughtthem their letters, and that God was God whatever one’s religion.

Pa’s lessons were more practical – tending the animals, sowingand harvesting, swimming in the carefully maintained ditches. They needed that skill now.

In the deepest ditch they floated silently amongst thereeds. When the torches came too close they sank beneath the surface, breathingthrough hollow reeds and praying that the God of Everyone would bring peace.

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I have never understood how anyone can believe that religion justifies war. It is, in my opinion, terrorism masquerading as religion, though there will be those who disagree with me. That's fine too - civilised discussion is the proper way to air, and to celebrate, differences.

Enough of politics. Rochelle's choice of another of my photos must have wafted across the Atlantic to me, as I've been AWOL from FF for a few weeks. I have been working on my next novel, the first draft of which, I am pleased to say, I have finally managed to complete. It's title is - probably - 'The Two Wives of Steven Blake'. Now 'all' I have to do is reread it, expand it, and edit, edit, edit!!

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The photograph is one of a group I took in a Glow Wild display three years ago, along with some of the last photos of my husband, so it holds poignantly happy memories.

Here is another one of us with our granddaughter.