Liz Young's Blog, page 5

SIREN SONG

 

SIRENSONG

The soundsof the fair – the music, the rumble of generators – drew Aaron like a sirensong. Last year he had left it too late, arriving the next morning to find onlyflattened grass, and no clue to where they had gone.

Closing thedoor quietly behind him, he jumped in his car and sped to the fairground,parked beside a caravan, and joined the crowd, trying to guess who needed ahelper.

A hand onhis shoulder. ‘On your own, son?’

…..

The next dayhis mother found only flattened grass, and Aaron’s abandoned pedal car.

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Rochelle runs Friday Fictioneers with a steady hand from her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and this week she has chosen a photo by Lisa Fox with which to awaken our imaginations. Mine went in two directions - one was this story, the other a poem I wrote years ago about my son and his car. 

This poem is included in a little book called Stripey Cat and Other Poems which you can buy from Amazon.

                                                                            RACING                                                                                    

In my yellow racing car

Ican go so fast,

roundthe sofa, through the hallway,

no-onecan get past.

 

Hidden in the storage box

underneaththe seat,

I’vegot several passengers

andsomething nice to eat.

 

Down the garden path and take

thehairpin by the gate,

thenthe long curve round the pond

andon into the straight.

 M

akea pitstop for refreshments

bythe potting shed –

offagain, but Mummy’s calling –

mustbe time for bed.

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FIREWORKS

 

FIREWORKS

He travelledto Town each day on the 7.43 train, his nose buried in the newspaper,discouraging any attempts at conversation.

She onlywent out once a week, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, and scuttled homewith her shopping as if the outside world terrified her.

Their housewas silent except for the occasional muffled cry – probably the television,neighbours decided.

Then one daysome paramedics carried out a shrouded stretcher.

That night acacophony of fireworks and loud music roused the neighbourhood as she dancedhalf-naked around their garden, waving a bottle of champagne.

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I had a completely different story in mind, but this one demanded to come centre stage, so I gave in!

Thanks to Ted Strutz for the photo, and to Rochelle for running Friday Ficitoneers from her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  from where you can follow the frog link to other stories.

I was delighted to note that I sold three books last month! Not many, agreed, but better than none. You can get your own copy of my latest book by clicking on the cover image at the top of this page.

WAITING GAME

 

WAITINGGAME

‘You oughtto move, Mum,’ Evie said, ‘these steps are lethal.’

‘I’m used tothem,’ Marion replied, ‘and I’d miss all the wildlife in my garden.’

‘Surely you’dbe better off nearer the village?’

‘Your dad wouldnever be out of the pub – he spends enough time there as it is.’ Marion turnedaway abruptly and put the kettle on.

…..

A monthlater, when Terry, staggering home in the rain, slipped on the mossy steps andbroke his neck, Evie wondered at her mother’s dry-eyed calm.

Until,coming home for the funeral, she saw the ‘For Sale’ sign.

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Amanda Forestwood's lovely photo prompts this week's rash of flash fiction from Friday Fictioneers, hosted as ever by Rochelle on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/

I had falls on my mind, as my mother had a tumble last night - fortunately no harm was done, though it took a night in A&E and xrays to confirm that. At her age (98) and my own advancing years, we are both knackered today!

STEEP LEARNING CURVE

 

STEEPLEARNING CURVE

Boy meetsgirl, big family wedding, they move into their first home, livehappily ever after. That’s how it’s supposed to go, right?

First theyrun out of clean clothes.

‘You’re anengineer, you should know how washing machines work.’

They blowthe budget on take-aways.

‘I thoughtall girls could cook.’

She phoneshome: ‘How do you cook spaghetti?’

Then thebabies come. They’re too exhausted even to fight now, but they muddle throughtogether and somehow, despite the challenges, they are happy.

Especiallyknowing they have taught their kids to take care of themselves.

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One of the few things I learned from my mother-in-law was how to cook red cabbage. My own mother was not an inspired cook, so although I learned the basics from her, it was only when I had my own home that I began to enjoy cooking. My own children showed an interest early, and all four of them left home knowing how to cook, and were able to use a washing machine.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, even from abroad, and for using another of my photos. If anyone wants my MIL's recipe for red cabbage I'll be happy to pass it on!

THE PAINT JOB

 

THE PAINT JOB

Bonita hatedthe mural. As she told her daughter, ‘If the landlord has enough money to wasteon such frivolities he should paint inside my apartment.’

‘The leasesays that’s your responsibility,’ Juanita replied.

‘Where woulda poor widow find the money for paint?’ Bonita retorted.

Victor kissedhis grandmother. ‘I’ll get you the money, Abuela,’ he said, and ran down to jointhe tourists who were taking photos. ‘I’ll take your picture,’ he offered, ‘andfor five euros I’ll photoshop you into the mural. For ten you can be waving from a window!’

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I like a lad with entrpreneurial skills, don't you? Thanks to Dale for the photo prompt, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog   https://rochellewisoff.com/  Do visit her blog and follow the frog link to read other stories prompted by this week's image.

FLOATING DINNER

 

FLOATINGDINNER

‘It’s thelatest trend – we come to you for starters, go to Fiona’s for the main course, then toours for dessert. It’ll be fun!’

They agreeda timetable and a menu, booked baby-sitters andarranged taxis.

Georgina’s watercresssoup with white wine was a success and, although Fiona’s boeuf en croute wasoverdone, they washed it down with a good red, then to Mark’s for Pavlova and Proseccofollowed by coffee and brandies.

Afterwards,no-one was sure who suggested floating partners to end the evening, but theatmosphere at the school gates on Monday was decidedly awkward.

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We used to have floating meals years ago, with a meticulous timetable and enough couples for a party at the last house. I remember them being great fun, though our group of friends never took things quite this far!

Thanks to Brenda Cox for the photo prompt and, as always, to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  from where you can follow the froggy link to read other interpretations of the prompt.

COACH TOUR

  COACHTOUR

‘Imagine thiscourtyard filled with worshippers,’ Anne said ecstatically.

‘I shudder toimagine the mess – mopping these tiles must take hours,’ Isabel replied, ‘Andthey’ll have squatted in corners – I can’t see a toilet anywhere.’

As the guidedetailed the various gods that had been worshipped here, Barry edged closer tothe two ladies. He’d joined this ‘Cultural Tour for Mature Singles’ hoping tofind a replacement for Angela. Bachelorhood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

He wasn’tinterested in gods either, but Isabel could be precisely the domestic goddess he’dbeen searching for.

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With thanks to David Stewart for the lovely photograph prompt this week, and to Rochelle, who blogs at https://rochellewisoff.com/, for hosting Friday Fictioneers, which kicks off with a photo prompt on a Wednesday, but by Thursday most of the others have posted their stories, and if you leave writing your own till Friday hardly anyone reads it!

While I have your attention, have you read my latest book yet? This is one reader's review, for which I am grateful - reviews are a writer's reward for those months - or years - of struggle!

"This is a real page turner and a story of redemption. Liz Young understands life on the fringes of society and how people stay loyal to each other. It all ends well, which was a great relief."

Click on the cover image at the top of this page to buy your copy.

BEER FOR BREAKFAST

 

BEER FOR BREAKFAST

 

‘Beer for breakfast?’

‘I don’t like coffee,’ Andy said. ‘Anyway, it’s only the one.’

Penny put the milk away, noting the emptiness of the fridge.“On top of the six you guzzled last night.’

‘What are you – my mother?’

‘Your mother let you do whatever you liked – that’s half thetrouble.’

‘You leave my mother out of this!’

‘You brought her in.’

Andy slammed his glass down so hard that it cracked. ‘I’mgoing to work. I’ll be late home.’

Penny looked at baby Henry in his high chair and said calmly,‘Be as late as you like – we won’t be here.’

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At least Andy didn't promise to change - they rarely do, as one family member knows to her cost.

Thanks to Rochelle at  https://rochellewisoff.com/  for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to Lisa Fox for the photo that is this week's prompt.

I spent a while this morning clearing up the debris from yesterday's strong winds, which blew over a plant stand in my garden, leaving plants and compost everywhere. Fortunately my exochorda - otherwise known as String of Pearls - survived. It was a stick when I arrived here over four years ago, and when it resisted being dug up I gave it an ultimatum which it took to heart. Now it is the first shrub to brighten my garden as the spring bulbs begin to fade.

AND a belated Happy Easter to you all.

HOUND DOG

 

HOUND DOG

My neighbours moved in months ago

after years stuck in a flat.

She wanted to grow flowers

but daughter got a dog, and that

put paid to all her pretty plans,

because this dog dug holes

every day, and big enough

to have been made by moles.

So now their little front patch

with compost is prepared.

Twelve feet by ten, her cottage plot,

but at least it will be spared

the attentions of this creature

that thinks a grassy mound

is solely for its benefit –

a small brown digging hound.

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As you can see, the front gardens in our cottages are tiny. This one is not Annie's - her's is still a WIP. And I couldn't come up with a violin story, so you've got a bit of verse instead. A rushed bit of verse, too, as I have to visit Mum.

Thanks to Amanda Forestwood for the photo - her garden decor makes a nice change from gnomes - and to Rochelle at https://rochellewisoff.com/  for hosting Friday Fictioneers for so many years.

 

JOKER

 

JOKER

Jack turned up drunk once too often and lost his croupier job, but his ‘Find the Joker’ three-card scam earned enough cash to keep him in vodka.

Tourists drunk on cheap beer and sunshine were easy prey, but trying it on the drug boss from another district was one trick too far.

They found him slumped against the wall of an alley, broken bottle clutched in his hand, blood crusting over in the morning sun, and a Joker pinned to his chest by a six-inch blade.

The headlines wrote themselves –‘ The Joke’s On Him’.

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Such excitement this morning to find that Rochelle has used my photo for the prompt - until I saw the name isn't mine. Someone else got the credit :( Moving Mum to a Care Home entailed clearing a lot of stuff she'd not seen for decades, which included this collection of Jokers, amassed over her 98 years of life. I guess they might be worth something but I've no idea where to start looking, so they sit in a drawer in my house, waiting for my kids to throw out when I've gone.

In case you're wondering what 98 looks like, here's a photo taken at Christmas of Mum, my daughter & granddaughter, and me.