Liz Young's Blog, page 8

A PATH MUCH TRAVELLED

 

A PATH MUCH TRAVELLED

Jose and Juanita went up the hill, via the chalk path which had been worn deep by generations of courting couples in search of a warm, secluded hollow.

 

Juanita’s mother watched them, her arms stilled in soap-suds. Twenty years ago she’d climbed that same path with her boyfriend, and consequently her dreams of escaping her home town had been shattered. She returned to her chores, praying that Juanita would be more careful.

 

Jose’s father, on his boat in the bay, smiled at remembered passion before returning to his nets, hoping the boy would remember to use a condom.

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There are precipitous paths in many places, and this reminded me of one I saw in La Gomera - one of the Canary Islands. That path was a farmer's only access to the road and thence to market, and consisted entirely of steps. It gave me vertigo just looking down from the road!

Thanks to Sandra Crook for the photo, and to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  PS Happy Anniversary, Rochelle and Jan W-F.

LIVING IN THE SHADOWS

 LIVING IN THE SHADOWS              

Last week I picked up a form from the local primary school to fill in re a DBS check. They occasionally need people to hear the little ones read or to help with sewing projects.
Three official documents are required, so I took in my Birth certificte, driving licence, and passport. To my astonishment they would not accept my Australian birth certificate. The woman asked if I had a current bank statement or utility bill - no, I do it all online, and a printout isnt good enough. Or a Benefits form? I don't claim any benefits. Or a Marriage Certificate? Yes, I have one of those, so even though Don is dead, the fact that I married him 30 years ago is more acceptable than my Australian birth certificate. Discrimination or what!!

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A true story - I am still incensed, as you can tell!  Thanks to Dale Rogerson for her moody photo and to Rochelle for choosing it on such an apposite day for me.

CITROEN

 

CITROEN

“Those cursed thieves have done it again!” Georges threw his now useless car keys on the table. “I’ll have to get a cab.”

“You can borrow mine, if you like,” Francine offered.

“I’m not driving that green monstrosity.”

“Suit yourself. Shall I give you a lift?”

“Suppose you’ll have to – I’ll never get a cab at this hour.”

“I’ll get my keys.”

“Drop me a block from the office – I’ll walk from there.”

Francine put her hands on her hips and glared. “You’ll walk from here. It will give you time to consider the wisdom of buying flashy cars.”

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There's a lot to be said for not owning anything too flashy. I've never had a car that was likely to be on a thief's wish list.

Thanks to Brenda Cox for the photo prompt, and to Rochelle for her continued hosting of Friday Fictioneers.

 

HIDING

 

HIDING

We’ve always loved camping. When the kids were small we camped out most weekends. We knew every corner of the country, all the off-grid places.

Later, without the kids, we tried a few foreign holidays, but we preferred our independence, so we bought this caravan. Other campers, with their bungalows on wheels, laughed at our tiny trailer, but we liked being able to fit into small spaces.

Then the invasion happened. We packed our little caravan with food and hid in the forest, using branches as camouflage.

Soldiers destroyed our village and killed our neighbours, but they never found us.

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The moment I saw Bill Reynolds' photograph I fell in love. What a wonderful little trailer, just right for one! If only I was younger. *sad face*

Thanks as ever to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers - if you fancy reading other short stories, or writing one of your own, she hangs out at https://rochellewisoff.com/

MINOTAUR

MINOTAUR 

A nubile virgin every spring or he’d destroy the kingdom – that was the bargain the Minotaur had made with the King. Parents prayed that the gods would send them sons and wept when their prayers went unheard. Mothers bound their daughters’ breasts, or married them off before puberty. Anka’s parents tried a different ploy, treating her as a boy from the moment of her birth. Her father even taught her to fight until her swordsmanship out-stripped his.

At the winter festival the year Anka turned fourteen, the King’s men quartered the crowds like pickpockets, noting which girls had reached maturity. No-one slept easily until the choice was announced and, acting on a whisper from a jealous neighbour, they picked Anka.

Guards pushed her into the Minotaur’s maze and retreated, leaving her with only the rats for company, but around the first corner, her father met her. Passing her a sword, he whispered, “I cannot stay – I must be seen weeping with your mother – but remember what I taught you – you can do this.”

Trembling but determined, Anka followed the roar of the hungry beast to its source. She faced a bull’s head armed with fearsome horns, but the body was that of a man – dangerous or not, she could kill a man.

The creature was not expecting a fight. It was all noise and bluster, and had spent a whole year lying on its bed of virgins’ bones. Anka, young and agile, danced around the lumbering beast, darting in to slash its Achilles tendons and, when it fell, to plunge her sword deep into its black heart.

When the beast fell silent the chanting of the priests rose to a crescendo, but over it all Anka heard her mother screaming her name. Like a bee to the hive, she followed that thread of love out of the maze to freedom.

 

INSURANCE

 

INSURANCE

After the pandemic Harry tried to pay his insurance, but self-certification was no longer good enough – they sent an inspector round.

He tutted. Several times. “Electric wires trailing, heaps of rubbish just poised to fall. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

Harry, seething at the word ‘rubbish’, started to sort it out that night, beginning with the piles of books. Trouble was, he couldn’t resist turning on the nearest light to read one.

A threadbare wire glowed, a cushion’s tassel ignited, and the whole place went up with a whoosh.

“At least he died doing what he loved,” they said.

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Places like these are beloved of antique hunters - and the numerous TV programmes centred on the subject. I love them too, though I'm always afraid of toppling the delicately balanced structures!

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and for the photo that is this week's prompt.

FLOOD

 

FLOOD

The rain fell for days, then weeks. Parents were at their wits’ end trying to keep their children amused, so when the sun pushed a few faint rays through the clouds they shooed them outside. ‘Go and play – come home at teatime.’

Shrieking with delight, the entire village of children headed for the playground, leaving their mothers to clean their homes, to gossip over cups of tea, to take a few minutes’ rest.

The roar came too late to warn them as tons of water raced downhill and swept through the playground, leaving only twisted metal behind.

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There are families grieving now at the loss of a whole school full of children - an unimaginable pain. Thanks to Roger Bultot's photograph and Rochelle's blog, a few of us can express our horror by telling allegorical stories.

AFTER THE STORM

 

AFTER THE STORM

Once the storm had passed, Lewis surveyed the wreckage. The whole thing lay in ruins, irretrievably broken.

He picked up a chair, remembering how the two of them used to sit happily watching the sunset, a bottle between them.

That was the cause of tonight’s trouble – after they’d finished one bottle he’d asked her for another, and she’d accused him of treating her like a waitress. She shouldn’t have spoken to him so disrespectfully.

He fetched the bottle for himself and sat down to drink, watching the calm waters of the bay, which gave no clue to what lay beneath them.

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Despite keeping track of Rochelle on Facebook, I have neglected FF, but now I am back again. During this hiatus my writing has shrunk to tweet-size stories and poetry. My Twitter tag is @young_liz if you'd like to read any of them. I have also published a small book of poems dedicated to my husband, who died unexpectedly last year.

You never gave me diamonds: Amazon.co.uk: Young, Liz: 9798846862364: Books

CROFTING

 

CROFTING

Crofting wasn’t the dream life they’d envisaged. The stony ground broke tools and backs, the sheep vanished into the hills, and they couldn’t even give the fleeces away.

That first winter they hardly spoke, neither wanting to be the first to admit their mistake, then Morag found the spinning wheel.

Fergus washed the fleeces, Morag spun, and in the long evenings they knitted by the fire. Scarves and hats, bedecked with hopeful pom-poms, sold enough at the Christmas market to restock the freezer, and there was just enough money left for a bottle to celebrate their first year as crofters.

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My mother had a spinning wheel for many years - she still has a cardigan of very fine wool which she spun, dyed and knitted herself. Her hands, sadly, are too arthritic now, and her eyesight too bad, to do any of the many crafts she once enjoyed, but she's content. I've spent the past few weeks sourcing a new care home for her, as the one she's lived in for three years is closing. She's settling down in her new place, though it's bigger than she's used to, and at 97 her memory isn't great so she gets lost, but as she says to me, "I'm perfectly capable of asking for help, dear." And she is!  

LIVING OFF GRID The eviction notice landed like a bomb, ...

 

LIVING OFF GRID

The eviction notice landed like a bomb, demolishing Darren’s comfortable life of work, eat, sleep, repeat. After a fruitless search for alternative accommodation he was despairing, until another letter arrived – his name had reached the top of the allotment waiting list.

Darren built a shed – more substantial than most but still ramshackle enough to pass casual inspection. He bought a camping stove, a folding bed, redirected his mail to the nearby convenience store, and upgraded his gym membership to include access to hot showers.

Two years later he’d saved enough for the down payment on his own home.

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Not every homeless person is as fortunate, nor as resourceful, as Darren, and I doubt that living on an allotment is allowed, but this is fiction, right? Darren's shed is not too far removed from what my daughter and her husband lived in for two years while renovating a derelict cottage in Northern Ireland, although their shed enclosed a caravan which acted as their bedroom.

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I have been AWOL from FF for a few weeks, dealing with family stuff, and involving myself a little in welcoming Ukranian refugess to our village, but Brenda's photo inspired me to rejoin the ranks. Next week I'll be busy organising a Jubilee tea party for the row of cottages where I live. For those of you who are not Brits, we are celebrating a unique occasion - our Queen Elizabeth the Second has been on the throne for seventy years. Never before has a monarch reigned for so long, so a Platinum Jubilee is an historical first - and probably will never be repeated.