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Writing Contest #20 - Entries
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Fishing in the river of timeTom’s father, the man in the photograph, the man he does not remember, wears the flat cap that now resides in the sideboard-coffin. He’s sitting on a basket of woven willow, fishing from the bank of a river. Translucent mist skims the water, capturing a pale sunrise that filters through skeletal trees on the opposite bank. On a submerged log stands a heron. Fast currents catch the log and swirl flicks of light that glimmer against tongues of black water. It looks cold, but will surely warm as the morning advances. Around eleven he’ll have a sandwich, maybe a beer.
A few years later Tom would have gone on those fishing trips. They’d have shared sandwiches and discussed the best place to cast bait. The man would have had beer; pop for Tom. They’d have laughed over the heron catching more fish than they had, and while they packed away their rods and tossed unused maggots to the water, they’d have talked about next time and promised to do better.
Taking the cap and old wooden reel from the sideboard, Tom places them in the basket with the camera, and goes to wake his son for his first fishing trip.
Old Photographsback of the wardrobe shoeboxes photos old curled creased black white faded sepia who where when why what dated Sunday clothes formal standing seated uniforms proud shy awkward Brylcream unknown unsettling familiar loved lost tears weddings hats dresses suits flowers bride groom best man bridesmaids mothers fathers granddads grans uncles aunts nephews nieces brother sister friend colour babies boys girls pram ‘weren’t you sweet’ houses gardens dogs cats holidays smiling joy laughter jokes sea seaside beach sand rocks waves gulls swimsuits revealing seductive ‘I’ve always loved your legs’ another wedding son daughter buckets spades sandcastles crabs donkey ice cream sandwiches drinks deckchairs asleep mouth open sunburned ‘is that really you’ sails boats fish fishing caravan camping tent games bikes motorbike cars hotels ‘look at your hair’ ‘look at your trousers’ trees park pond ducks playground swings roundabout fair fairground rides candyfloss summer autumn wind rain leaves colours winter snow snowball snowman carrot nose stone eyes hat scarves gloves wellies sled ‘surely that can’t be me’ Christmas decorations cards tree presents opening games toys jumper doesn’t fit paper hats crackers turkey birthdays parties smiles graduation proud parents nostalgia sighs back into boxes into wardrobe ‘must put them into albums’ one day
Bittersweet MemoryMy daughter exists only here now, trapped in this yellowing photo, her features scarred with fold marks caused by her long imprisonment in my wallet.
The memory of her face hovers at the back of my mind; a vibrant sweetness that I can't ever touch again. This likeness is but a pale reflection of all she was.
I hate it for not capturing her essence, but it's all I have now. I cling to it like a lover that I've lost interest in, but daren't give up
Will I still carry this imitation in my pocket and my heart when it stops conjuring her in my mind? Will I ever forget the perfection of her smile? Will the trust in her eyes fade to a shadow of a dream?
I can't imagine ever casting it aside, even though it just taunts me with my ultimate failure. It will be my personal millstone forever.
I fold the photo back into its tiny, safe square again, hold it to my lips. My fingers grip it tight, pinching like I'm trying to stem blood from a wound.
I wish I'd held on to her small hand this tight in that crowd all those years ago.
UntitledWe embarked upon the sad and dusty task of clearing out our parents’ house after Mother died. Father had pre-deceased her by several years and stuff he had stuck in the attic simply stayed there because Mum wasn’t physically able to get at them. We found a huge box of photographs and transparencies. Remember slides? They were going to be the new thing. Nobody would bother with getting photographs printed any more. Now, apart from holding them up to the light, there was no way to see them. Their slide projector had broken and gone to the tip years ago. It had stuck on its last slide!
We dusted off the box and looked at the people, so much younger than us but because of the fashions and hair styles, looking so much older. Almost all the pictures were in black and white too. There were sheafs of photos of people we didn’t know. We might as well bin those then. The lesson is to write on the back!
It made us realise that our own photographs are all digital. If computers go the way of slide projectors, someone will be binning ours before too long.
Memories…The woman walked slowly across the sun-baked lawn, felt a light breeze wash over her, mingled with the scent of flowers on the air. The man in the chair watched her approach, the wood creaking as he shifted position. She reached into a pocket and pulled out some tissues, dabbing away the drool from her husband's lips, the other hand stroking his chair.
'Do you remember how happy we were?' asked the woman, pointing at the photos that lay on his lap. The man stared at her blankly.
'The look on your face when I pulled the chicken out of the oven and it collapsed into a heap…'
She let the words hang in the air, as she looked around at a group of nurses pushing patients around in wheelchairs.
'You'll remember someday, my love,' said the woman, stroking her husband's hair…
The Charity shop"We missed you at lunch," and old woman called out as Jane entered the charity shop.
“Sorry Bea work thing. This a new batch?" Jane pointed to a pile of boxes and bin bags at the back of the shop.
“Yes on you go” Bea replied
Jane went over and started to pulled out items including an old satchel that caught her eye, the tan leather had nearly worn off the straps, the buckles were tarnished and stiff. On the back “Pete” could be seen in old faded ink. Jane felt something inside it.
It took a while but Jane opened the stiff buckles. Inside were old photographs of the boys birthdays, of him playing around on a farm with a loving family and then with a family of his own.
One was worn and had a fold mark. The boy and a girl looking sad in duffel coats and satchels, with little labels round their neck on string.
“Must be from the War” Bea said “Kids like me, shipped out to the countryside”
Jane turned the old picture over. In faded pencil it read:
“Peter Bethnell and Beatrice Thatcher 19th February 1940”
“oh!” Bea started to cry “That's me”
A good selection. Can't decide which to go for, at all.
David wrote: "A good selection. Can't decide which to go for, at all."Cough...send me a PM...cough...I've got gold and spices to give away in return for a vote...cough
Terrible thing a sore throat :)
I love how even the happy stories are still dreamily melancholic. It is going to be difficult to choose just one.
I will put the poll up in the morning. I have a bit too much port in me at the moment hic
Simon (Highwayman) wrote: "I will put the poll up in the morning. I have a bit too much port in me at the moment hic"I never knew you were a naval man :) another terrible joke, but I'm still bitter about you getting into Edinburgh castle cheaper than me! :)
Great entries by the way. Every single one made me think.
Must remember to look on here tomorrow.
Bittersweet Memories is a worthy winner, well done, whoever wrote it. It was the one I voted for. :D
Aaaaw extra Christmas's happiness! Glad you liked it :~D xx
congrats on the win.on a side note. I did my best ever this time with 3 votes ;-)
Congratulations Victoria. Now get your thinking cap on for the next theme.Well done, Bill; onwards and upwards. My worst, with one vote!
And I scored a fat zero! Onward and upward! :)
Ignite wrote: "And I scored a fat zero! Onward and upward! :)"At least take comfort in the fact that you cushioned my fall ;~)
Have got a vague idea for a theme, what do I do with it, message to Jud?
Victoria wrote: "Have got a vague idea for a theme, what do I do with it, message to Jud?"Yes. You normally have a week. Or is it two?
Thank you, glad I entered (nearly didn't) :~)
Jud (Disney Diva) wrote: "Bittersweet MemoryMy daughter exists only here now, trapped in this yellowing photo, her features scarred with fold marks caused by her long imprisonment in my wallet.
The memory of her face ..."
beautiful. So glad I read it
Congratulations Victoria, lovely story!
Victoria wrote: "Thank you, glad I entered (nearly didn't) :~)"Rubbing salt in the wounds of those who didn't win! :)
Hi all,As I failed so terribly when I first entered...lol...I thought to save myself future embarrassment I'd go away and get some experience and come back when I was ready, and try again. I think I might do a bit better this time-well hopefully! Does a new conversation start with the theme for January's writing comp then? Thanks.
Holly wrote: "Hi all,As I failed so terribly when I first entered...lol...I thought to save myself future embarrassment I'd go away and get some experience and come back when I was ready, and try again. I thin..."
In reply to myself I've just noticed that yes a new conversation is started with the theme!
Old photographs. They give me the creeps, they really do. My grandma had hundreds of them, some in a big leather bound volume with the photos printed onto card and the photographer's name and town copperplated along the bottom, several less fancy albums for the Special Pictures, and handfuls of others squirrelled away in old biscuit tins.
Grandma derived both comfort and pleasure from looking through them, resting her powdery finger gently on old friends. She made me sit with her as she told me the tales that came to her as she saw them. When she first showed me them I was little enough to sit on her knee, and that was fine, because at first I didn't hear the whispering.
But every visit I grew a bit, and the whispering got louder...
Eventually I couldn't look at them any more. I would sit beside Grandma on the couch, companionably, but with my eyes closed. When I looked at those faces, all I could see behind those old eyes, all I could hear, was the voices crying “let us out, oh let us out!”
I have no photos in my house, and no-one is allowed to take my picture.