FF – Pillars

Friday Fiction again and this week a photo from veteran player, Sandra Crook. I think she must have been with us at least as long as me, right Sandra?

Your thoughts and critique of my writing are always welcome.

crook3Pillars

Edith took the news with a sigh.

“I know you don’t approve, Mum, but the marriage just isn’t working for us.”

“I remember when marriage didn’t work for you, you worked for it. Things got a little rickety, you propped them up. Added a pillar. Or you leant harder on the ones you had.”

“And when there’s no pillars left?”

Edith glanced over at her grandsons. “You’ve three great pillars right there.”

“I don’t love her any more.”

“Well. Love’s the weakest pillar of all. I haven’t been in love since the Great War. And certainly not with your father.”

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FF – Next Stop

Its Friday! And I’m catching up on Friday Fiction. This week’s photo is from Shaktiki Sharma. It was hard for me t make out the image on my little phone screen, so I went with the old “say what you see” motto and the story below was created. Your comments are welcome.

Whatever you’re celebrating at this time of year, even if it’s ‘just’ Friday, I hope it is happy and peaceful for you.

shaktiki-2

Next Stop

The view from the bus was uninspiring – leering neon as unappealing as the darkness. People loitered around the shadows, but she fought the urge to fear them. She was safer among these strangers than she had ever been with Mark.

She clutched Eloise’s weary hand in hers and strode across the street towards a flashing Vacancies sign. The room rates posted below it were hourly, with a discount for the whole night. It was no place for her, and certainly not for Eloise, but her shoulders lifted slightly as she stepped inside.

“Come on,” she whispered, “Our new adventure awaits!”

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FF – Patriots’ Diner

Me? Political commentary disguised as flash fiction? No no, just a harmless story about a girl at work. Your reactions are welcome. And thanks to Roger Bultot for the photo – I hope old Mr Roethorn is still going strong in real life.

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Patriots’ Diner

Finessing her English was the easy part. The skates took Chelsea months of practice and numerous spills, but the customers’ laughter was sympathetic, like they wanted her to succeed. They were mostly kids, like her, except white and local – spending instead of earning.

Then Mr Roethorn died and his son gave a speech about how he was going to make the Patriots’ Diner great again: “a diner for patriots”. The next day Chelsea’s name wasn’t on the schedule. When she confronted him, he said “Time to go home, girl,” and he didn’t mean the little apartment on Front Street.

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FF – Gloves

horses-in-snow

Rochelle’s own photo this week. And a rushed post from me. It’s nice to have time to write at all!

 

Gloves

“Where’s your gloves, now?” Sadie asked, exasperated.

“Dunno.” There was something in Evan’s voice that said he did.

“That’s four pairs gone!” Sadie yelled. “And it’s minus nine out there!”

Evan pulled his sleeves down over his hands.

“Fine. Let’s go or you’ll miss the bus,” she half pushed him out and down the drive.

On the way back to the house, she detoured into the field to check the trough hadn’t frozen. Beside it, she found a neat pile of mittens and a note in messy letters she knew so well.

“Put on you feet,” she read, “Itz cold.”

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We Don’t Have Holiday Parties…

*** Trigger Warning: This is tongue in cheek. Mostly. But if you comment with a platitude like “This too shall pass” or “Enjoy these times, they go by so fast”, I will find a trigger and pull it. Merry Christmas. ***

 

We don’t have holiday parties, here in the Motherhood…

…Because we’d have to bring the kids along, and that’s not the kind of party we’re talking about here.

… Because at any given time some proportion of us wouldn’t be able to drink because we were pregnant or had decided not to drink while nursing, or just didn’t want a hangover AND a child bursting our eardrums at 4am.

… Because another proportion of us wouldn’t be able to come or would be terribly late or have to leave early, because the baby needed nursing or we’d just given birth and couldn’t really walk

… Because part of the point of a holiday party is to get dressed up and we didn’t have time to shower this morning (yesterday’s was somewhat cursory too) let alone put on a nice dress, brush our hair or dig out the makeup that hadn’t been used as a marker by the preschooler

… Because getting dressed up means finding clothes that aren’t stained with bodily fluids and then keeping them in that state long enough to leave the house

… Because we saw at least part of every hour last night (and every other night since this ‘job’ began) and frankly our idea of a good time is now 150 minutes of unbroken sleep. Or a shower, (see above), or going to the washroom uninterrupted.

… Because do you have any idea how many presents there are to buy and wrap and label and distribute to friends and family members? Ain’t nobody else gonna do that if we’re partying, you know.

… Because then who’d move the ****ing elf?

 

We don’t have holiday parties here in the Motherhood, much like we don’t have holidays or salaries or sick days.

But yes, dear, you go ahead (to the second? third? of the month) and enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.

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FF … or not

Sebastian turns four tomorrow, so I’ve got cakes to bake and gifts to wrap … and slime to mix (Don’t ask!). My Mum’s visiting, which is fantastic, but of course I had an ambitious idea of all the stuff we can do with her help, like making a papier mache cave for one of his presents.

And then it’s the beginning of November, so obviously I’m recovering from a cold, have a chest infection and laryngitis. Everyone’s helping out, but I’m on an enforced rest programme.

So, I’m taking a pause from a few things, including the pleasures of Friday Fiction. See you again soon!

 

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FF – Story Seeking Title

Today’s post is another heavy one, and once again about motherhood. Maybe it says something about the mood I’m in at the moment (although this story is not specifically autobiographical), maybe it’s just the bleakness I got from Peter Abbey‘s fantastic photograph below. Either way, I couldn’t think of a title, so feel free to wade in on that, or the story itself.

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Lisa rocked backward and forward, like a silent pendulum of motherhood. Ethan whimpered occasionally, his tiny fingers rhythmically scraping the tender skin of her other breast. Pain, loneliness and darkness seemed each to magnify the others into an eternity of agony, emptiness and night.

She could faintly hear another world, where her husband and parents breathed and showered and laughed.

Tears moistened Ethan’s hair. She daren’t move, so they fell freely.

When he finally dropped sleeping from her breast, she stood and touched her wet face to his. “I love you,” she mouthed as she laid him into his crib.

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