Tag Archives: Alcoholism

Friday Fiction – An Eulogy

Another piece for the Friday Fictioneers – thanks to Rochelle’s leadership and Ted‘s prompt.

When I saw this week’s prompt, I came up with a character, and this week’s piece is arguably more character sketch than story, but either way I like it. It raises the useful reminder that we should endeavour to create unique characters with rich and unusual histories. Which is why, when I made a typo half way through, I used it as a jumping off point instead of correcting it, and ultimately it became the title. I’d love to hear what you think – of the story as a whole, and that part in particular.

No edits this week, they weren’t very interesting.

icon-grill-ted-strutzAn Eulogy

Back when her paintings sold for thousands, someone had offered a million dollars for her “installation piece” and she’d said no. Sure, she could’ve replaced every bottle for that and kept the change, but it had taken her a long time and a lot of heartache to build her collection – a rough approximation of her Dad’s consumption. An eulogy, she called it. With the ‘n’: the punchline of a joke she never shared.

These days, no one wanted Mary or her paintings, and the bottles were gradually turning from full to empty. Her final tribute to her late, beloved father.


Filed under Friday Fiction, Writing

Friday Fiction – Grapes

Another slightly rushed and cobbled together post, but I really hope you enjoy this one. It wasn’t what I expected to write when I sat at m computer this morning, but when I saw Madison’s photo it was exactly what came to mind. Do check out the links on her page for more stories, and do let me have any feedback (positive or negative) on today’s story below.

To see Madison’s site with the prompt and other stories, click here

The Bitter Sweetness of Grapes

The first time, he was six years old, lying under the vines with purple stains and an ugly smile mingling on his lips – delirious with the heady pleasure of excess, unable to form coherent sentences and desperately, repeatedly, declaring his love. At six, you can pick them up and put them to bed to sleep it off. Next morning he awoke with a pounding head and a guilty promise never to do it again.

At forty-six, there’s a lot less you can do. The demon grape still puppets him, its effects all-too similar and its grip stronger than ever.


Filed under Friday Fiction, Writing