FF – Seeing God

Melanie is far and away my favourite character to write, so when she popped into my head with today’s FF photo after a long absence, I had to find time to record her thoughts and share them with you. My story begins below the prompt picture and I welcome all feedback.  If you enjoy Melanie even half as much as I do, click on her tag below, which will take you to some of her other musings.

Today’s prompt is from our esteemed leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I’ve been watching a BBC documentary on Auschwitz recently and have been staggered, not for the first time, by the cheer incomprehensibility of what happened there, and elsewhere in Europe little under a century ago. Rochelle’s brand of historical fiction, set during another period of anti-semitic mass murder, is the kind of writing that I believe we need to turn shocking but incomprehensible statistics back into real emotions. I don’t think I’m the only person who finds it easier to feel for one person than for a million. Her novels are available on Amazon. I haven’t read them yet, but if they are anything like her short stories, they will make the reader do just that.

 

Seeing God

I see God sometimes. Not actually, because that’s only when you’re dead. And not like a burning bush or something… he doesn’t talk. And when I talk, it’s like he’s listening but he doesn’t answer, like Daddy watching the rugby and if I talk about something, he says “Yes, I’m listening,” but he doesn’t actually talk back about the thing.

Seeing God is like a big light in the sky, brighter than the sun. So bright you can’t see it, but it strokes things on the ground like fingers and you want to touch them, but they’re never quite there.

 

Friday fiction – Faith

This was posted from afar and in a hurry, taking advantage of the dubious wifi in the lobby of a Mexican beach resort on an evening where my husband put Sebastian to bed. Non-writers will probably wonder why I’d use me-time on the prompt; writers will hopefully understand!  The photo comes from Dawn Q Landau.

Faith

Perhaps you think I might just as well follow an invisible God or my morning horoscopes. Rusty’s paths veer between stubbornly predictable and desperately irrational with a flick of his tail or a twitch of his nose; we can be following an abandoned railway one minute, pushing through a hedgerow the next.

But I have followed men, I’ve followed their Gods and their traditions, their mores and their whims, and men have rewarded my trust with lies and fickle hearts. Now, though I sometimes walk in front, I follow a dog and he follows his nose, and our mutual faith is unshakeable.

Friday Fiction – Buddha is Patient

This week’s picture (from Dawn Q Landau) is both haunting and inspiring. Eventually it brought to mind the incredible journey of Tibetan pilgrims who walk hundreds of miles through mountains and bitter weather to reach Lhasa, kowtowing at each step. That is to say, they raise head and hands to the sky, then lie prostrate on the floor, then walk three short steps before doing it again. For hundreds of miles. It is an act of humility, of faith and of determination. And thousands from this tiny community do it every year. Most are young and unmarried, but not all.

If you want more stories, take a pilgrimage of your own to FF hostess, Rochelle’s page. Bowing is optional.

Buddha is Patient

“I leave at dawn. You need not wake.” She touched her son’s head as though he were a little boy; not a father himself.

“Journey will kill you,” he said, watching her gnarled fingers push a needle through the sheepskin lining of her apron and tie the final knot.

“Then I die in prostration.”

He shook his head silently. She would go anyway, and a rift now would serve neither.

“I die closer to enlightenment,” she added. “And if I do not reach Lhasa in this life, I get there in my next. Buddha is patient. I shall be too.”

Friday Fiction – Enlightenment

A quick post from me today as I’m short of battery and internet time. Today’s picture is from Dawn M Miller and as ever Rochelle leads our merry band of believers and non-believers. I would have liked to add another paragraph at the end of this story to wrap things up, but it was hard enough to get it down to 100 words as it was, so the rest will have to be up to your imagination. Again, I am unlikely to have much time to read and comment on others – if that offends you, feel free to skip mine. Otherwise, enjoy!

Enlightenment

Dad reeked of Catholic guilt like a sour cologne; Mum was Anglican and sometimes I felt only their agreement on the sixth Commandment kept them alive.

I veered wildly between the fires of Hell and the glories of Heaven: persuaded that while both could not be completely right, the truth lay where their dogmas converged. Then I met a man from the Unitarian Church.

“There are as many paths to Heaven as there are doorways in the world,” he told me. “Faith is the light that guides us, not the lantern that holds it, nor the hand that carries it.”

 

Friday Fiction – A Different Journey

It’s FF time and the photo from Claire Fuller which inspires us today is gorgeous. I’m a big fan of old churches and this one reminds me of the Norman church in the village where I grew up. I could happily stare at it all day.

But that wouldn’t get the story written! Head over to Rochelle’s masterpage if you’d like to see what other Fictioneers came up with. As always, your comments are welcome and constructive criticism is actively encouraged.

A Different Journey

Misty’s mother pulled the dress slowly over Misty’s head – careful not to disturb a single perfect curl. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at her little girl: all grown up and moving on.

In the distance, the church bell chimed noon. The car would be here soon. They’d always expected she’d be married there – a nice boy, a traditional ceremony, a sunny day. Rain slashed the windows today, but it seemed only right for sending her on a different journey.

“She’ll be happy with Him,” said Dad, his voice quiet and croaky. “Until we’re ready to join her.”

Friday Fiction – Ted

Another guest, so another quick post for FF. This week’s picture comes from Cabin Fever and you can see more responses to it at Rochelle’s homepage for the group.

Under my 100 word story is the longer version I wrote first. I sort of prefer it, but a word limit is a word limit! As ever, feedback is welcome and feel free to just read the short version if you prefer.

Ted

He came to the Palace every day, to marvel at the guards in their resplendent uniforms and to watch the ships coming in. He didn’t know what resplendent meant, but his Grandfather had used it, back in the days when the old man hobbled beside him, and the word was his only legacy.

The ships carried every sort of cargo, but the trawlers were Ted’s favourite. Piles of fish cast, stinking, onto the jetty.

It was beside a pile of fish that Ted waited every morning for his Father’s ship: last seen heading East in search of the golden albatross.

***

Swan Song

He came to the Palace every day, to marvel at the guards in their resplendent uniforms and to watch the ships coming in. He didn’t know what resplendent meant, but his Grandfather had used it, back in the days when the old man hobbled beside him, and the word was his only legacy.

The ships carried every sort of cargo, but the trawlers were Ted’s favourite. Piles of fish cast, stinking, onto the jetty. Sometimes one or two were still alive, flicking bright scales across the concrete in a swan song of beauty.

It was beside a pile of fish that Ted waited every morning for his Father’s ship: last seen heading East in search of the golden albatross.

And it was beside a pile of fish that the guards found the man they recognised as their daily visitor. Some had said he was a ghost even before that – even the oldest couldn’t remember a time before his visits began – but the old man’s body was real enough. None had seen him arrive that day, but many people had heard him singing, the same ancient sea shanty he sang every day, something to do with a golden bird.

 

 

Friday Fiction – Breaking the backs of angels

It’s Friday again! this week has rushed by, and I can’t believe it’s already time for 100 words in response to Madison‘s prompt, this week photographed by Lora Mitchell.

I looked at this picture briefly yesterday and a few ideas came to me then, but this morning, one phrase came to mind and I felt I had to use it. Just for the record, the views of characters in this piece are not necessarily my own and it is not intended to be incendiary.

Breaking the backs of angels

“I’m praying for you,” she said, locking her eyes onto mine so that there could be no mistaking her vigour.

I thanked her. I don’t believe, but if it makes her feel better, what’s the harm? My brother doesn’t agree.

“There she goes again, breaking the backs of angels. How can people be so credulous?”

“Religion’s been around for millennia, Jacob; it’s still more popular than atheism, even in this information age.”

“Doesn’t stop it being wrong. If I were God, I’d come down here and tell them all to take charge of their own lives, instead of bothering me.”

Friday Fiction – The Buzzard

A little late, and a little light on picture, this is my Friday Fiction post, albeit it’s now Saturday. Since I’m away from my usual computer and internet connection, I can’t post the picture, but I thought I’d leave the words here for now and be back in a few days to beautify the post. As ever, comments are welcome, especially concrit.

The Buzzard

From forty feet above, on his bare-branch garret, the buzzard surveys his tundra lands. His rodent people scamper from sparse cover to sparse cover under his imperial gaze. King and God. Their attempts at self-preservation are based on credulous practices: offerings on sacred rocks, tenuous prayers and habits – each according to the traditions of its breed.

But the buzzard pays no heed. He is guided by his own faith. He knows the best offerings to appease his personal gods – the hunger that growls inside and the noisome offspring without. At last, his attack deified by speed, he swoops.