Tag Archives: Love

FF – One of Everything

Photo copyright belongs to our leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, this week.

One of Everything

Jim’s One Of Everything store at the end of our street was always Mum’s favourite place. She’d drag us in there to find ‘something to brighten our lives’. Sunshine would’ve been better. And empty space. But Mum preferred the niknaks she found at what we preferred to call “Lots of Nothing”.

Eventually, Jim got round to asking her to move in, and she didn’t have to buy the stuff any more. The house got less cluttered after that. She started selling those niknaks instead of buying them, and the sunshine came back. To her face, and to all our lives.

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FF – House Move

Photo credit: Alicia Jamtaas

House Move

(A true story)

“Label all the boxes,” I said, for the hundredth time. “We need to be able to find things when we get there.”

I passed around Sharpies and glared at anyone who suggested they might get to it later.

Of course, a computer is only as good as its programmer and a label is only as good as its writer.

So I stand here, in front of a wall nearly high enough to keep Donald Trump happy, and every single box is labelled. I should find my boots no trouble.

Except a full 24 of the boxes are called “Basement: Misc”

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Stuck On You

Photo copyright: Trish Nankeville

Stuck On You

“It won’t come off!” Matty shakes his leg, increasingly annoyed at the bur stuck there.

“I know how that feels,” I say, laughing. “You used to cling to me that way.”

“I did NOT!”

“You always wanted to be carried, even when you were too big. I think you just wanted to sneak in those extra hugs.”

He’s too big for hugs now. Wouldn’t dream of embracing his mother in public.

“Well, how did you get me off?” He’s tugging at the seedpod again.

“I waited. And you grew up.”

“I’m not waiting until this thing turns into a tree!”

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The Haunted

The Haunted

I live with ghosts. Ghosts aren’t spooks. They’re memories that you’ve clung onto so long they start to cling back. Hands you held so tightly, you can still feel their touch when they’re gone. Voices that ring through empty rooms.  

Ghosts can be five years old with pokey toes jabbing you in the night as you sleep, and sixteen next morning, when a song comes on that she loved back then. Ghosts can disappear as you reach them, or hang around all day.

Ghosts can stay even while their souls go on living, having kids and grandkids of their own.

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FF – Building up

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields‘ own photo today.

Building Up

As we climbed, I sensed something was about to happen. We always said we wouldn’t get married, that love was enough. But that day it occurred to me that an ancient temple, high above the city, would be the perfect place for you to propose. When you touched your pocket, I wondered what sort of ring you’d hidden there. By the time we reached the top, my heart was pounding as much from the anticipation as from the climb.

Then you pulled out your phone and as you snapped selfies, my heart was tumbling 7000 steps back down to reality.

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The Brightest Light in the Darkest Night

Photo copyright Na’ama Yehuda

Trigger warnings: Early Parenthood, Loss

The Brightest Light in the Darkest Night

In the dream we’re falling. She’s a tiny bundle in my arms and we fall and fall until I don’t know whether I’m terrified or grateful that there’s no ground to hit.

Her cries pierce me awake and for a moment we’ve hit the ground but no, we’re in bed and she just wants a drink or a diaper, or maybe she was dreaming too. For that microsecond she’s all there is: even outside the dream there’s only her and me.

But then the world comes back, and there’s her, me, and the gaping hole where her mother should be.

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FF – Wisdom

The story that follows this picture is fictional – all except the garage, which is real.

Thanks to Claire Fuller for the picture. Image copyright is hers.

Wisdom

Advice was the one thing Dad always gave without hesitation. So I lapped it up in the place of love: never trusted a man with a skull tattoo, never bought vegetables after 6pm, got cars serviced at a dealership.

Then I bought my dream car: an 1967 MGB Roadster. My nearest dealership is Swansea and I’m not driving into Wales every time I need an oil change. Forums give the little garage rave reviews. The guy has a voice like an old MG engine: Soft and growly, sounds like trust.

Appointment’s tomorrow – something tells me he has a skull tattoo.

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FF – Reflections

Photo copyright: Roger Bultot

Reflections

Ever since a cruel boy had weaponised the concept to break her heart, Jodi had desperately tried not to turn into her mother. She’d discovered over the years that it was far from the worst thing that could happen – her mother had been kind, thoughtful and forgiving – and the heartbreak of losing her had been many magnitudes worse than being dumped by Andy Whitman.

Nevertheless, Jodi winced when she saw her mother in the mirror or caught herself using her voice. Which made it all the more confusing today, when the reflection before her wasn’t Mum. It was Grandma.

***AUTHOR’S NOTE***

Not a true story. 😉

There’s a song on the radio these days in which the James Barker Band claims “They ain’t making new old trucks”. It’s a fun song and an understandable sentiment, but of course it’s nonsense. New old trucks are being created in unprecedented numbers. And so are new old ladies, which was the point of this story.

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FF – Innocence

Copyright for this image belongs to Dale Rogerson

Trigger Warning: I haven’t written much misery recently. Maybe having kids makes it harder to write sad stories. But this one came to me and it needed to be shared. If I’ve done my job well, and especially if you’ve just been watching the UK’s Christmas adverts (McDonald’s in my case), it might bring tears to your eyes.

Innocence

Little kids just take things for granted, don’t they? When I was in Kindergarten, I didn’t know it was weird to go to school nextdoor to a graveyard. Or to watch your teacher sneak out and eat her lunch every day beside a small grey angel statue, come rain or shine.

We collected leaves between the headstones and took rubbings of their intricate carvings, but we never went near the angel. It was Ms Connor’s special place.

Going back now, I can read the inscription:

Jeffrey Connor

1975-2006

Beloved husband and father to

Mildred Connor

2000-2006

Fly, my angel, fly.

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FF – Lighthouses

Two weeks ago, Rochelle shared a picture from long-lost Fictioneer Doug, this week she doubles down and shares not only a photo but news of another member of the FF old guard, Ted. I don’t normally read past the picture, but today I scrolled on to look for the news. So glad to hear Ted’s nailing the stroke rehab – sending him all the best for ongoing progress. The news came with a request for Rochelle that no doubt inspired my story too. I hope you don’t mind me hopping on that bandwagon, Ted.

Photo copyright, Ted Strutz

Lighthouses

Joey seemed nice, thoughtful. Becca wanted to believe she’d chosen well this time. When the clocks changed, she started getting home in the dark. “I’ll leave the porch light on,” he said. “Like a lighthouse steering you into safe harbour.”

But Becca had a history with porch lights – Mom used to turn it on when Pop opened his second bottle. Not all lighthouses stand at the entrance to ports, some warn of dangers lurking just beneath the surface.

Outside, Becca swayed on a stormy sea of doubt, before heading for Joey’s lighthouse and praying it was the good kind.

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