Tag Archives: Spain

Friday Fiction – The Memory Sense

UPDATE:

This morning, I posted my story with a mea culpa and an admission of guilt at both hubris and exceeding the word limit. Now, I think I should add a different crime to the list – posting too early.

I have said it before – if it’s too long, it’s either the wrong story or you aren’t trying hard enough. The original version of this story was probably the latter. Some redrafting in the shower has given me the version immediately below the picture. 100 words exactly. The original (99 words with an overlong title) follows for the sake of posterity and to remind me to try harder next time!

Photo credit is Bjorn Brudberg’s, FF HQ is here.

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Sense Memory

If smell is memory’s sense, music belongs to the heart. Sweet figs in bacon and a Spanish guitar onstage carry me a thousand miles and three decades back, to a ranch beneath the Pyrenees and the unrepentant sun.

To a girl among men, determined to prove herself. To Alvino – the Andalusian colt who spent days clamped between aching thighs, my fingers lost in his mane. To Romeo – so well-named – whose hair, too, swallowed my hands.

I’m back there, enjoying a hot siesta; and the bar, the musician, the figs, and my husband are miles away in a future still unimagined.

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ORIGINAL VERSION:

If smell is the memory sense, music is the sense of the heart.

Sweet figs and bacon from the kitchen and a Spanish guitar onstage carry me a thousand miles and three decades back, to the foothills of the Pyrenees.

My legs ache again from the saddle, my arms from the unrepentant sun. I remember Alvino – burying my fingers in his thick mane, his body strong between my thighs. And I remember Romeo. So well-named: born to woo. His hair, too, swallowed my hands.

I’m back there, at the end of a hot siesta; and the bar, the musician, the figs, and my husband are miles away in a future still unimagined.

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Friday Fiction – Plus Ultra

 

Well, after last week and Monday’s posts, the pressure’s on. And once again, mistress Muse is buried under a pile of excuses and a shortage of time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy today’s story, and I appreciate your honesty even if you don’t. The links in the story are completely optional, but might interest some readers.

Friday Fiction is brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and the first photo belongs to Dlovering. The second is my own.

 

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Plus Ultra

The snap of the flags overhead takes me back. To a college room behind suspicious walls, and a whispered meeting of ambitious minds; to days when an eagle flew over Spain and we sought to bring it down by force.

But age and frailty brought magnanimity to the eagle and quenched my rebellious fire. Now the red and yellow cloth that surrounds me clothes chanting monks, and the flags that flutter above take prayers to ancient Bon gods.

And I, once youthful and angry, have found peace outside a world of nations and fighting, further beyond and further beyond again.

Copyright Jennifer Pendergast

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