Alastair’s Photo Fiction – Orphaned

Once again, thanks to Freya for pointing out this writing meme.

Alastair is both a writer and a photographer. The idea of Alastair’s Photo Fiction is that a photo that he has taken is used as a prompt for flash fiction – a short story – or poem of around 150 words.

The waves were licking Ailsa’s toes. She took another step into the water, then another. The sea was grey and rough, the beach empty. She was shivering, despite the navy pullover she had kept on. She bit fiercely on the hair she had been chewing all along and froze when she realised her shorts were wet.

She rubbed her nose, the sand only making the tears and snivelling worse. All she could hear were the waves and her sobs coming and going in unison.

Ever since Mum had come back with the silly baby boy, nothing was the same. Where was the fun she had been promised? It was all about him, him. She might as well be swallowed by the sea, nobody would ever notice.

Then Ailsa heard her before she felt whisked off her feet in a swift embrace of Chanel, silk and red hair.

She was a daughter again.

Friday Fictioneers – Stockholms Slot

This is my latest entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Just follow the rules: Using the photo below as a prompt, write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)

Comments are of course welcome!

copyright – Managua Gunn

“Who’s this granddad?”

Nils climbs on my lap, puts a peck on my unshaven cheek and makes himself comfortable. He points at the photo behind me, half-hidden behind a stack of books, newspapers and bills.

Nils is my daughter’s first son, the latest addition to the family. I love them all but this little blond guy reminds me of the three year old I once was. They have come for the week.

I look wistfully at the old shot. A young person in full uniform, proudly guarding the Royal Palace in Stockholm, staring ahead. Long before the accident that stole my legs, and his grandma.

Friday Fictioneers – Ouch!

This is my fourth entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Just follow the rules: Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracised for going over or under the word count.)

Comments are welcome!

“Whatever went into you Gordon Fraser? And, please, tuck your shirt back into your trousers and straighten your tie!”

“Yes, Sir! I don’t know, Sir. I am terribly sorry.”

“You do realise that you don’t punch a teacher in the face, ever! You are one of our star pupils. Never a problem since you have been with us. One more year and Oxbridge was within reach. And music is your favourite subject. I just don’t get it.”

“I know, Sir. But Mr Austin found it funny to turn up dressed in kilt. You don’t mess with a Scot, Sir, ever.”

Friday Fictioneers – Interrogation

This is my third entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and pointed out to me by Freya. Just follow the rules: Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)

Comments are of course welcome!

I had found it under a tree in a city park – a brand new stuffed mixture of savannah animals. It would make such a lovely present for my nephew’s birthday. For once I would not be the impoverished aunt, the jobless failure who never turned up for family events.

It did not occur to me to look around so I did not see the young Filipino helper and her charge. I just picked up the forlorn toy and walked home, beaming.

And here I am now, at the police station, having to explain why I stole the Prime Minister’s son’s cuddly toy.

Friday Fictioneers – Old Shot

This is my second entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and pointed out to me by Freya. Just follow the rules: Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.) Comments are welcome!

I saw that red dress as I was cycling to work, hanging on a balcony, idly floating against a backdrop of red stones. It haunted me all day. I knew I had seen it before.

Once at home I checked several boxes of unclassified photos and there it was, staring at me from decades ago. The polaroid shot had been taken at my parents’ wedding. I had to phone mum.

– Yes, darling! Lisa was my bridesmaid. Rumour has it she has not been quite herself since then. You see, after the party, her boyfriend announced he had met someone else and flew to Rome the next day. Tragic really!

Friday Fictioneers – Memories

This is my first entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and pointed out to me by Freya. Just follow the rules: Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.) Comments are welcome!

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

There I am in front of the phone box. I bite my nails and shuffle my feet. I keep checking the time. I am too early. I know this but I check anyway.

I pull the letter out of my pocket again and read it for the hundredth time:

Be at the phone box in Kennedy Street at 3 pm, the one with the funny sticker. By then I’ll have told my mum and we can finally move in together. I’ll ring you and you can come and pick me up.
Love S

This was 39 years ago. I have just passed the spot where this phone used to be after reciting kaddish for you for the first time. The first of a long series. You’ll never phone me again.