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Thank you for the prompt photo below Ted Strutz.
We holidayed, near Dijon; in Burgundy. In a Farmhouse with orchards a rambling landscape and numerous trees. After visiting Les Halles for picnic food and Burgundy. We strolled around the grounds; warming our souls in the suns rays. Idyllic and perfect. We came upon a car as if years earlier someone climbed out; never to return. An inspection revealed several old cars, one with a family of Door-mice living in the glove box. On our return, John asked.”Projects are they?” Waving behind himself. With a derisive snort, Pierre answered in a clear authoritative voice. “Projects sir * … Projects abandoned.”
We holiday in beautiful sleepy slow places to chill and capture the moments we sometimes neglect. It refreshes the bond and reminds us how without thought or consideration we too could so easily become project abandoned. Thank you for reading do you think we all should consciously work at connecting with our relationships? Or is it snowflake mentality you’re married so get on with it? let me know in the comments I simply love to chat.
Rochelle’s newest prompt is live #FridayFictioneers have on loan the picture below, many thanks to Yvette Prior who owns the copyright. Click HERE to read more or join in the fun.
Charlotte looked at her coffee table disgusted. In the otherwise pristine apartment, the table was Alien to her. Clutching her head in her hands she rocked, gently wiped her face with an old sodden discarded tissue. She threw it as viciously as anyone could. Another fad diet from her latest magazine, four days of cigarettes, whiskey and sugar lay next to the vomit bowl. How gullible am I that I would even try it, she cried. Charlotte only needed to lose two stone to fit in the bridesmaids dress, to be perfect for once. Or so she thought.
Have you gone to extreme’s to lose weight? Been sucked in by bogus fad diets? I would love to hear from you, drop it in the comments I will get back quick smart!
Under the sod lay Jake; my first love. For forty years the grass grew fertile and green. He went unnoticed … until.
Barney moved in, a lodger I said, but it wasn’t long before, he was sharing my bed. He was persistent, I was lonely and had space. Barney was a twinkler and had a nice face. At sixty I didn’t expect … stuff, to happen to me.
That Summer a heatwave killed the grass; revealing a shape. Coming back from shopping I was shocked to see. Jake poking out and Barney’s head looking at me. From a hole in the lawn.
Use the picture prompt to write 100 words. PRESS to join in.
Picture prompt was lent only for the use of the #FridayFictioneers by Ronda Del Boccio.
Did you think she had murdered a bloke? Did the reverse twist catch You? Tell me talk to me.
# FridayFictioneers a picture prompt and 100 words let’s go. press here to read the others.
Bet and Joe had been working on Mummy’s gift for weeks. Daddy leant them tools and Mr Giles from the allotment drew the plan. Today would be the big reveal, both of them were excited at the prospect.
Mummy loved Autumn which was good being as her birthay fell on the third of October. She loved her garden but spent this summer in hospital so her birthday needed to be perfect.
Dressed in their best clothes with a picnic spread in the garden, the children called on Mr Giles to help them bring it. “Surprise Mummy it’s an insect home.”
Below is a link to make your own insect home. Like Bet and Joe you too could build a surprise.
Let me know if you built or made a gift for someone when you were a child and was it a success?
River rats we were called, no better than gypsies they would shout. I grew with a chip on my shoulder and a frown on my brow.
I came to Venice; fell for a gondolier or two. Nobody spat on my shoe, my art degree held weight … my purse too.
Some nights when the stench is thick, I hanker after our canal boat, on a canal in England;
with Mum and Dad. Me, throwing my fists, defying the world. A tear Stained face wrapped in muscled arms smelling of old spice and tobacco. I am now a river rat wrapped in Ermine.
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A hundred miles I walked. Stinking dirty miles, in shoes that didn’t fit. The right too tight, reminding me, squeezing too much in leaves little space to breathe.
The left, two sizes too big, rubbed raw my foot. It made me bleed until it seeped through the lace holes and rolled back the skin, but on I walked.
It taught me to say no, to leave room to be kind, so I can grow a better man.
It taught me, never to be too proud to admit, this is too big for me.
It needn’t hurt to learn that lesson just take an educated walk.
Thanks for the Photo @Sarah Potter
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Photo for friday fictioneers exclusive use only, by © Fatima Fakier Deria.
Across the harbour he gazed, floating money pits, gin palaces, toys for the wealthy. Phlegm hit his boot, he screwed his eyes against the sun. Stuffing a cheroot between his discoloured teeth he thrust chapped hands deep in his pockets. With hunched shoulders he watched his feet as he scuffed on the dry earth and lurched away. He may earn his living on them but he’d never own one.
Below the harbour was buzzing, tanned yachtsmen flirted with ladies. Coiffed girls with plummy accents giggled and money was no object; but there was no room for salty sailors in this bar.
This is a snapshot of a bigger story, curtailing it to 100 words was tough and I hope I captured the irony of the sailors lot. Please leave a comment I love to connect.