#WEP #AprilChallenge - my #flashfiction - The Reunion (#fantasy)

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A QUICK NOTE FOR BLOGSPOT BLOGGERS INTERESTED IN THE COMMENT DEBACLE WHICH MAY HIT A BLOG NEAR YOU.

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If you're not the patient type, stop reading and keep on using pop-up. 

Many blogspot blogs have had problems with replying to comments due to some Google messing around months ago and the only fix was to return to the old pop-up type comment where you have to do a roll-call of replies in several sessions - ugh - hate that. 

MY FIX:

- Go to Settings and change back to 'embedded' comments.

- To Reply individually to comments, hover over 'Reply'. It will be live, but not quite - wait for the cursor to show the 'hand'. 

- In a little while (this is where patience is required) you'll sing a song of joy when the little 'hand' shows up. (I go read blogs while I wait for this miraculous event).

- Click on Reply again and you can then reply individually. Woo hoo!

(You can't hurry the process but it works!) For me anyway. Check my comments! Just thought I'd share something I've discovered.

Time to publish my #flashfiction for the WEP Life is Beautiful challenge. 

POST April 19 - 21

 Here I offer one of my few forays into #fantasy. Written many moons ago, I think it encapsulates the theme. 

Enjoy my story. Click on names in my sidebar to read more.

 

The Reunion

 

Charlotte scarcely remembered the long bus ride from Sydney through the rugged countryside, so focused was she on seeing Jack again.

 ‘We’re here.’ The driver pulled his lumbering vehicle to the side of the road. ‘You’re being met?’

 ‘Yes.’ Charlotte slashed her lips with the bright red shade Jack loved.

 Slinging her black tote over her shoulder, she walked carefully down the aisle and thanked the driver who helped her alight.

 ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked. ‘People who wander into the Australian bush, often never wander out again.’

 Charlotte was the happiest she’d been for years. Her heart thumped in her ears when she said, ‘I’ll be fine.’

 The driver’s eyes roved the empty road. ‘No luggage then, love?’

 ‘Not this trip.’

 ‘There’s no one here to meet you.’

 ‘He’ll come.’

 ‘But who? The houses were bulldozed years ago.’

 Charlotte smiled, turned away, slipped a pill under her tongue. ‘Thanks for bringing me so far out of your way, young man.’ She handed him a tiny red rose from the posy she carried.

 He twirled the flower. ‘I’ll come back. One? Two hours?’

 ‘Thanks, but no. Be on your way now.’

 ‘I really don’t mind.’

 ‘It’s fine.’ Charlotte walked away, tugging her bright red coat around her shoulders. She was relieved when the bus’s engine ticked over. 

~*~

 It was hard going on a track that was no longer maintained, but she made it to Gulliriviere, the tiny settlement where she once lived with Jack and their friends. It’d been named by Irish ex-convicts who were used to plentiful rains in their home country. How flummoxed they were by a river that bore nothing but gravel year after bitter year.

 Leaving the abandoned shacks behind, further into the bush she trudged. Her steps slowed as she put distance between her and the desolation of the little street where houses were sacrificed for a lumber mill that was never built.

 Logging.

 Controversial even then.

 The ‘greenies’ had chained themselves to the trees and no one could budge them.

 As she passed by, the eucalyptus trees rustled their arms in salute.

 Home.

 But home had left. Only the scraggly beauty of nature remained. Where once their cabin stood smugly, framed by the white picket fence Jack built and the fragrant flowers she planted, there was … nothing.

 ‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘there’s no clue we ever lived here … Oh … but I’m wrong. Look!’

Charlotte creaked to her knees in front of her tatty rose bush, surviving after all these years. She tugged out weedy grasses, revealed tiny closed buds, then inhaled the earthy smell. ‘Not everything’s gone, darling Jack.’ She lay the posy beside the rose bush, memories rushing through her head.

 She recalled her twenty-three-year old self following her love to his rough-hewn shack in the Outback, two hours’ drive to the nearest town and a light plane trip to Sydney. She loved the koalas who lived in the trees nearby, she loved the solitude and yes, she even loved the big red kangaroos who nibbled the green shoots in her garden, looking cheekily at her over their shoulders as they loped away.

 She’d set her easel amongst the trees and paint miniatue bush flora until the sun set on the faraway horizon. Her paintings would continue to hang in art galleries in Australia and the Musée du Quai Branly in Paris long after she was gone.

 Living in the bush had been good.

 Leaving it had not.

 After their cabin had been razed to the ground, they’d relocated to Byron Bay. Plenty of flora for her to paint, but Jack had to fly in/fly out to continue his work on the western Droughtmaster grazing property.

 ‘Hello, Madam Charlie,’ Jack would greet her at the airport. Tossing his duffle bag in the trunk, he’d hurry to the passenger door, wrench it open. ‘Come here,’ he’d growl, kissing her over and over much to the delight of the traffic inspector.

 Their only argument was over his retirement.

  ‘No, Charlotte, I won’t retire. I’m only sixty-five. Our experiment with the new Droughtmaster breed is ongoing. Perhaps when it’s done …’

 

~*~

 Midnight.

 Phone call.

 Frank Mangin, Jack’s co-worker.

 ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sandilands ... Jack’s gone ... heart attack.’

 The bed caught her as she fell.

 ‘We were working in the study.’

 Garbled noises from her mouth.

 Clunk! The phone hit the floor; Frank yabbered on. 

 ‘Mrs Sandilands? I’m calling someone.’

 ‘No!’ No one could put her back together. 

 ‘Mrs Sandilands! Jack had a message for you. He said, and I wrote it down—um—When it’s time, tell Charlie to come to the shack.’

 ‘Are you sure?’

 ‘Yes. I know your home at Gulliriviere is long gone. But that’s the message.’

 ‘Thanks, Frank.'

 If Jack wanted her at the shack, to the shack she would go …

 

~*~

 Still kneeling at the rose bush in front of the shack’s foundations, she took the gold fob watch from its pouch and let it drop into her palm. She’d bought it years ago to give to Jack when he retired. It was a work of great artistry, with minute patterns painstakingly etched into every chain link. She read the inscription: 

To Jack, my wild Colonial Boy! Yours ever, Charlie. XX

 She brought it to her lips, kissed it.

 The first pain hit.

It's time.

 

~*~

 

The rose bush bloomed with blood-red roses. The fragrance enveloped her as it mingled with sweet summer smells.

 ‘Charlie!’

 With the sweet fragrance of roses whirling around her, she ran through the tall grasses, trailing her fingers over the white, silky flowers. He’d be waiting by the creek just ahead, beyond the grey houses.

 She hesitated at the stand of weeping willows, their lush tendrils like dishevelled hair as they caressed the surface of the water.

 Then she saw him—her Jack—running through the willows, pushing aside the graceful drapery. He hurried toward her—arms outstretched—welcoming her home.

 She beckoned her love.

They gazed into each other’s light-kissed eyes, marvelled at their sun-painted limbs, overjoyed at their reunion. He took the fob watch from her soft, smooth hand, then they strolled away hand in hand across the sparkling water, fading from sight in a gentle swirl of silvery mist.

 Life is beautiful, Charlotte mused.

TAGLINE – Life is beautiful, but death can be even better.

 

©DeniseCCovey2016

 WORDS: 1049

FCA

Be on the lookout for the June WEP challenge -

#WEP December challenge. Pierrot, the Fool. (Unmasked in Venice).

Hi all!

I have been travelling again and missed the December IWSG. I think it's only about the second time I haven't posted in all the years! Forgive me Alex.

By popular demand, WEP is having an unstructured challenge this December. For those who'd already prepared an entry for UNMASKED or who burned to write one, we have opened it up to whoever so desires and posting our link to the WEP website. 

My story is adapted from one of the very first stories I wrote for Romantic Friday Writers. I'd worked on it since and it was over 2,000 words. For this challenge, I've edited it down to 1,200+ words. So sorry it's a bit over. 

During the pandemic, Australians don't travel internationally. So I'm reliving a trip to Venice. But I assure you, I'm not Anouk, my heroine. It's a bit of a black fairy tale. With this retelling I can see another direction I could go with the story, but seriously, this will have to do for now or I'll never get it posted...enjoy. 

Pierrot, the Fool.

 

Anouk surveyed the glistening city from the balcony of Hotel Cipriani, feasting her eyes upon Venice. Darkness floated over the ethereal city, a black cape, its edges reflecting the glint of the moon. The light was a mosaic of shimmering mirrors. Gondolas floated in a fantasy world, dipping above the water like slick black swans. On the frigid night air, the gondoliers’ serenade drifted across the water like a ghostly siren call, filling Anouk’s heart with delicious anticipation.

Sipping her wine, she listened to the vaporettis' hum as they navigated the icy waters of the Grand Canal, disembodied voices of the passengers bouncing atop the waves. The baroque palaces along the canal dazzled, grand residences of past glory, now inhabited by revelers whose dancing threatened to sink them into the murky water.

Anouk was intent on enjoying this night and all the excitement that tantalized her soul with infinite possibilities. Carnevale. Hiding behind a mask, she was ready to lose herself in this ritual where the power of the mask lured revelers into lurid rites of celebration.

She lifted her crystal glass. Swirled the rich burgundy. ‘Salut!’ She toasted the heavenly hosts.

Her dream was about to unfold.

 

~*~

 

Anouk drifted outside into a frosty, starry world, a different person behind her Pierrot mask. She was tugged into a band of masked and costumed figures running through the cobbled streets, alongside the Grand Canal, past candle-lit icing-cake palazzos dusted with snow, slithering over arched bridges, heading deeper into mysterious caverns and back alleyways.

In an opulent baroque apartment, she danced with gloriously attired masked men who pressed her close to their bodies, their breath hot on her naked neck, before passing her to the next caped stranger with a flourish and an extravagant kiss to her gloved hand.

Leaving the hot apartment, she ran with the party goers down slippery, dimly-lit streets, going deeper and deeper into unknown Venice, terrifying in its other-worldly quality. She slipped and slithered at the end of the long line, her dress tugging at her ankles as if telling her to stop.

She was about to turn back when out of the foggy darkness came a man who clasped her hand. She stood, unsure whether to rip her hand from his grasp, but the crowd moved on, leaving her alone in the stranger’s grip. She recognized the perfume he wore. Creed Aventus. Her husband’s favorite. It comforted her. Was she a fool to go with this stranger in his lacquered mask of ebony? She shrugged. This was what adventure was all about, wasn’t it?

The stranger led her upstairs to an apartment where they joined a new group of dancers in a room warmed by spluttering fires, the air blue with cigarette smoke. The women were ethereal beauties in rustling silk while men dazzled in capes, tight trousers, shiny thigh-high boots and magnificent wigs of black ringlets. His curls whispering against her neck, she and the stranger swayed in a sideways rhythm to the heavenly music of a stringed quartet.  

She closed her eyes and imagined the stranger unmasked. The way he ran his hands over her forehead, lifting her hair, told her he was doing the same.

So this is Carnevale! Oh, what have I been missing?

The stranger snatched a glass of wine from a passing waiter. He entwined his arm with hers and poured wine down her throat.

She spluttered as rich liquor dripped down her chin and between her breasts.

He dipped his head; licked the red trail. Her delighted shivers brought fire to his eyes.

He spoke his first words to her, his Italian rich and smooth as the wine. ‘Signorina, I’m Count de Rozario.’

‘Vrai? Truly?’

‘Si. All men are counts at Carnevale.’

She bowed, not doubting his claim. ‘I am Anouk Abbe. From Paris.’

‘My servant.’ He touched her shoulder with his hand.

Her heart fluttered with desire. She looked up. He had melted into the night. How rude! Was that what Carnevale was about? Dancing? Drinking? Touching? Teasing? Then … pouf?

She pushed her way outside, trudging north through freshly fallen snow.

Men lounged against alleyway walls; smoke blended with foggy curls. Shiny black opal eyes studied her from behind black masks.

She stepped sideways, desperate to find the Grand Canal.

One of the men strode forward just as another appeared from out of the mist. 

Again the comforting smell of Creed Aventus.

He covered her shivering body with his black velvet cloak trimmed with red fur, revealing a black woolen suit. With gloved fingers, he scratched away tears that had iced her cheeks below her mask.

‘My count?’ Her teeth chattered.

An imperceptible jerk of his head. ‘Come. We steal a little time.’

Through passages, beneath arches, they came upon a magnificent doorway. In the hazy light of the street lamps it appeared burnished in gold.

He brushed snow from their clothing before he led her up a flight of stairs into a luxurious apartment. With urgent strides he tugged her into a warm sitting room with log fire blazing, comfortable couches, an aura of expectation in the atmosphere. Two crystal wine glasses and a silver platter of antipasto beckoned. How sweet! Mesmerized by the warmth of the flames, she took a step toward the fire.

‘Fretta! Hurry!’ He snatched her around the waist and pulled her into a huge bedroom dazzled by moonlight, a lush Renaissance painting of red silk wallpaper, brocade and golden trims.

He unbuttoned her cape. Her dress rustled to the floor. He dealt swiftly with her undergarments but left her mask intact.

Even so, she felt unmasked.

He pushed her backwards onto the brocade spread, covering her nakedness with his.

As they surrendered themselves to the madness of the night, the mouth that plundered hers tasted like the wine they’d shared, enhanced by sea and smoke.

He tensed, lifted his head. 

She heard nothing but her own whimpering.

Then …  

Slipping and sliding on the varnished wood stairs. Curse words, ‘Merda. Merda. Basta.’

His feet landed on the floor. ‘My blonde beauty.’ He tugged her arm. ‘My Contessa approaches. Presto!’

He snatched clothes from the carpet, thrust them into her arms and pushed her naked onto the balcony then quietly closed the door.

Shivering with cold and shock, she huddled. The lapping water against the pylons was slaps to her freezing stupid face. The fog’s tendrils reached up and whirled around her misery.

Fool! Fool! Is this the adventure you imagined?

The Contessa’s Borsalino fragrance hung, trapped, in the freezing air. My perfume. Is that why he chose me?

‘Ah, Contessa, come.’ His seductive voice slid under the bedroom door onto the balcony. ‘I’m ready for you. Desolate we lost each other in the frenzy.’

‘I, too, Count.’ Her voice sounded a little self-satisfied. ‘Come.’

Had the Contessa been naked with a stranger in another bed? While the Count cavorted here with her? Was it a game they played on this one night of the year when there were no rules?

Tears pooling on her frozen cheeks, she struggled down the murky outdoor stairs, slipping and sliding on the ice, gripping the ornate balustrade. She entered the apartment foyer and trembled in the darkest corner. Her frozen hands fumbled with intricate clasps and zips as she dressed herself with agonizing slowness.

As she dressed, she pictured her husband back in Paris, sipping his aperitif in his favorite leather chair by the fire, wearing his three-piece charcoal bespoke suit, his crisp white Dior shirt, his Louis Vuitton tie. He’d warned her not to come. Now she knew why.

Tossing her Pierrot mask into a dirty pile of slush, she tread into the frozen wilderness. Lost in Venice's black cape.

She was Pierrot, the fool.

~*~

Currently up on the WEP website is Yolanda's post outlining the magnificent arty challenges for 2021. Please take a look. I'm sure you'll be inspired to join us even if you've never written for us. This is an example:

Gorgeous, innit?

Happy holidays! See you next year!

 

#WEPff JUNE challenge. My #flashfiction - #GROUNDZERO. Dark take on URBAN NIGHTMARE

Hey all! It's time for the June challenge at WEP. URBAN NIGHTMARE is the prompt. We've been asked to go as deep and dark as we want. I took this opportunity to write from a third-person omniscient point of view, not one I usually choose, but it worked for my flash fiction.

Of course I'm influenced by the COVID-19 outbreak and the shenanigans of those in 'control' of populations who have often been sadly let down by expediency. I liken the current outbreak to outbreaks in the past, where the people suffer and those in control seem to get off lightly.

Here is my story ... 

GROUND ZERO

Envato Elements

The silent apocalypse began on June 17, 2050, at 3.24 in the morning.

As the sun rose on Ground Zero, the extent of the disaster revealed itself.

Death and deformity would be its legacy for thousands of years.

The town. Once a tourist mecca. Now reduced to a postcard no one would send their loved ones.

Obliterated. The earth. A smoking volcano. Alive. Lethal. A smoking sarcophagus.

Not a light brightened the darkness. No sign of life except for a red fox taking advantage of the absence of man as it loped across the desolate landscape. Silence reigned except for the chirping of birds echoing down once luxuriant avenues. Ghostly voices shouted from empty streets, auditory mirages heard only by God Himself.

Abandoned vehicles piled beside roads, in the carparks, underneath apartment buildings. The aircraft hangar contained helicopters and small planes left behind after the hasty evacuation that began at midnight when the night workers raised the alarm.

The story was told inside the apartment buildings. Abandoned meals. Unfinished board games. Clothes over heaters. Unmade beds. Photo albums. Shelves of books. Each room, an empty stage set at the end of a play. Waiting for the next act. The raised curtain.

But the curtain would never rise again.

The radioactivity.

It had changed the color of the trees. People who lived hundreds of kilometres away in the closest town to the disaster dubbed it the Crimson Forest because of the foliage and the blood-red tape which looped from tree to tree, its nuclear symbol flapping in the gentle breeze. ‘Keep out! Danger!’

Dawn. Site inspection. Scientists in hazmat suits. Geiger counters emitting rhythmical electrical sounds like a coded message from another dimension.

But the people didn’t need to know.

Radiation crept further toward them with every gust of wind.

Best to keep the secret.

For now.

Assured via their digital devices that it was business as usual, the people of Pérougé continued their life outside the exclusion zone, oblivious to Death already seeping through their bones, their cells, their blood. They enjoyed the amenities their town offered – restaurants, cinemas, theatres, sports centres, amusement parks. They were proud of their shiny new hospitals, little knowing they’d soon be overflowing with those presenting with suppurating sores, weakness, unexplained bleeding.

The authorities downplayed the accident. Of course. That was the way things were done in 2050. Had always been done, really. Keep the people in blissful ignorance. Imagine if they heard of the Geiger counter readings. The scientists themselves were confused enough. Maybe that latest batch of counters was faulty.

There were nuclear reactors popping up all over the world. If word spread of this disaster, a whole industry would be brought to its knees. The government wouldn’t allow that to happen. Even now “volunteers” were searching inside the reactor to ascertain the cause of the explosion.

The health of the population was way down on their list of concerns. The people had demanded nuclear power when renewables failed them. No one wanted to shiver through darkness when the sun refused to shine or the wind refused to blow. Fossil fuels were yesterday's news. It was the people’s fault. They’d unknowingly set off an unstoppable chain of destruction.

Under strict orders to silence the chattering masses, Mayor Blaise called a Town Hall meeting to allay the people’s escalating fears.

The mayor puffed out his chest and addressed the townspeople gathered in the spacious hall. ‘People of Pérougé, this is not another Chernobyl. Our knowledge of nuclear plants has grown exponentially since the 1980s.’

A woman hugging a tiny baby to her chest stood, interrupting his prepared speech. Her voice wavered when she asked, ‘How bad is it?’ Her baby began to cry. The mother began to cry.

‘Only one reactor has been compromised, Madame. Stay outside the exclusion zone and no harm will come to you.’ The mayor wiped his forehead on a large handkerchief kept expressly for the purpose of wiping away his sins.

A grey-haired man pushed himself from his chair and stood unsteadily, using two walking sticks for balance. ‘What about Chernobyl? I heard—’

‘Chernobyl! Chernobyl!’ The crowd surged to their feet like an angry sea, fists pumped the air, faces suffused with anger. ‘How long did the authorities hush that up? Thousands of people were infected, died. They were sacrificed on the altar of political malfeasance.’

The mayor held his hands in the air until the crackle died down. ‘Don’t put credence in urban myths – Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, Fukushima... Nuclear disasters of a past time. They were indeed nightmares. But Pérougé is safe as is every town, city and country outside the exclusion zone. Your apartments are safe. Stay inside. Shut your windows until the radioactivity at Ground Zero recedes. We assure you, the radioactivity is contained.’

‘Bullshit!’ A man with fiery red hair called from the back of the hall, fighting off two burly security guards who tried to drag him outside.

Mayor Blaise lost it. He ripped his prepared speech in half and threw it onto the floor. ‘Sir, sit down. Listen. Did you see a nuclear cloud? No! Proof that modern technology is working to keep you safe.’

The red-headed man refused to sit. He tugged and pulled and resisted all efforts to shut him up. ‘Do you think I’d trust you and your fancy committee in your fancy suits feeding us a barrel load of lies? You're in and out, a whistle stop tour. You don't live here! I have my own Geiger counter. It’s old, but reliable. It's been in my family since Chernobyl. Depending on the wind, it surges to well above an acceptably safe level. You’re using us as guinea pigs. Safe, be damned.’

Truer words were never spoken.

Wolves howled.

Darkness besieged the gates of the town.

Soon it would be a grim black and white postcard.

With no one alive to post it.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

WORD COUNT: 994

FCA

To read more URBAN NIGHTMARE stories, go to the link in my side bar, or click HERE.

Thanks for reading.

#WEPff December challenge - FOOTPRINTS - my #ff, On Top of the Mountain

It's the final WEP for 2019. It's been a great year and we've seen some great writing. Hoping there's some time in your hectic holiday or work schedule to do the rounds and read some pleasurable writing. Thanks to the team - Nilanjana Bose, Olga Godim and L.G. Keltner who've helped provide strength and purpose.

Here's my fun contribution to the December challenge.

On Top of the Mountain

On top of the mountain was where Ciara longed to be—leaving behind all her insecurities, her unhappiness, her confusion over the breakup with Tod. That was why in her backpack she’d tucked her special passport to tackle the road from France to Spain. The Camino de Santiago. She was following in the footprints of 2.5 million pilgrims who every year attempted to walk the 800 kilometre (497 miles). Each morning, she flew out of bed like a bird. Then for hours on end - trudge, trudge, trudge.

Whoever thought there’d be so many mountains, hills and valleys, especially at the beginning of the walk when most people were flabbily unfit? Her group all prodded their walking poles into the muddy ground, following the footprints of those in the lead. They took every opportunity to leave a token on every statue and shrine they passed, carefully placed rocks they’d brought from home and dropped them at the feet of saints like they were dropping their burdens. Of course they had to snap photograph after photograph on their smart phones, before whining and flopping beside the road, fanning themselves, pouring bottled water over their faces, until the guide finally called them out.

‘If you keep lagging, we’ll be camping beside the road in the rain instead of enjoying a drink, a nice hot bath and a comfy bed at the inn.’

That did the trick. Even Ciara smartened up her act.

The climb up this latest mountain had been hard in the drizzle, but Ciara had to admit, the view, or what she could see of it between the clouds, was Paradise.

She twirled round and round like the ballerina she was, fantasizing she was lead ballerina in Swan Lake, which she wasn't, then fell into a dizzy heap, like she was the frumpy ugly duckling everyone shunned.

‘Woops!’ She giggled, brushing off twigs and leaves, lying on her back, bathed in grey-blue sky. ‘Look on the bright side, girl!’

She was first.

She never got to be first.

She wasn’t even first with Tod. He’d chosen her because she looked like his first girlfriend. Ugh. That sure made her feel like the ugly duckling.

But today, despite Tod, was an important milestone in her life.

Her confusion was lifting like clouds on the mountain. Yes! She thumped the ground with her two fists. She came on this journey of self-discovery and she was self-discovering. Awesome. At thirty-four that wasn’t bad. Feeling smug, she sat up and leaned against the one and only scrappy tree and guzzled from her water bottle.

Now that her fitness had improved, she’d hurried ahead even though it was not the done thing. Truthfully, she was sick of the groups’ collective whining. Sure, the climb today had tested their fitness, but what did they expect? They were crossing the Pyrenees. All the way from St Jean Pied de Port in France to this splendid mountain range in Spain and then some. What a pilgrimage. What a way to start over. And it’d all be over in a month.

It was Roderick who riled her. There was always one. A pain from the beginning, whining about everything—the food, the weather, the lack of bottled water. He even complained when at one of the villages a kindly wine merchant provided red wine through one of the water taps, his contribution to the pilgrim walk. It’d helped them feel no pain through the rest of the day.

Still umpteen kilometres to go til they reached Santiago de Compostela. Could she put up with him that long? 

She was surprised their guide, Rafe, hadn’t sent him packing. Ah Rafe. She pictured his built body, muscled by years of climbing, and his piercing blue eyes, always focused on the beautiful landscape, never on her even though she did her best to attract him with her tight tops and lycra pants. She and Andrea, the other Brit, tried to outdo each other, rising earlier than everyone to hog the bathroom to apply their makeup. But Rafe was immune. She felt like stabbing him with her eyeliner when she caught him looking lovesick every time he glanced at Matthew, the royal marine from the U.S. Hot damn.

She dropped her water bottle beside the dozens of others abandoned by naughty walkers who’d never heard of climate change or that bottling water released 2.5 million tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere annually and took 17 million barrels of oil to produce a year’s supply. She sighed and looked into the haloes of whispy clouds and thought about how she was saving the planet by walking 800 kilometres instead of driving a car. 

She breathed in slowly, savouring the moment. Ah, first at last! Would Rafe be impressed? Even though she wasn’t a whiner, she was a lagger, and he was forever turning back to make sure she was still trudging onward. The look in his eyes accused her of lagging on purpose. She wouldn’t do that, would she?

Sniggering, she lost herself in murderous thoughts of Tod, but she wasn’t so lost she missed the grunting behind the scraggly bush where she’d propped herself.  

She carefully moved leaves aside and peered closer, afraid it was some weird Spanish animal of the four-footed species. Why think the worst? She was drawn to valleys made dark by black shadows. Why did she always see the dark side? ‘What the—?’ She suspended her deep psychological musings. Lying spreadeagled, a head wound gushing blood, was that whiner, Roderick.

‘Hey, Ciara what have you found?’ Rafe had arrived, the group behind him, a motley crew gasping, whining, mopping foreheads with kerchiefs.

She shook her head.

Life was a sick joke.

She never got to be first.

But look on the bright side, she thought. Roderick could have been some dangerous animal.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

WORD COUNT: 974

NCCO - Comments only. This was written specifically for WEP just for fun. Enjoy!

Please click on names at the end of my post and read more stories and encourage our faithful writers who turned up for the Christmas challenge!

Look what we have in store for 2020. Those of you who are lurking behind the scenes I hope you can find a challenge that floats your boat!

The next WEP challenge will be in February. I hope you'll join us for:

Looks delicious!

Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!

Combined #WEPff/IWSG post - My favorite genre, Women's Fiction - "CAGED BIRD" JUNE CHALLENGE - MY #FF, MEMORIES

Hi everyone!

Click here to read more posts...

Alex's awesome co-hosts for the June 5 posting of the IWSG are Diane Burton, Kim Lajevardi, Sylvia Ney, Sarah Foster, Jennifer Hawes, and Madeline Mora-Summonte! 

Please visit if you can!

It's time for the June WEP/IWSG challenge. One of the changes to WEP, other than L.G. Keltner has taken over as host, is that posting can be any time from the first of the month to the third Wednesday of the month.  So I thought, why not combine the two? So ... the June 5 IWSG question:

Of all the genres you read and write, which is your favorite to write in and why?

I'm an eclectic reader and writer, but one of my favorite genres is Women's Fiction, a pretty bleh name, since many 'women's fiction' writers claim over 40% of their readers are men (Jodi Picoult). I like WF as it delves into women's issues and foregrounds women. Unlike Romance, WF can contain a romance, but it's not the main focus and there doesn't have to be a happy-ever-after.  

Like everyone, I have hot-button issues - domestic violence, abuse of women and children - sexual and otherwise, inequitable salaries and promotion opportunities ... you know, just life. Not saying men don't have their issues ...

One of my WF novels which I hope hits the shelves this year has within the storyline - domestic violence, patriarchy, a woman fighting for independence, fighting to be strong. Hmm. Does she reach her goal? Of course it contains a hot romantic element. It is set in Paris after all.

So ... my flash fiction for the WEP prompt CAGED BIRD has the nasty whiff of one of my hot-button issues (boil, boil, boil, rant, rant, rant). My little caged bird is in a metaphoric prison shared by too many women. I hope you enjoy reading, although you may not like the subject matter. 

Memories

She was a fool to leave Paris. 

The city where she feels safe.

She was a fool to come back.

Here.

Here holds too many memories, too many secrets.

Memories and secrets she can no longer ignore.

She must deal with them or she’ll never reach her potential.

There. In front of her. The beach house, its timbers broken and exposed. Since she escaped, years of relentless tides have eaten away its foundations. It now teeters on the edge of the dunes, on its knees in the sand, ready to surrender to a king tide.

Today the ocean holds no threat like it did that night many years ago. Its gentle waves lap the sand, leaving a trail of silvery froth and grit. Gazing at the peaceful sea, she almost forgets why she ran away from her memories for so long. But the mind holds onto things, remembers things best forgotten, overwhelms in the early morning hours when the body is most vulnerable.

Confronted with the crumbling house, her mind searches its dark recesses, unearthing hidden secrets which she thought buried. Through the years, in her silent moments when the busyness of life paused, it spoke so softly in the gentlest of whispers, as it tried to speak to her of its memories. Then there were other times when her pain rushed to the surface without warning, hurtling through her like a runaway train, threatening to derail her altogether.

She cries, falls to her knees in the wet sand. She no longer wants to carry that heavy sharp stone of hurt which has kept her caged like a helpless bird. 

She no longer wants to be a prisoner to painful memories.

Memories of her last terrible night in the house threaten to drown her in a tidal wave of hurt.

 vvv

On the night she died to her old life, the wind roared, the rain poured, the waves crashed. The Pacific swirled, rose and fell in a dance of wave and tide. Then the winds calmed, the moon rose and sat outside her window, bathing her in light.

She’d been asleep, tossing and turning like the tide as she did every night. She’d opened her eyes and watched the moonlight creep across her bed like a lover’s soft caress. The sheets tangled and folded over the bed like waves. Kicking off the covers, she threw herself across the bed like a beached whale.

The moon’s light overlooked the angry welts criss-crossing her legs. The welts throbbed, but she had no ointments to ease the pain. But the pain she felt inside at her father’s betrayal was worse than any belting.  There were no ointments to soothe that sharp pain.

The crashing waves heralded high tide. Soon the water would rise to just below her window. The relentless pummeling against the house posts, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, mimicked the sound and rhythm of her father’s belt as it cut her tender flesh while her mother cowed in the corner, praying. For her husband’s soul? For her daughter’s pain? Why didn’t she do something? Anything … But her mother was as helpless as she.

Father would not be denied his will. She was her father’s daughter. She would never give in. She would not marry the boy from Afghanistan her father chose for her. She would marry the man she loved.

There was a big storm earlier in the night and now the rain starts again. Relentless. Like her father’s demands. He locked her in her room until you come to your senses were his words. She hasn’t been able to communicate with Ahmed since she was imprisoned, but she was not afraid. She would escape her cage. She and Ahmet would be together. As God willed.

She knew Ahmet waited for her beyond the dunes. It was her hope. Her belief.

She wrapped her hand in the end of her sheet and smashed the locked window, thankful the pelting rain muffled the sound of breaking glass. Falling from the window, she was thankful she did not cut herself on the jagged edges. The black night sucked her in. She swam for her life in the treacherous waters, her robe tangled around her knees, threatening to drag her under. Water filled her mouth and nose. Waves slapped her face but fell more gently than her father's hands. She fought the urge to surrender to the elements. No. She has waited too long for freedom. What was this water compared to the joy that lay ahead, a new life with her love? Her name meant ‘Heart’s Wish.’ She would have her wish.

A new life in Paris. With Ahmet.

Her bare feet found sand at last. Running out of the water, she held her sopping robe in her hands and sprinted toward the trees.

‘Emma Dil.’ Ahmed whispered her name from his place on the dunes where he later told her he’d made a shelter and watched her window for many days.

Ahmed held her in his safe arms.

She was home.

vvv

Ahmed watches her now from the top of the dunes, next to the crumbling wreck that had been her home when her family first arrived from Afghanistan. Before it became her prison. A few long strides and he is by her side. He gently lifts her from the sand. Cradles her. Rocks her like a baby while she cries in his arms.

Her tears are healing.

She will be whole again.

‘My brave girl,’ he whispers.

Over her shoulder the house groans and lurches, falls into the sea. Its timbers break up like skittles. The tide reaches out its greedy hand and sucks it under the waves.

vvvvvv

WORD COUNT: 949

My main reason for surrendering the hosting of WEP is that I need more time to sort my stories/books for publishing. I have plenty. I am collating a series of short stories from various genres written over my 9 years with RFW and WEP challenges. Most have grown from the 400 word days of RFW and the current 1,000 word limit for WEP to between 2,000 and 4,000 words. The above story may be included in one of my collections, so please comment on how to improve it. As it's a PRESENT/PAST/PRESENT it's easy to make mistakes of tense. 

Thank you!!!!

FCA

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