Short story: Choices

September 25, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 16 Comments

“Mum says she wants to be buried in the woods, with the others,” said Margaret.
“What?” said Libby, shocked. “But she hated them.”
“Well, those are her instructions.”
“What do you think?”
Margaret raised her eyebrows at her sister; she couldn’t remember the last time Libby had asked her opinion. “It’s her choice.”
“But don’t you think she should consider those she’s leaving behind more than herself?”
“No, I think it’s the last decision she’ll get to make. Let her make it.”
“But she’ll be gone. And I’ll…we’ll have to visit her grave in that place, where…” Libby trailed off.

***

Last week my new husband and I had a converstation about the novel Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. Anyone read it? It’s a wonderful book, but in case you haven’t, at the end one of the characters who is dying chooses a type of death that greatly upsets one of the others (I don’t think I’m giving the ending away). Is that fair? Is that right? They won’t be here to suffer the consequences, but it is often the only thing left for them to have an influence on. That discussion inspired this piece of writing. Sorry that ‘the others’ is a bit cryptic, but hopefully more explanation isn’t needed, because I’m at exactly 100 words this week.

An interesting picture provided by Rich Voza for this week’s Friday Fictioneers writing group – where writers from all over the world write about 100 words using a photo as inspiration. click here to read other people’s and to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions for improvement on mine.

Short story: Pre-loved

September 19, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 19 Comments

It wasn’t first editions, the author’s signature inside, or the condition that interested Sylvie. It was difficult to explain even to herself, but it had something to do with the previous owner, and when she took hold of a book she just knew. Of course it helped if they had underlined passages, folded down corners, perhaps written a message in the front. “Pre-loved,” she called it. And rarely found, but best of all, was when she came upon a postcard or a photograph tucked inside the yellowing pages.

With nervous anticipation, Sylvie pushed the door of the charity shop open.

***

This is part of the Friday Fictioneers writing group – where writers from all over the world write about 100 words using a photo as inspiration. This week the picture has been provided by John Nixon. Lots of other writers have written very short stories inspired by this photograph; click here to read other people’s and to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions for improvement on mine.

Short story: Flora and Richard

September 4, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 45 Comments

When Flora had left, Richard got out of bed and roamed around the bedsit – picking up a jumper to breathe in the smell of her, opening the fridge and sticking a finger in the cream of the collapsed victoria sponge. He hadn’t been there on his own before and although it made him feel trusted, closer to this abstruse girl, the place was hollow without her.
From a wall cabinet Richard picked out a tiny dusty pinecone, and then a miniature trophy for a school art competition, and then a child’s drawing of the sun. “For Mummy” he read, and Richard wondered about Flora’s family – the ones she never talked about; the ones she had rushed off to when the call came.

***

This is part of the Friday Fictioneers writing group – where writers from all over the world write about 100 words using a photo as inspiration. This week Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has chosen one of her own photographs. Happy birthday Rochelle! Lots of other writers have written very short stories inspired by this photograph; click here to read other people’s and to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions for improvement on my story.

Short story: Nothing to worry about

August 22, 2013August 23, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 26 Comments

It was Mothering Sunday when we walked through the churchyard – just a short cut from muddy field to lane. The service was over, a solitary banner fluttered in the March chill.
“He didn’t open a text book all half term,” I said.
“You know Adam leaves all his revision to the last minute,” Tim said. “He’ll be fine.” And then, when I didn’t answer, “Don’t worry, he’ll get in.”
Tim pushed through the lychgate, but I paused by the last grave decorated with fresh daffodils. I calculated the dates on the headstone. The boy had been seventeen. I bent to read the note:
I know you would have given me these yourself if you could.
Love Mum x
I really had nothing to worry about.

***

This is part of the Friday Fictioneers writing group – where writers from all over the world write about 100 words using a photo as inspiration. This week Rochelle has chosen one of my photographs. It is St Thomas a Beckett church in South Cadbury, Somerset. Click here to see more pictures if you’re interested. Lots of other writers have written very short stories inspired by this photograph; click here to read other people’s and to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions for improvement on my story.

Also for any Americans reading, I’ve written a blog post with some questions specifically for them. Click here to have a read and see if you can help with any answers.

Short story: Cafe Disparaît

July 17, 2013July 17, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 48 Comments

For two weeks the bicycle leaned against the tree outside Cafe Disparaît. Then one day its front wheel was gone, and the next, its saddle. Tipped forward onto its front forks, the bike stared at the ground, waiting. Above it was a sun-bleached poster of a cyclist. Eventually a waiter, irritated from catching his apron on the bike’s handlebars, mentioned it to a Gendarme eating croque monsieur in the shade of the restaurant’s awning. A week later he came by with pair of bolt cutters and threw the bicycle into the back of his van. The poster had torn and flopped forward, only the word PERDUE* could still be seen.

***

*Missing in French
This is part of the Friday Fictioneers writing group – where writers from all over write about 100 words using a photo as inspiration. This week the photo has been provided by anelephantcant. Click here to read other people’s and to join in.

For those of you who’ve read my pieces before and know I’ve been writing a novel, you might be interested to hear that Our Endless Numbered Days just been bought by Fig Tree / Penguin in the UK and has also been bought by publishers in several other countries. Naturally I’m absolutely delighted. It will be published in early 2015. If you’re interested there is a bit more information here from The Bookseller.

Short story: The Back of the Bus

June 26, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 43 Comments

‘Can I sit there, Mummy?” Henry had been twisting around for almost the whole bus journey, staring at the empty back seat. At the next stop I let him go; watched him clamber up onto the prickly upholstery. I heard his chatter over the noise of the engine and when I looked he was talking and laughing, his little legs kicking.

I had to call him twice when we got to our stop. Reluctantly he left the empty seat and took my hand. And as the bus pulled away, Henry raised his chubby fingers in a wave.
‘That was my real Mummy,’ he said.

***

This piece of writing was inspired not only the picture above, but also a conversation I had with my son when he was about four (he’s now 18). He simply came out and asked me ‘where’s my real mummy and daddy?’ He’s not adopted. If you look closely you can see a face in the right hand window of the vehicle in the picture. This short story is part of the Friday Fictioneers writing group. Each week writers from around the world attempt to write 100 words (or so) starting with a picture. This week my word count is 104.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture from Indira or to join in with the group hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields.

Short story: The Dinner Date

June 24, 2013June 24, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 21 Comments

Clarissa was even thinner than when I had last since seen her, which must have only been a month or so previously.
“Six weeks, Audrey,” she corrected, making me feel guilty, although she hadn’t telephoned either. She stopped whisking, dipped her little finger into mayonnaise the colour of soft butter, and held it up to my mouth. “Open,” she instructed. It was delicious. “Ok, we’re ready,” she said, taking off her apron and hanging it on the back of the kitchen door.
“You look amazing,” I told her and meant it. “Orange has always suited you.”
“This rusty old thing?” Clarissa brushed her hands over her dress, which looped around the back of her neck, showing off her bare shoulders. On anyone else it would have looked like a giant hanky. “Get the wine out would you, everyone will be here soon and you might want a drink first because there’s someone I want you to meet.” Clarissa’s eyes lit up.
“Oh no,” I said, backing away. “Please don’t say you’ve invited another sad fuck-up for me to sit next to. Clarissa I’m just not ready.” I meant it. I wanted to eat nice food with my oldest friends, drink slightly too much and stumble up to their spare room at the end of the night.
“It’s not like that. It’s someone Tom went to school with, he’s moved back down here and they bumped into each other. Ok, he happens to be single…Audrey, please don’t roll your eyes.” Clarissa went to the fridge because I had pinned myself against the granite topped island. “I think you’ll like him, you’re very similar.”
“I’m sorry Clarissa, but I really don’t want to do this. I really can’t do this.” I picked up my bag. We both heard the doorbell ring and Tom go to answer it.
“Audrey,” hissed Clarissa, “please!”
I was shrugging on my coat when Tom came into the kitchen.
“Audrey,” he said, “this is Kit. Kit, Audrey.”

***

This story is from a prompt given by Trifecta – an online writing group. Each Monday writers are challenged to write a story between 33 and 333 words using a specified word and its meaning. This week the word is rusty with the meaning the colour of rust. Click here to read some other responses or to join in.

Image is courtesy of ChefMattRock

I’d love to hear what you think about this piece – good or bad. Let me know in the comment box below.

Short story: The Kiss

June 18, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 10 Comments

Pressed against a wall by heaving crowds and noise, I caught glimpses of Topper out on the dance floor. Every so often one of the spinning lights which hung from the industrial ceiling joists highlighted his face and his body, pulsing in time to the thudding beat which pounded up through my feet. I hadn’t expected him to be a good dancer, but he was loose limbed and fluid. He had infiltrated his way into a hen party – at least a dozen girls wearing bunny ears and pink bow ties, and one with an ‘L’ plate hiding her fluffy tail. I watched, my lips pressed tightly together, as they pushed their breasts against him and touched his face with their painted fingernails.

I knocked back my gin and forced my way through to the bar. It took me three goes to shout my order for another double to the bar-tender, and when I turned back Topper was beside me, a pink and white girl tucked under each arm.
“Audrey,” he shouted, and with just that word I knew he was drunk, whereas I, with my three double gins, was still desperately sober. “Audrey, I’d like you to meet Becky,” he nodded to the girl on the right, who laughed. “And this is…”
“Ness,” shouted the girl.
“That’s right, Nessie. A little monster,” shouted Topper and gave her a squeeze and she squeaked as if she was a child’s toy. “This is my sister, Audrey.” Ness waggled her fingers at me. “I don’t think Audrey likes the club, do you Audrey?” I said nothing. “She wanted me to find a girlfriend, but I’ve found two.” He pulled both girls into him and they giggled. He kissed Becky, taking his time over it, his tongue in her mouth and hers in his while Ness fidgeted. When they had finished Topper wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m going home,” I shouted, before he bent to kiss Ness.

***

This story is from a prompt given by Trifecta – an online writing group. Each Monday writers are challenged to write a story between 33 and 333 words using a specified word and its meaning. This week the word is club. Click here to read some other responses or to join in.

Image is courtesy of Raelene Gutierrez

I’d love to hear what you think about this piece – good or bad. Let me know in the comment box below.

Micro story: Summer

June 16, 2013June 16, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 12 Comments

This week the online writing group, Trifecta has asked us to describe summer in exactly 33 words. Here’s my contribution:

The only breeze is the rug’s undulation as I lay it over the roof’s baking surface. Kit unpacks the picnic while I lean back, watching a lazy aeroplane trail divide a perfect sky.

***

To read other people’s or to join in click here.

Short story: Alice’s bedroom

June 11, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 27 Comments

Alice woke disorientated with the early morning light seeping around the edges of the curtains. The murky outlines of spitfires painted across the sloping ceiling a reminder that she was in her brother Thomas’ childhood bedroom, tucked away in the attic. The bedroom where he had played and slept, and grown up without her.

Alice got out of bed, and still confused with the layout of the room, she missed the way through to the hall entirely, and instead opened a small door tucked under the eaves beside the fireplace. She ducked and went through to another room, dark and thick with stale air. Alice fumbled her way along the walls, bending her head low to avoid their inward slope. After she had negotiated a corner, her fingers found a switch – old fashioned, with a ball on the end of a stick. She flicked on the light and the bare overhead bulb illuminated a four poster bed draped in dusty velvet. Covering these walls was another mural, not fighting planes this time, but a dark land of trees entwined with vines and ivy. The sun shone in rays through this exotic jungle, and in every shaft of light golden fairies hovered, their filigree wings blurred with movement. It was a girl’s room.

“Mum had it decorated for when you came to live with us.” Thomas stood in the doorway of the secret opening through to his bedroom.
“I never came,” said Alice.
“No, you never came home,” said Thomas.

***

This story is from a prompt given by Trifecta – an online writing group. Each Monday writers are challenged to write a story between 33 and 333 words using a specified word and its meaning. This week the word is light and the meaning is a source of light (celestial body, candle or electric light). Click here to read some other responses or to join in.

I’d love to hear what you think about this piece – good or bad. Let me know in the comment box below.