Short story: Care home memories

March 15, 2013March 15, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 23 Comments

Someone had moved Joyce’s chair so it no longer sat square-on to the television. “Probably that Polish cleaner with the unpronounceable name,” she muttered. “Always nudging the furniture with her vacuum.” Joyce let go of the zimmer frame and lowered herself carefully down. “My grandfather invented the vacuum cleaner,” Joyce said loudly to no one in particular.

“Shh, I’m watching this,” said William from the chair next door.

The television showed a continuous flow of traffic at night, obscured by a lily in a pot.

“My mother was the most wonderful gardener,” Joyce said, her eyes welling.

“Shh,” said William.

***

This piece of writing 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 from Lora Mitchell.

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

Short story: A surprise for Dr Matthews

March 6, 2013March 7, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 70 Comments

“Sit still Ricky.” The boy burrowed his face into his mother’s neck.
“How long has he been complaining of the pain?” Asked Dr Matthews.
“Oh, he never complains.”
“A stoic little boy, eh?” Mother and child looked blank. The doctor coughed. “Well, let’s take a look, shall we?”
“He says it feels like butterflies or…”
“If you could just hold him tight,” the doctor interrupted. He turned on his otoscope and shone the instrument into Ricky’s ear. There were the usual spirals but then near the eardrum Dr Matthews saw a light and just in front, shadows, dancing.
“…or angels,” said his mother.

***

I sent this picture to my friend Sarah this week, simply because I liked it, and she said it reminded her of the inside of an ear. She also suggested other things, but they’re probably too rude to print. So, ear it was.

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

Short story: Car with no roof

March 1, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 42 Comments

Ruben’s hair is flattened to his head by the rain and I ask him again why our car couldn’t have a roof. Ruben snarls at me like the dog we had, the one that drowned when the water came in our house. I can’t remember the dog’s name, but I watched him from the attic window. He floated away like a dirty rug, out the door and down the street, bumping into the chairs and suitcases and people that were swept away too. Ruben says that if I don’t stop whining he’ll leave me behind, so I’m quiet while the engine coughs and Ruben curses.

***

This piece of writing 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 from Beth Carter.

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

Short story: The Teacher

February 17, 2013February 19, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 20 Comments

The pavements and plazas always swarmed with tourists – camera phones plugged into their faces, so that Edward named them ‘Pac-a-mac Cyborgs’.

On days when he saw knowledge light up one of his student’s faces, Edward walked around the backs of the picture-takers and didn’t huff at the crowds shuffling slowly past the monuments and sculptures. But other times, when his class had grasped nothing, Edward got a bitter delight in stopping to blow his nose, or pick at his teeth in between the photographers and their subjects.

Edward had already forgotten that he too had once been a tourist.

***

I’ve been ill this week so I’m a bit late with my story. But on Saturday I managed to meet my mother in London for a celebration of her 70th birthday. I walked from Waterloo to Victoria, past Westminster Abbey, and the number of tourists helped with some much needed inspiration.

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

Short story: Fear of Flying

February 6, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 78 Comments

The plane is full. The fat man beside me spills over his seat into mine. I lean my forehead on the window, counting the tiny houses, a splash of blue behind each one.
“Going to England for a vacation?” The man asks.
“Going home,” I say.
“I’m going to visit with my daughter.” Something in his voice makes me turn. His hands are gripping the arm-rests, sweat beading his top lip. “Scared of flying,” he says through gritted teeth.

We hold hands for the rest of the flight, while he tells me about his daughter and I try not to think about my father in the hold.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Rich Voza for the Friday Fictioneers writing group. Each week writers from around the world attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m a little over.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture or to join in.

Short story: Breathless

January 30, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 95 Comments

It was cold in the studio, breath steaming, her fingers frozen rigid around the chisel. The mallet beat a rhythm and the chisel moved, but she was simply the conduit for the metal point and the stone; even if her eyes were shut, she felt sure that the fossilised lovers would be uncovered – hidden in the centre of the creamy white interior for 145 million years.

When enough of their secret had been revealed, when they could breathe once more, she put down her tools and went indoors. Time to get warm and carve some words.

***

This week Rochelle Wisoff-Fields chose a photograph of one of my sculptures for our Friday Fictioneers writing prompt. I’m really excited to see what stories come out of it. To join in or, or to read everyone else’s stories, click here.

This is a limestone sculpture I did some time ago and the picture was taken when I was about half-way through the carving. The black ‘heart’ on the side is simply me working out in charcoal the shape of the sculpture as I go along – you can also see black lines on the one of the face’s eyebrow and eye lid, which show me where to carve.

Short Story: Life-sized plastic giraffe’s head and other stuff

January 24, 2013January 24, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 53 Comments

It was our game. It was what we always did when we went to the beach. You wouldn’t believe the things we’ve found over the years – a life-sized plastic giraffe’s head, a wooden carving of Michael Jackson, and gloves, so many gloves you’d need hundreds of hands. Caps I can understand, but gloves?

What can I tell you? It was a beautiful morning, she was awake early, barking, scratching at the door. Didn’t even stop for breakfast. Thank God.

As soon as we were off the walkway she went straight to it. The smell, I suppose. Man’s boot, foot still in residence.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Renee Heath for the Friday Fictioneers writing group. Each week writers from around the world attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m a little over.

I’ve been looking at tumblr and came across this amazing photographer taking pictures of things found on the beach. Click here to take a look at the pictures.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture or to join in.

Short story: When we were seventeen

January 17, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 31 Comments

“Mary-Anne, do you remember the tree by the river, when we were seventeen?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, of course,” said the man on the telephone.
“I don’t know who you are.” I said, but didn’t hang up.
“I recall you complained about the sun in your eyes, and that the dappled mare was baring her teeth. I told you she’s only jealous, so I could see your smile.”
“How did you get this number?”
“I know you haven’t forgotten. I know you think about it often,” he said, laughing in that infectious way he had when he was alive.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the Friday Fictioneers writing group. She is also our kind host for all our stories. Each week writers from around the world attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m spot on. This week I owe a huge debt to the musician Iron and Wine and his song ‘The Tree by the River‘.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture or to join in.

Short story: The silence of Clementina Bird

January 10, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 51 Comments

When Clementina Bird was seven she took up the cello. She became so all consumed by the instrument that a short while later she announced she was going to stop speaking.
“From now on the cello will be my mouthpiece,” she said to us at dinnertime. Even at a young age Clementina had a way with words, so it was rather a shame.
When asked a question she plucked a low string for no and a high string for yes. If she wanted attention she bowed vigorously.

Clementina’s silence lasted six months, until her A string snapped, when she was heard to exclaim in a loud voice, “Oh confound it!”

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Roger Cohen for the Friday Fictioneers writing group run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We all attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m slightly over. And despite loving the picture, I really struggled.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture or to join in.

Short story: Fireworks

January 3, 2013January 3, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 34 Comments

“Wow,” he said, still out of breath as he rolled off her. “That really blew my mind. Fireworks or what!” He put his arm around her. “Did the earth move for you too?” All she felt was overwhelming disappointment. He hadn’t kissed her sloppily, or undressed her as if he was a hungry puppy, like the last boyfriend. He had been loving and patient, and although she hadn’t reached that elusive orgasm, it had gone well, for a first time. But she knew already she wouldn’t be seeing him again. His use of clichés was positively indecent.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Lora Mitchell for the Friday Fictioneers writing group run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We all attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m slightly under. Although Rochelle asked us to suggest the genre in our title, I prefer, at least in these short pieces for people to make up their own mind. So, literary fiction? humour? erotica? You tell me…

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture or to join in.