Short story: Nothing to worry about

/ 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.

church_and_tree-claire-fuller

Questions for Americans

/ Claire Fuller / 6 Comments

9508707233_4acdef5fb7I just came back from my honeymoon – a two-week road trip around California. America is a foreign country. Well that’s not news for most English people, but it was news to me. My new husband and I wrote diaries each and in a month or so, we’re going to share them with each other to see if we want to stay married. No, not really; to see how differently we saw what we thought we had shared. I haven’t written a diary consistently even for two weeks since I was a teenager and it was fun, and interesting. But it threw up more questions than answers. Here are some of the questions. Perhaps any American readers can help me with the answers:

  • I think we saw a herd of zebra on Highway 1, or maybe it was just the sea fog rolling in from the Pacific. No, we really did. Zebra in California?!
  • Where did the expression ‘holy cow’ come from? Ron, (from Denver, married to Jeanie, lovely man who liked to ask us questions each morning, like ‘can you get fruit in England?’ and would reply ‘holy cow’ when we said could get any kind of fruit he would care to name), liked to use it regularly.
  • I could probably find this out from Google, but when are bears most active and can they see well in the dark? When we were locked out of our remote cabin (a whole other story), we found bear poo by the rubbish bin. Definitely bear poo – berries and all. Never saw the bear though. Anyone got any bear stories they’d care to share?
  • Why do US signs in the woods, like ‘keep off my land’ start with the word ‘Posted’? I could see that they were posted.
  • Are there still independent diners in America and how do I find them? I was so disappointed not to be able to sit in a red vinyl booth and eat apple pie in my whole two weeks. The closest we got was one of the Black Bear Diners, which is a chain and wasn’t that great, but we were served by Jesus. Really, we kept the receipt to prove it.
  • Is it usual for hummingbirds to look through windows? We saw lots of hummingbirds in America. They were very exotic and exciting to us, but no Californians seemed to get quite so worked up. Perhaps they are the equivalent of our wood pigeons. Anyway, several times I saw them hovering in front of windows. Were they looking in, or just admiring their own reflection?

All answers gratefully received.

Short story: Cafe Disparaît

/ Claire Fuller / 48 Comments

anelephantcant

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

/ 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.fleeting-copyright-indira-mukherjee

Short story: The Dinner Date

/ Claire Fuller / 21 Comments

2319497253_ba55124d1f (2)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

/ Claire Fuller / 10 Comments

2253636547_7049aee83dPressed 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

/ 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.

Simple plain trail on blue sky

Short story: Alice’s bedroom

/ Claire Fuller / 27 Comments

Picture courtesy of www.flickr.com/photos/foovay/

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.

Short story: You don’t take sugar

/ Claire Fuller / 16 Comments

http://www.flickr.com/photos/craftivist-collective/The cafe was full of mothers, noise and empty pushchairs. They blocked the spaces between the tables, their previous occupants wriggling in laps, crawling underfoot and getting in the way of the waitresses who held plates of hot food over the heads of the customers and squeezed sideways between the chairs.
“Why did you suggest this place?” said Thomas. “It’s hardly private.”
“What?” Alice said raising her voice above the racket.
“Everyone will hear us,” Thomas shouted and the woman at the next table turned to stare.
Alice shuffled her chair closer and leant in. “Is that better?” her voice was low in his ear. “It’s the perfect place not to be overheard.” He could smell the soap she used, lime and something herby, basil or thyme perhaps. “Besides, I only agreed to meet to say that it has to stop. We have to stop.”
“It’s too late to stop now Alice,” Thomas said tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She pulled away and dropped two sugar cubes from the bowl in front of them into her black coffee. “You don’t take sugar,” he said.
“I do now.” She stirred her coffee so some of it slopped over into the saucer.
He put his fingers on her wrist and she let them rest there. “Everything’s alright. No one knows?” He didn’t mean it to sound like a question, but he was aware of a subtle shift in power.
“We’re freaks,” Alice said angrily. Thomas tightened his fingers around her wrist. “I’m a freak!” Alice stood up, her chair scraped against the floor and a woman plucked a child out of the way.
“No Alice,” Thomas hissed, still holding on to her. “It’s natural. We love each other.”
She yanked her arm up and out of his grasp. “And you’re the worst freak of all.” The woman at the next table looked again and Thomas stared her down, but when he turned back, Alice was pushing her way out to the street.

***

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 long using a specified word and its meaning. This week the word is freak and the meaning is one that is markedly unusual or abnormal. 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.

Short story: The taste of Dairylea

/ Claire Fuller / 24 Comments

325677100_5847d03090He said he would bring a picnic. I imagined smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, which we would open up to sharpen with lemon quarters and fresh black pepper. I imagined chilled wine in real glasses. He brought Dairylea cheese triangles, a litre bottle of diluted blackcurrant squash and his son.
“You didn’t tell me you were a father,” I said. We watched the boy, aged about five, jump to grab a spindly branch from one of the specimen trees. He caught it and pulled hard until the branch started to tear away from the trunk.
“Don’t do that Sam,” Thomas called half-heartedly from beside me on the lawn. “Didn’t I?” he said to me.
“It doesn’t appear to be coming very naturally,” I said, wiping the top of the plastic bottle. I took a swig; it tasted of cream cheese.
“I’m still getting used to the idea. Give me another couple of months and I’ll have got the hang of it.” I passed him the squash.
“A slow learner?”
“Not exactly,” he said without looking at me. “I only found out about Sam’s existence three months ago.”

***

This story is from a new writing group for me – Trifecta. Each Monday writers are challenged to write a story between 33 and 333 words long using a specified word and its meaning. This week (seventy-nine) the word is appear and the meaning is to have an outward aspect: seem. 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.

The photograph belongs to http://www.flickr.com/photos/y_ordan/