death

Short story: Choices

/ Claire Fuller / 16 Comments

100_7320-1“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: 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

Short story: Skeletons in the garden

/ Claire Fuller / 48 Comments

aqueduct-sarah-ann-hall

I only met him once when I was a child, at Nan’s house. She had sent us out from under her feet, with homemade lemonade lollies. We squeezed through the railings into the overgrown garden of the big house.

“Do you want to see a skeleton?” he asked. I could only nod because my tongue had become stuck to the ice.

He showed me two tombs, side by side, yellow-blotched and broken. When I refused to look inside, he left me crying in the summer nettles and cow parsley.

I was 25 when I next met Thomas, my brother.

***

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 my word count is 99.

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

Short story: Batteries dead

/ Claire Fuller / 32 Comments

Dr Elliott never disclosed any secrets, not even to those closest to him. He simply stored them away. In his final hours he wanders through the rooms in his mind.

Go there now, feeling your way in the dark, stumbling down unfamiliar steps, fingers following the rhythm of wood panelling. Fumble for the filing cabinet – unlocked, ready for your visit. Pull on the handle, hear how well-oiled Dr Elliott keeps it. A beam in the dark – a torch; its light flickering; the batteries fading. It highlights manila files: Hepworth, Agnes; Hepworth, Samuel; Hewer, Rebecca; Hewer, William. Dr Elliott’s mind trembles and the torch stutters. Dr Elliott heard two decades of William Hewer’s secrets and now his file is open in your hand. You shine the torch on the yellowing photograph: your son, aged five – blonde, pale, confused. There is a pain in your heart remembering the day it was taken. You blink and the torch blinks with you. Tap it against your palm, it pulses once, twice and turns off. Batteries dead.

***

This was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for Friday Fictioneers 100 word (or in this case 175 word) writing group.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture, provided by Sean Fallon.