Flash fiction: The squat

June 18, 2014June 18, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 42 Comments

Faded paper drooped from the walls like slouching down-and-outs, and a mattress curled up in a corner, ashamed of its stained nakedness. Flora held her breath – not from the stench – but from the idea that Ingrid might once have slept here, under the old newspapers; their corners flapping from the broken window’s breeze.

She kicked at a pile of dirty clothes, refusing to believe what the police had told her and the evidence in her pocket. The rags shifted, moaned. Flora jumped, put her hand to her mouth.

‘Ingrid?’ she said.

But the sunken-cheeked face that peered out at her was a man’s.

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Mary Shipman) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in.

And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Flash fiction: Thirteen Years Gone

May 21, 2014May 21, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 44 Comments

‘They questioned everyone who had been by the river that day,’ said Hedda. ‘All the picnickers, the dog walkers. It was hours too late by then, of course. But people remembered her; she was very striking, my mother.’

‘And?’ said Richard.

‘No one saw where she went. One moment she was there, the next gone.’ Hedda shrugged, resigned, no longer tormented.

‘Really, nothing?’

‘Well, perhaps one thing. When the morning mist cleared, Dad went back to the river and waded to the far bank. He found footprints, in the mud. Right size.’

Richard raised his eyebrows.

‘The toes pointed away from the water.’

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Erin Leary) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in.

And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Flash fiction: The Wolf’s Clothes

May 14, 2014May 14, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 19 Comments

‘Ingrid!’

I turned and there you were, leaning out of the car window, into the rain. ‘Get in, get in, you’re drenched.’ You had that smile on your face, the one you must have practiced, the one that always made me weak. I got in.

I stared at you as I dripped onto your leather passenger seat. ‘Suited and booted,’ you said, wiggling the knot of your silk tie in the rear view mirror. ‘Will I do?’ You already knew that you would. ‘A wedding. Come with me!’

‘Looking like this?’

‘You look good enough to eat,’ you said.

I started with a wolf in sheep’s clothing when I looked at this photo, but then I seemed to move onto a wolf in wolf’s clothing. Never mind, we could always just say it was ‘lamb to the slaughter’. And for those of you who missed him, the ‘you’ in this story is Rex.

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Sandra Crook) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in.

And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Short story: A candle to light you to bed

April 30, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 39 Comments

There was a power cut when Hedda brought Rex home from the hospital. Flora had been sitting in the dark on the verandah waiting for them, breathing in the sea’s tang mixed with honeysuckle on the warm evening air. She lit a candle and they helped their father into bed with barely ten words spoken between them.

Flora had thought it had been the candlelight hollowing out his eye sockets, gouging craters into his cheeks and throwing grotesque shadows upon the bedroom walls, but in the bright light of morning Rex’s face hadn’t changed. She knew it wouldn’t be long.

***

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Renee Heath) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Short story: The Older Man

April 23, 2014April 24, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 40 Comments

You drove us out to a country pub for our first date.

‘There’s some live music on that I think you’d like,’ you said, although now I realize it was so we wouldn’t be spotted together by anyone from the university, anyone who thought what you were doing was wrong.

The place was packed, everyone swaying and singing together. You pressed your body up close behind mine, your laughing breath in my hair.

In the break I pushed through to the bar. ‘Another white wine,’ I shouted over the crowd’s noise.

Nodding, the barman shouted back: ‘And what would your father like?’

***

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Bjorn Rudberg) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Short story: Home truths

April 16, 2014April 29, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 44 Comments

Flora remembered her mother, Ingrid, sitting on the edge of Hedda’s bed telling stories about Queen Cnut of Norway who succeeded in turning back the tide, and Wilhelmina Walker who spent six years – as long as Flora had been alive – putting concrete under the cathedral so it wouldn’t sink into a watery grave. Hedda, who was twice Flora’s age, rolled her eyes at the tales and then pretended to be asleep. Ingrid always finished by saying, ‘Women can do anything men can do’.

Years later, when Ingrid left them for a new life, Flora knew that what her mother had said was true.

***

The picture this week reminded me of William Walker, a deep-sea diver who did spend six years underwater, shoring up Winchester cathedral so that it didn’t collapse. You can read more about him here.

***

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Doug Macllroy) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Short story: The Lion’s Mane

April 9, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 47 Comments

The giant creature pulsed, once, twice, propelling itself forward through the water, blue tentacles trailing in the wake of its translucent body, like streamers wafting sadly on a filmy chandelier the morning after a party.

Flora and Richard stood naked at the edge of the sea, foam gathering around their ankles while they watched the horizon turn from a deep ultramarine to orange.

‘Ready?’ she said, nudging him.

‘Will it be cold?’

‘Bloody freezing.’

‘At least you’re honest.’

‘The only way is to do it quickly.’ She took his hand and they ran forward.

The creature turned.

***

A Lion’s Mane is one of the world’s largest jellyfish; the body can grow up to two metres wide, with metres of tentacles with powerful stings.

***

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by DLovering) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Short story: Loved

April 2, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 38 Comments

I stood where they told me, hidden in the dark margins of the studio, to watch you in the spotlight. You mesmerized them, studio crew and interviewer (and me), laughing and then hushed, hanging on your every word. I was so proud. They all loved you, your book, your perfect life, projected. I loved you too, then.

Loved you when the production assistant whispered, ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’

Loved you when she said, ‘A bit of a rogue though.’

Loved you. ‘Apparently he has a wife and child in the country.’

Loved. “And a woman in every city.”

***

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Kent Bohnam) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Short Story: Tooth

March 26, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 45 Comments

Flora lay on her back with her legs and eyes open. Over the boy’s shoulder, branches and leaves swayed to the rhythm of the sea breeze. She focused on a bright mark on a tree trunk until the boy had finished. It was the afterwards time she did it for, when she could lie with someone’s arms around her.

Later, after she had taken the boy and his tattoos home to shock her father, she returned to the tree and hacked at the bright spot with a penknife until what had been hidden there dropped into her palm.

***

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by John Nixon) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to read other people’s amazing stories or to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions for improvement on mine.

Short story: Dead Salt Pond

March 12, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 39 Comments

Richard hadn’t walked around Dead Salt Pond for years, but he let the dog lead the way. When he had first taken Sophia there, when she was still his student, the jetty had been newly built; firm, dark planks stretching out over the reeds. Now it was silvered and rotten, holes showing a patchwork of sunlight and shadow on water.

That day, he and Sophia made love for the first time, in the dunes behind the beach.

“Marry me,” he asked, at the end of the jetty.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” she said. “Richard, you do know I’m still seventeen?”

And he saw the rest of his life charge towards him, unstoppable.

***

Our stories are meant to be 100 words long, give or take a couple of words, but this is 114. I put the last line in, took it out, put it in, took it out, put it in… Should the last line have been taken out? I’d be really interested to know what people think. Let’s have a vote!

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Adam Ickes) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to read other people’s amazing stories or to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions for improvement on mine.