Short story: The Agglestone

March 5, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 47 Comments

‘Come on, careful’ said Flora laughing and walking backwards uphill, her hands holding those of the blindfolded Richard. She had that September first-day-of-school excitement inside her. ‘It’s worth it, I promise.’ Richard’s foot slid on the loose stones of the path, and he staggered, swearing. ‘Careful,’ she said again.

At the top she guided him over the rock on his hands and knees. ‘Keep right! Now sit. Ready?’ She pulled the scarf from his eyes. Laid out before them was a woven cloth of purple heath and bright gorse, trimmed with yellow sand, then beyond, the slow, sleepy-headed sea.

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This week I’ve been roped into a blog tour about ‘My Writing Process’. If you’re interested, you can read my post here.

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Danny Bowman) 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: Funeral for a Bell

February 19, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 53 Comments

Dear Rex,

Yesterday the clapper broke on that old bell you bought me on our honeymoon. Perhaps the rain had rusted the chain through, or I had been too vigorous with ringing the children back from the beach for supper.

You aren’t here to fix it; you aren’t here to fix anything anymore. Today we hefted the bell into Flora’s old pram and wheeled it down to the sea, like a big brassy baby. We dug a hole, laid the bell to rest under the sand and toasted it with flat lemonade. When I went back tonight I was sure I heard it ringing.

Yours,

Roselotte

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by David Stewart) 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: Private view

February 12, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 48 Comments

The room was noisy with chatter and braying laughs. Margaret squeezed between clusters of people, smiling, raising her glass above her head; her breasts towards the men, and backside to the women. The paintings were too abstract for her liking, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses and she was on her third sangria.

She stopped in front a small oil. The title, ‘Woman with yellow hair’ swam alarmingly when she leaned forward. She lifted the painting off the wall, peered closer and without looking around slipped it into her handbag.

At the door Margaret felt a hand on her arm.

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Earlier this week, Ruth Hunt posted a Q&A with me about my writing process, on her blog. Click here to have a read, or to contact Ruth if you’re interested in her featuring you.

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Janet Webb) 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: enlightment

February 5, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 44 Comments

As he drove his car up the drive, Rex saw that every light in the house had been lit, making the windows glow like a wall of old masters in mahogany frames: shabby sitting room piled with books, bedrooms showing unmade beds and in the kitchen, the silhouettes of his grown-up daughters, arguing. He could imagine the conversation:

“I’m going to call the police.”
“No! That’s what he wants. The attention.”
“But he might be dead, in a ditch somewhere.”
“Then let him stay there. Teach him a lesson.”
“Margaret!”
“I mean it.”

Rex put his car into reverse.

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This week my story was also inspired by a long weekend I spent in the Gothic Temple in Stowe Landscape gardens, which my husband organised for my birthday. This magnificent building can be rented from the Landmark Trust. On Sunday night we put all the lights on and went out into the dark. It looked amazing.

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Dawn M. Miller) 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: Boxes

January 29, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 67 Comments

Flora liked to press her nose up against the workshop windows and watch the men working. In summer, when the doors were open, she played on the threshold, making mountains from the sawdust and stick people from splinters.

Workers fed planks to the machines and pressed each sheet, until blonde curls fell around their feet, as if the men were hairdressers, not carpenters. The boxes they hammered together were stacked five-high, awaiting collection. Flora tried to imagine her mother laid out in one of them, but the picture wouldn’t stick; even after five years, her mother was still out there somewhere, still swimming.

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by me!) 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: A place to write

January 22, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 24 Comments

“But you’ve the whole house to write in,” Rex said, loading a tray with wine and olives. “Better than a shed at the end of the garden.” His hand was already on the back door, pushing it open.

“A shed with a view of the sea and a bed,” Ingrid said, but he was already gone.
She heard a wail start across the hall. “Mum, Flora pinched me!” A door slammed. “Mum. Tell her.” The children’s argument spilled into the kitchen where Ingrid stood at the window watching Rex’s retreating back.
“A quiet shed,” she whispered, and turned to her girls.

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Björn Rudberg) 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: Morning swim

January 15, 2014April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 50 Comments

At first Ingrid only swam when she could get a babysitter, but eventually the call of the water was so strong, she left her children sleeping; always returning before they woke and never telling Rex what she had done.

She especially liked to swim in the early mornings after the river flooded. The idea of submerged paths and fences and even barbed wire lying beneath the still, grey water, thrilled her.

And when she returned home, goose-bumped and muddy, her hair would drip onto the cheeks of her sleeping children, and she would promise to never leave them again.

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Sorry that this week’s story is about wild swimming again, but I’m having a bit of thing about it in the book I’m writing. (To read last week’s, click here.)

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this beautiful picture (this time supplied by Erin Leary) 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: Night swim

January 8, 2014January 8, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 47 Comments

No one had looked up when Margaret had said she was off out. However, instead of going to book group, she undressed on the beach and stood, naked, under the vast arc of an inky sky studded with stars. At her feet was the sea, lapping the concrete steps with its cold, black tongue.

Margaret lifted her arms above her head and dived. She swam underwater as far as her breath would take her, then when she surfaced, Margaret turned and trod water, looking back at the string of town lights behind the dunes. She had never felt so alive.

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Dawn Landau) 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: Identification

December 5, 2013April 25, 2014 / Claire Fuller / 9 Comments

Rex went to the police station alone, leaving the girls in a cafe drinking cocoa. “Hot chocolate,” Flora insisted. Their faces bruised by worry.

He was told the handbag had been found in an empty squat, but he wasn’t sure about it; Ingrid had owned so many bags and it was six years ago. Six years already! But he remembered the photograph found in an inside pocket, now in a clear plastic evidence bag. Rex smoothed the wrinkles: Ingrid on the beach with Flora and Margaret eating ice cream. He wanted to snatch the photograph out and tear it up.

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture, supplied this week by Randy Mazie 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.

Crossing time: 4 minutes

November 27, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 37 Comments

“Why did you let her bring the jigsaw? We’ll be across before she even gets the lid off.” The passengers lurched as the ferry’s chain engaged.

“It keeps her occupied.”

Margaret up-ended the box so that scraps of leaves and sky and dogs fell under the table. Her father huffed and stared out of the window at the advancing shoreline while she and her mother laughed. There was another jolt so that the standing passengers clung onto each and beer and tea sloshed onto the stained carpet.

“Unfortunately,” announced a disembodied voice “mechanical problems are causing a delay to this crossing.”

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture, supplied this week by Ted Strutz 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.