Short story: The last note

April 24, 2013April 24, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 76 Comments

He wrote her five notes after they first met, and when she was in the bath, he hid them around her house – behind a painting, under a rug, in the toe of an old tennis shoe. She found them one by one over the years. Notes of love, recalling the heady rush of newness.
Until only one remained.
“Tell me where,” she begged, already old. “Give me one clue.”
“In the library,” he said eventually.
Every day she took down a book and flicked through its pages; and finally, one afternoon, a scrap of folded paper fluttered out.

***

I’m flattered this week that Rochelle chose a photograph of my libary at home. My piece this week is based on a true story. My partner Tim and I did write notes to each other and hid them in each other’s houses. We live together now, and I know that there is one final note in a book, that I’m yet to find.

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.

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: Floraminifera

April 18, 2013April 19, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 33 Comments

William spent his days with his face glued to a microscope, sifting through London clay, counting and recording the fossils of floraminifera – micro-organisms which had once drifted in the tropical seas that had covered England. Their honeycomb swirls floated behind his closed eyes as he fell asleep in his single bed, in his flat shared with strangers.

William dreamed of a different life; one where the last thing he saw at night was his wife, and the only things he counted and recorded were his children.

***

I wrote a different story about William, counting floraminifer, but it was too cryptic even for me, so I scrapped it and started again. This one is a well short of 100 words, but I’m not sure there’s anything I want to add. William is someone I once knew, who was a very sad man. I hope he’s happier now. It turns out that the picture prompt is a wasps nest, but it reminded me of the micro fossils, floraminifera, like this one:

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 Janet Webb.

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.

Story story: The Last Laugh

April 11, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 18 Comments

“Should’ve known that old biddy would try to have the last laugh. I spent hours chasing cats out of her garden and vacuuming because of her allergies. Left four of her five grandchildren a million each; left me that old three wheeler I admired once, just to be polite.

You hoping maybe it turned out to be an antique, or a time machine? Nah, it’s still rusting in my front garden. But I’m having the last laugh now. All my childless cousins dead; left me their money – guilt, I reckon. I’m a rich man, but the cats’ home’s getting it all.

Now, where do I sign?”

***

I really struggled for inspiration this week. It’s a great picture, but nothing really came to me, and I’m not that happy with this piece – a bit of a cliche.

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 Sandra Crook.

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: Memories of food

April 5, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 31 Comments

We sat under the tree and my father tore at the dark bread and pared strips of cheese with his knife. The cheese was warm and reminded me sickeningly of the milk I had thrown up. I hollowed out the soft part of the bread and pushed the cheese inside. An albino vole in a mud bank wrinkled its snout at me. It became a brown mouse with a yellow nose sitting on my knee, twitching its whiskers.

“Just eat it, Peggy,” my father said, his eyes closed. I stuffed the bread and the cheese between the roots of the tree.

Much later, when we were starving, I dreamt of that food, left behind, wasted.

***

This week I’ve cheated a little – this is an edited extract from my novel (currently called Our Endless Numbered Days). I’ve just finished it and this week have been sending it out to agents. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

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 Scott Vanatter.

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: After the lights go out

March 27, 2013March 27, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 61 Comments

I don’t remember the lights going out. I was three. Fifteen years of living in the dark, with only our dwindling reserves of lamp oil to illuminate the night.

“Emergencies only,” Papa always warned. I worried that I wouldn’t recognise an emergency: Ants in the honey? A full slop bucket? Losing Grandmother’s wedding ring under the bedcovers?

Papa fell from the ridge beam while fixing the roof. Coughing blood, he took to his bed on Saturday, the same day that Judith went into labour. That night, I lit two lamps; the night that baby Elinor was born and Papa died.

***

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: 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.

***

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.