Short story: Breathless

January 30, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 95 Comments

It was cold in the studio, breath steaming, her fingers frozen rigid around the chisel. The mallet beat a rhythm and the chisel moved, but she was simply the conduit for the metal point and the stone; even if her eyes were shut, she felt sure that the fossilised lovers would be uncovered – hidden in the centre of the creamy white interior for 145 million years.

When enough of their secret had been revealed, when they could breathe once more, she put down her tools and went indoors. Time to get warm and carve some words.

***

This week Rochelle Wisoff-Fields chose a photograph of one of my sculptures for our Friday Fictioneers writing prompt. I’m really excited to see what stories come out of it. To join in or, or to read everyone else’s stories, click here.

This is a limestone sculpture I did some time ago and the picture was taken when I was about half-way through the carving. The black ‘heart’ on the side is simply me working out in charcoal the shape of the sculpture as I go along – you can also see black lines on the one of the face’s eyebrow and eye lid, which show me where to carve.

Short Story: Life-sized plastic giraffe’s head and other stuff

January 24, 2013January 24, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 53 Comments

It was our game. It was what we always did when we went to the beach. You wouldn’t believe the things we’ve found over the years – a life-sized plastic giraffe’s head, a wooden carving of Michael Jackson, and gloves, so many gloves you’d need hundreds of hands. Caps I can understand, but gloves?

What can I tell you? It was a beautiful morning, she was awake early, barking, scratching at the door. Didn’t even stop for breakfast. Thank God.

As soon as we were off the walkway she went straight to it. The smell, I suppose. Man’s boot, foot still in residence.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Renee Heath 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’ve been looking at tumblr and came across this amazing photographer taking pictures of things found on the beach. Click here to take a look at the pictures.

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.

Short story: When we were seventeen

January 17, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 31 Comments

“Mary-Anne, do you remember the tree by the river, when we were seventeen?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, of course,” said the man on the telephone.
“I don’t know who you are.” I said, but didn’t hang up.
“I recall you complained about the sun in your eyes, and that the dappled mare was baring her teeth. I told you she’s only jealous, so I could see your smile.”
“How did you get this number?”
“I know you haven’t forgotten. I know you think about it often,” he said, laughing in that infectious way he had when he was alive.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the Friday Fictioneers writing group. She is also our kind host for all our stories. Each week writers from around the world attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m spot on. This week I owe a huge debt to the musician Iron and Wine and his song ‘The Tree by the River‘.

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.

Short story: The silence of Clementina Bird

January 10, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 51 Comments

When Clementina Bird was seven she took up the cello. She became so all consumed by the instrument that a short while later she announced she was going to stop speaking.
“From now on the cello will be my mouthpiece,” she said to us at dinnertime. Even at a young age Clementina had a way with words, so it was rather a shame.
When asked a question she plucked a low string for no and a high string for yes. If she wanted attention she bowed vigorously.

Clementina’s silence lasted six months, until her A string snapped, when she was heard to exclaim in a loud voice, “Oh confound it!”

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Roger Cohen for the Friday Fictioneers writing group run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We all attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m slightly over. And despite loving the picture, I really struggled.

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.

Short story: Fireworks

January 3, 2013January 3, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 34 Comments

“Wow,” he said, still out of breath as he rolled off her. “That really blew my mind. Fireworks or what!” He put his arm around her. “Did the earth move for you too?” All she felt was overwhelming disappointment. He hadn’t kissed her sloppily, or undressed her as if he was a hungry puppy, like the last boyfriend. He had been loving and patient, and although she hadn’t reached that elusive orgasm, it had gone well, for a first time. But she knew already she wouldn’t be seeing him again. His use of clichés was positively indecent.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Lora Mitchell for the Friday Fictioneers writing group run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We all attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m slightly under. Although Rochelle asked us to suggest the genre in our title, I prefer, at least in these short pieces for people to make up their own mind. So, literary fiction? humour? erotica? You tell me…

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.

Short story: 708 Fulton

December 29, 2012December 29, 2012 / Claire Fuller / 24 Comments

I thought I saw you today, going into 708 Fulton. You turned your head as you pushed the door open and the two hearts inside me leapt when I thought I caught a glimpse of ginger beard. Four lanes of traffic stopped to let me cross so I could hear you laugh again. The icy blast that followed me in, made the customers nearest the door glance up from their steaming coffee cups. Only the beardless man at the counter, an orange scarf still warming his neck, didn’t look at me standing there – expectant, yet already disappointed.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Jean L Hays for the Friday Fictioneers writing group run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We all attempt to write 100 words (or so); finally this week I kept it to exactly 100.

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.

Short story: Two glasses of sherry

December 19, 2012December 19, 2012 / Claire Fuller / 46 Comments

Even after fourteen years she still set two places at the table. The ritual brought her comfort – the mats with the holly borders, the Christmas candles, the crackers – still plenty left from last year.

“Not yet Stanley,” she said chiding the old tabby and shooing him to the floor.

She poured two sherries, placed them on the table and sat down, her bones creaking. With some effort, the cat jumped up to the empty place opposite, sniffed at the glass and backed away, nose twitching.

“It used to be your favourite,” she said. “Cheers Stan,” she lifted her glass and chinked it against the other.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Scott Vannatter for the Friday Fictioneers writing group run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We all attempt to write 100 words (or so); this week I’m slightly 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.

Short story: Lucid Dreaming

November 29, 2012November 29, 2012 / Claire Fuller / 33 Comments

At hourly intervals for two weeks Finlay had pinched his wrist until a purple bruise flowered there. But it wasn’t until his nightshifts finished and he tried to get back into a normal sleep pattern that it worked.

As soon as the dream started he knew it was different – the colours more vivid, the surfaces shinier, the edges of the buildings drawn in neon. And the people stared at him too, as if he was in the wrong dream. Finlay pinched his wrist – painless.

His only decision now was who to look for first.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for Friday Fictioneers 100 word (or so) group.

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.

Short story: Batteries dead

November 17, 2012November 17, 2012 / 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.

Short story: Rowing on the lakes of Canada

November 8, 2012November 8, 2012 / Claire Fuller / 6 Comments

My world is green, opaque. Fronds of women’s hair beckon me down. Slippery kisses against my pebble-dashed skin. Content, I sink to the gritty bottom to be nibbled by the fish, the eels, the worms until I will be divided into my constituent parts. Like oil and water I will separate and be remade as scales, shells and fronds of women’s hair.

Suddenly – a refraction, a disturbance of scattered light. Look for me another day I say to the hand reaching down towards me, but I am snatched from my watery home, coughing, choking back into the boat, like a newborn.

***

I wrote this to the beautiful Lakes of Canada sung by by Sufjan Stevens (originally by Innocence Mission). You can listen to it here (the song starts at .55).

I’m writing a novel and I used this picture prompt from Rebecca Tsaros Dickson as inspiration for a scene. So this piece of writing was a combination of novel, picture and music.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to join in or to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture, provided by dianavt.com.