Short story: Alice’s bedroom

June 11, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 27 Comments

Alice woke disorientated with the early morning light seeping around the edges of the curtains. The murky outlines of spitfires painted across the sloping ceiling a reminder that she was in her brother Thomas’ childhood bedroom, tucked away in the attic. The bedroom where he had played and slept, and grown up without her.

Alice got out of bed, and still confused with the layout of the room, she missed the way through to the hall entirely, and instead opened a small door tucked under the eaves beside the fireplace. She ducked and went through to another room, dark and thick with stale air. Alice fumbled her way along the walls, bending her head low to avoid their inward slope. After she had negotiated a corner, her fingers found a switch – old fashioned, with a ball on the end of a stick. She flicked on the light and the bare overhead bulb illuminated a four poster bed draped in dusty velvet. Covering these walls was another mural, not fighting planes this time, but a dark land of trees entwined with vines and ivy. The sun shone in rays through this exotic jungle, and in every shaft of light golden fairies hovered, their filigree wings blurred with movement. It was a girl’s room.

“Mum had it decorated for when you came to live with us.” Thomas stood in the doorway of the secret opening through to his bedroom.
“I never came,” said Alice.
“No, you never came home,” said Thomas.

***

This story is from a prompt given by Trifecta – an online writing group. Each Monday writers are challenged to write a story between 33 and 333 words using a specified word and its meaning. This week the word is light and the meaning is a source of light (celestial body, candle or electric light). Click here to read some other responses or to join in.

I’d love to hear what you think about this piece – good or bad. Let me know in the comment box below.

Short story: You don’t take sugar

June 6, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 16 Comments

The cafe was full of mothers, noise and empty pushchairs. They blocked the spaces between the tables, their previous occupants wriggling in laps, crawling underfoot and getting in the way of the waitresses who held plates of hot food over the heads of the customers and squeezed sideways between the chairs.
“Why did you suggest this place?” said Thomas. “It’s hardly private.”
“What?” Alice said raising her voice above the racket.
“Everyone will hear us,” Thomas shouted and the woman at the next table turned to stare.
Alice shuffled her chair closer and leant in. “Is that better?” her voice was low in his ear. “It’s the perfect place not to be overheard.” He could smell the soap she used, lime and something herby, basil or thyme perhaps. “Besides, I only agreed to meet to say that it has to stop. We have to stop.”
“It’s too late to stop now Alice,” Thomas said tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She pulled away and dropped two sugar cubes from the bowl in front of them into her black coffee. “You don’t take sugar,” he said.
“I do now.” She stirred her coffee so some of it slopped over into the saucer.
He put his fingers on her wrist and she let them rest there. “Everything’s alright. No one knows?” He didn’t mean it to sound like a question, but he was aware of a subtle shift in power.
“We’re freaks,” Alice said angrily. Thomas tightened his fingers around her wrist. “I’m a freak!” Alice stood up, her chair scraped against the floor and a woman plucked a child out of the way.
“No Alice,” Thomas hissed, still holding on to her. “It’s natural. We love each other.”
She yanked her arm up and out of his grasp. “And you’re the worst freak of all.” The woman at the next table looked again and Thomas stared her down, but when he turned back, Alice was pushing her way out to the street.

***

This story is from a prompt given by Trifecta – an online writing group. Each Monday writers are challenged to write a story between 33 and 333 words long using a specified word and its meaning. This week the word is freak and the meaning is one that is markedly unusual or abnormal. Click here to read some other responses or to join in.

I’d love to hear what you think about this piece – good or bad. Let me know in the comment box below.

Short story: The taste of Dairylea

May 28, 2013May 28, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 24 Comments

He said he would bring a picnic. I imagined smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, which we would open up to sharpen with lemon quarters and fresh black pepper. I imagined chilled wine in real glasses. He brought Dairylea cheese triangles, a litre bottle of diluted blackcurrant squash and his son.
“You didn’t tell me you were a father,” I said. We watched the boy, aged about five, jump to grab a spindly branch from one of the specimen trees. He caught it and pulled hard until the branch started to tear away from the trunk.
“Don’t do that Sam,” Thomas called half-heartedly from beside me on the lawn. “Didn’t I?” he said to me.
“It doesn’t appear to be coming very naturally,” I said, wiping the top of the plastic bottle. I took a swig; it tasted of cream cheese.
“I’m still getting used to the idea. Give me another couple of months and I’ll have got the hang of it.” I passed him the squash.
“A slow learner?”
“Not exactly,” he said without looking at me. “I only found out about Sam’s existence three months ago.”

***

This story is from a new writing group for me – Trifecta. Each Monday writers are challenged to write a story between 33 and 333 words long using a specified word and its meaning. This week (seventy-nine) the word is appear and the meaning is to have an outward aspect: seem. Click here to read some other responses or to join in.

I’d love to hear what you think about this piece – good or bad. Let me know in the comment box below.

The photograph belongs to http://www.flickr.com/photos/y_ordan/

Short Story: Bad Line

May 23, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 16 Comments

“Hello? Hello? The line’s really bad. I can’t hear you.”
“We have to stop.”
“What? You’re breaking up.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Breaking up, yes.”
“Speak louder.”
“I can’t see you again. I shouldn’t even be calling. It’s all too risky.”
“I really can’t tell what you’re saying. I’m going to hang up and call you.”
“No!”
“Was that no? Shit. This is ridiculous. You can’t call me in the middle of the night and then not make any sense. Move to the window or something.”
“Is that better?”
“Hello? Hello?”

***

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 89.

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

Short story: Skeletons in the garden

May 15, 2013May 15, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 48 Comments

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.

***

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: Life and Death in The House of Bones

May 3, 2013May 3, 2013 / Claire Fuller / 32 Comments

The girl paced the attic in The House of Bones. The catenary arches bowed high overhead as if she had been caught in between the ribs of a giant creature. When the pains came she leant over the laundry baskets, the soiled linen muffling her cries. On the terrace, she squeezed her eyes shut against the view of the city and clung to the lines of drying sheets. Eventually, she made herself a bed of pillows and coverlets in an alcove, as a cat might find a corner of a barn. She gave birth alone, kissed her child and then she was gone.

***

Some of you who read my post from about four weeks ago, might remember that I said I was sending out my first novel to agents. Well, I’m very excited to say that I now have an agent – Jane Finigan from Lutyens & Rubinstein, in London. I’m going to be working on a few revisions and then she’ll be sending it out to publishers. So, the first hurdle, at least, has been jumped.

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. The local name for Casa Batlló is Casa dels ossos or House of Bones, and apparently the attic rooms used to be where the laundry was done.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture from Kent Bonham 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.