Short story: The taste of Dairylea

325677100_5847d03090He 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.”

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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

danny-bowman“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?”

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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

aqueduct-sarah-ann-hall

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.

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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 99.

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.