Category Life

Redacted

freyathewriter 8 Comments

It’s beginning to feel as if life has always been this way. Most days, I forget the months and years of Before. We took all that for granted. We complained about endless summer holiday boredom. What I wouldn’t give to be bored, right now.

Water needs to be collected from the standpipe two streets away. Little Sarah has taken on that thankless task, balancing a container on her head and carrying it ‘like the African ladies’, so she tells me. She thinks it’s fun.

Davina deals with our washing. She found the twin tub in the shed, got Lance to drag it out for her. Thank goodness it still had the mangle attached. We turn the rollers by hand and squeeze the water out of our clothes. Nothing is really clean, but we manage a sight better than most. The kids down the road – the two Underwood boys and a couple of other strays – are filthy and stink to high heaven. They make me feel sick. I’m not sorry for them.

I’m glad we hadn’t moved to the countryside. What about the farm animals, broken loose and roaming half-feral and starving across the overgrown fields? How would I know what was safe to eat? At least we can take tins from the warehouses by the docks and know what’s inside. Lance finds our food – he’s quick, strong and knows all the shortcuts, away from the empty main streets, away from the danger.

They had said we should leave, that it wouldn’t be safe in the city. But we’ll be OK for a bit, at least until the next Collection. And we know the hiding places – They don’t.

“Lucy, Lucy.”

Sarah is tugging on my sleeve.

“Yes, sweetheart, what is it?”

“When’s Daddy and Mummy coming back?”

My heart creases. The pain is as sharp and overwhelming as ever. She hasn’t forgotten them either. I had hoped she would be saved from that, at least.

“Never, honey. I’m sorry.”

She hugs me, hard, locking her fingers together behind my back, squeezing the breath out of me. “And how long is never?”

Too long.

History Lesson – Friday Fictioneers

freyathewriter 33 Comments

Here is this week’s entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Here are the rules: Use the photo as inspiration, write a hundred(ish) words – and share! Here goes my offering for this week – and I welcome your comments again!

Copyright - Claire Fuller

Copyright – Claire Fuller

 

– History Lesson –

“Is this it, Grandad?”
“Yes, Tommy, this is it. We climbed up to the roof with buckets of water and bags of sand, and waited.”
“For the, the –“
“The Luftwaffe, that’s right.”
“But why did they want to firebomb the church? It’s not very important!”
“Ah, well. There was a big factory next door. That’s what they were after.”
“So, did they sometimes make a mistake?”
“Yes, so we had to stop the church burning down.”
“But why, Grandad?”
“Well, me and your Grandma wouldn’t have been able to get married here. Where would we be then?”
“And she wouldn’t have been buried here either, Grandad!”
“No, lad. Shall we take her these flowers, then?”

*****

Click the blue froggy to read other writers’ offerings – and enjoy!

 

Havana – Five Sentence Fiction

freyathewriter 19 Comments

It’s time for my second offering to Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction, a weekly prompt where there is no word limit, just a limit on the number of sentences. Plus, although she provides a word prompt, it is just for direction only – you don’t have to include the word itself in your contribution.

This week, the prompt is FABRIC. And this week, I managed not to use the word itself (result!).

Let me know what you think! And whilst you’re at it, why not take a look at everyone else’s offerings (I’m sure they’ll be fabulous), and even give it a go yourself…

*****

– Havana –

Laila surveyed the packed room, delighted at the brilliantly-clothed, rainbow-hued guests passing gently to and fro, each of them grasping a fizzing champagne flute.

The low murmur floating above their collective heads was punctuated frequently by echoing belly-laughs as small groups shared a joke, their joy bouncing off the walls and raising smiles all around.

“You’ve done a brilliant job, there’s not a sad face here, nor a shred of black,” said her uncle, giving her a reassuring squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “It’s everything that he would have wanted; a final last hurrah to send him on his way.”

“Chin, chin, Dad,” she whispered, and raised her own glass to the sky where she imagined him to be, smiling down on them all, fat cigar in hand.

*****

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