Category Short Story

Stoned – Friday Fictioneers

freyathewriter 14 Comments

Here is my latest 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!

claire-fuller-3

Copyright – Claire Fuller

“What’s that you’ve got there, then?”

“Go away, it’s mine.”

“Alright! I just wondered what it was. And why you keep on staring at it.”

“Its what they call a mirror.”

“Never heard of such a thing. What does it do?”

“It doesn’t do anything –“

“Oh, yawn, yawn! So dull –“

“If you’ll just listen! Ladies have them, to make themselves beautiful.”

“Oh, well, that’s different then! Give it to me! Perseus will just die if I’m even more pretty!”

No, no, don’t look at your reflection! What about -?!”

Damn. Silly Medusa. Vanity had the last laugh there then. Or rather…

 

 

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Click on the blue froggy below to read others’ offerings!

Croix de Guerre – Magpie Tales

freyathewriter 31 Comments

frampton, meredith, a game of patience 1937

A Game of Patience, 1937, Meredith Frampton

‘They don’t know who I am,’ thinks Sarah, placing the cards deliberately, slowly, carefully on the table in front of her. The waiter walks past with a tray of drinks. He is heading to the back room, the private room, which hasn’t been available to anyone but a select few for several months. It is what it is, for now.

“Mademoiselle Dupont?”

The voice is firm and confident. Good, he has belief.

“Oui, Monsieur Levillaine. But please, call me Elodie.” She gesticulates to the chair opposite her, sweeps the playing cards together and returns them to their tattered cardboard case.

“And please, call me Guillaume.”

He takes a seat, places his newspaper on the table, a half-smile playing around his lips. He is handsome, with a five o’clock shadow just beginning to show even at this early hour. It covers the light scar creasing his jaw line from earlobe to chin – the scar that Sarah knows so well.

Drinks are brought to the table and sipped, and desultory conversation follows. The streetlights glow as evening descends. The men in the private room prepare to leave, chairs scrape the parquet floor as they gather scarves, coats and hats. The mood appears to be light, oiled by brandy. They have no reason to be serious or concerned, after all.

Her guest takes his leave just before the private room empties. He places his hat on his head at a jaunty angle as she stands and they faire la bise – one, two, three – then he is gone.

The grey-uniformed men flow past, paying no attention to the quiet woman sitting at the corner table, reading Le Figaro intently.

The pack of playing cards is safely ensconced in her guest’s coat pocket. The next link in the chain is complete.

The man stands outside in the shadows, lights a Gauloise, watching his wife through the windows of the restaurant. He has never been more proud, never been more afraid for her.

Hidden in plain sight is a dangerous, dangerous game, even in these desperate times.

——

Here’s my latest entry to Magpie Tales. I’ve not heard of this artist before but I do love this painting. I have no idea why my mind went to World War Two and the Special Operations Executive – but there you are. She just looked like she was waiting for something.

I hope you enjoy it – and please do visit Magpie Tales for more poetry and prose!

 

magpie tales statue stamp 185

Like sweet bells jangled – Magpie Tales

freyathewriter 26 Comments

waterhouse john william sweet-summer-1912

Sweet Summer, 1912, John William Waterhouse

Ophelia is waiting for her lover in the sultry summer sun.

For him, she has shunned her family and cast aside her morals, her instincts and above all, her better judgement.

The garden appears to be sheltered and obscured from the view of passers-by. However there is a place in the wall where, if you place your eye just so, you will be rewarded with the full spectacle of the fountain, the camellias, the lawn and anyone who cares to rest within.

Ophelia knows this and she also knows who else knows this. Isn’t this hidden gem where the lords and ladies of the kingdom, inflamed with their desires and wants, their peccadillos, flock to catch a glimpse of their hearts’ desires?

She can feel the heat of them, these eyes. She can imagine the carefully plucked eyebrows rising in shock to see her, the future king’s potential wife, lying here in such disarray.

She is imprudent with desire. It will take very little to tip her over into the sweet, dark abyss.

To her at least, in this moment, it will be worth it.

——

Here’s my latest entry to Magpie Tales. Waterhouse is another one of my favourite artists, along with Millais. This painting to me is reminiscent of Waterhouse’s Ophelia, so I was drawn to writing about the tragic young noblewoman who took her own life in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. A great deal of poetic licence has been taken, of course.

I hope you enjoy it, and that the sense of madness comes through.

The title ‘Like sweet bells jangled’, comes from Ophelia’s speech when she is fretting on Hamlet’s seeming loss of mind:

“Oh, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!—
The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword,
Th’ expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
Th’ observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That sucked the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatched form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ecstasy. Oh, woe is me,
T’ have seen what I have seen, see what I see!”

magpie tales statue stamp 185