Post Haste – Sunday Photo Fiction

June 22, 2014June 29, 2014freyathewriter 10 Comments

Working for the Royal Mail used to be something Stephen felt great pride in, carrying on the family tradition of his great-great-great uncle, Samuel Robertson. He had been a forthright gentleman, by all accounts.

Stephen unlocked the curved door of the letterbox and removed the basket from its belly. In a few minutes, the hungry mouth that had swallowed thousands of letters for decades would be blocked up, probably forever. What a sad day.

Reaching into the gloom, Steve ran his hand inside before locking it shut. ‘Just making sure,’ he thought, not really expecting to find anything.

The dusty, dirty envelope he pulled out looked like it had been trapped inside for decades. The writing was faded, but Steve could just make out the name on the front of the envelope. “’Mr Stephen Robertson’,” he read, surprised. “That’s me! But…?”

He opened it, hastily, furtively. It was addressed to him, but how could it be? Was he breaking the law, he wondered? He pulled out the single piece of paper, hands shaking.

“’Dear Stephen, do not decommission this letterbox. There will be consequences. I remain your servant, Samuel Robertson, Esq.’”

“As you ask, Samuel, mate, as you ask,” thought Stephen, driving away.

————–

Here’s my latest entry into Alistair’s Sunday Photo Fiction. He supplies us with his own wonderful photos, so deserves our support! Happy Sunday, all….

Do take part if you have time, or just pop over and read the other entries.

Resurrected – VisDare 66

June 19, 2014freyathewriter 2 Comments

I grew up in silence, a hindrance to my parents.

The woman would stare at me. I soon learned to disappear like the morning mists.

They didn’t want me, and yet the times that I left were countered with them hunting me down.

Irony dogs me now, its reprimand fiercer than any they could ever inflict. My heart is barren and blasted and yet here I am, in charge of this child.

I don’t know who she is. We could be the only people left alive after The Burning. The land is scorched and skeleton trees pierce the white-hot sky.

Who is she?

She is terrified. I remember such a feeling.

I allow the carapace around my heart to crack. I take her small hand in mine. I am awkward, lost in my own wilderness.

“Will you look after me?”

The words fall from my lips, not hers.

——-

Here’s my latest entry into VisDare this week, the prompt run by the lovely Angela. The response came to me almost immediately – it’s a beautiful, heart-wrenching image. Please do pop over to her blog and read the other submissions – no two will be alike!

Reticence – Magpie Tales

June 15, 2014freyathewriter 30 Comments

Not To Be Reproduced, 1937, Rene Magritte

Christophe folded his clothes, laying them out on his bed before placing them in his suitcase, precisely and methodically. So it had ever been.

He did not need to turn from his to task for the exact layout of the room to be available to his memory. Burnished mahogany armoire to his left, ornate chest of drawers in the recess next to the fireplace and elegant sash windows to his right. The deep sash windows, each lower pane lifted precisely six inches to allow a healthy breeze to refresh the stale air, were dressed in elegant plum brocade curtains.

Nothing had changed since he had left all those years ago.

“Monsieur?” His manservant stood in the doorway, hands open in enquiry.

“Oui, Gaston. I am ready.” Christophe snapped shut his case, locked it and pocketed the key.

“Will we be returning… after, monsieur?”

“Non, Gaston. I am here to do my filial duty, that is all. We will leave as soon as the service is complete and the mourners have left. They expect nothing more, nothing less.” Christophe stared at Gaston, daring him to comment.

Gaston said nothing.

The father and son had not spoken in twenty five years, and now Monsieur Clement the elder was dead.

If they had anything to say to each other, it was too late now.

——

Here’s my latest entry to Magpie Tales. I have been fascinated with Magritte’s art since discovering him as a teenager – my step-Dad has a book of his art on the bookshelves at home. ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ was my favourite, partly because of the play on words. This story is certainly not reflective of my relationship with my step-Dad, thank goodness! I thought there was something mournful about this painting, hence the tone of my piece.

I hope you enjoyed this, do let me know what you think.