Tag Archives: flash fiction

Madame Cuisinier – Friday Fictioneers.

It wasn’t a case of who done it. Rather, it was just a question of whether Madame Cuisinier knew that migratory quail were toxic, and would kill her husband.

Of course, nobody wanted to believe, that a Great Grandmother could kill her husband.  Married for over 60 years, they’d been born in Paris during the Occupation. Why not get a divorce? Why go to all the trouble of catching and preparing the quail and concocting that wonderfully fragrant yellow sauce, m’qalli, just to poison him? Why not feed him cake?

Madame Cuisinier wondered why she couldn’t follow through with their plan. Why she couldn’t eat the dish. It would’ve been the perfect end.

…..

My apologies for going a bit over this week, but I couldn’t work out how to shortened this complex tale. I’ve been watching Masterchef lately and couldn’t by-pass a food reference.

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff Fields  PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays.

Best wishes,

Rowena

Babushka…Friday Fictioneers.

Before Grandma’s body had even turned cold, the aunts, uncles, cousins, and even my own father were all out in the backyard digging, searching for Grandma’s buried treasure. A fanciful storyteller, all my life she’d spun wondrous tales of the Romanov’s and Russian royalty. Yet, that didn’t correlate with the woman working at the Hobart Jam Factory.  Of course, she was Russian. Her accent was straight out of a Bond movie, but Russian royalty? Then, the spade hit metal and Dad unearthed a metal box.  She might not have been Anastasia, but her grandfather had been her killer.

……

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff Fields. PHOTO PROMPT © Connie Gayer. BTW Babushka means grandmother in Russian.

Best wishes,

Rowena

Caution & Risk…Friday Fictioneers.

After much coercion, Ingrid reluctantly agreed to join Klaus on a precarious bus trip through the Peruvian Andes to Huaraz.

Known as “Captain Risk”, Klaus embraced extreme sports, and would jump off a cliff attached to a rubber band. Meanwhile, Ingrid was “Captain Caution”… scared of heights and nauseous on a Ferris wheel.

Yet, she was still a photographer.  As the magnificent condor soared majestically across the canyon, Ingrid saw nothing else. Indeed, she didn’t see the sign until Klaus grabbed her by the wrist, saving her life.

That, she wrote in her journal, was better than a proposal.

99 Words

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers Hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields . This week’s PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg.

 

 

Blow My Candles Out! Carrot Ranch Fiction.

“Happy Birthday, Honey. I’ve checked all the ingredients. Even your cardiologist says it’s fine…gluten free, sugar free, fat free.” Sue tried hard to smile. “So, you can have your cake and eat it too.”

“So, what IS in it?” Richard growled, longing for Nigella’s Nutella Cake instead. As much as he loved his wife and family, he wasn’t sure it was worth coming back for this new life with all its restrictions. He couldn’t even breathe without asking for permission first.

“Carrot cake? I am NOT a horse! I’m off to the pub. You can blow my candles out!”

……

Every week, Charli over at Carrot Ranch hosts a flash fiction challenge where you write 99 words to a prompt.

March 16, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about carrot cake. It can be classic or unusual. Why is there cake? How does it feature in the story. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by March 20, 2018, to be included in the compilation (published March 21). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!

 

The Silent Bomb- Carrot Ranch.

It was Henry’s tenth birthday and strangely his big sister, Kate, was only too happy to bake his cake. Indeed, she even suggested Mum took Henry out for a special, birthday milkshake.

Mum was so proud of her thoughtful daughter, that she jumped onto Facebook: “Proudest Mum moment. World’s Best Daughter! Milkshakes with Henry, while Kate’s baking Henry’s Birthday Cake.”

Meanwhile, Kate carefully cut out the middle of the cake. Blew up the balloon, stuck it inside and smothered the lot in chocolate icing. The bulging cake might have looked nine months pregnant, but at least it didn’t tick.

……

March 8, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that features a balloon. It can be a party balloon or a hot air balloon. How does it add to your story? Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by March 13, 2018, to be included in the compilation (published March 14). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!

xx Rowena

Weekend Coffee Share 11th March, 2018.

Welcome to Another Weekend Coffee Share!

If we were having coffee, you might need to hold me up this morning. Prop open my eyelids. I was burning the midnight oil again last night, and if you check out my previous post, I was Writing By Rainbow Light.

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You see, I was feeling a bit agitated like I needed to burn up some nervous energy. I couldn’t quite pinpoint it at the time. However, we watched a documentary by Michael Moore about gun violence in America called Bowling Columbine. Have you seen it? He was trying to understand why the rate of gun deaths are so high in America and looked at a number of possible culprits like the availability of guns, high levels of gun ownership, ethnic diversity and I could have this wrong, but I think it came down to a culture of fear. I’m not sure. I’m not sure why channel SBS had such a focus on guns in the US last night, because this was followed by a show about the NRA and attempts to tighten gun controls after Sandy Hook, which failed. No wonder I was feeling wound up and stressed after this. I felt powerless and gun violence literally makes me feel sick. I lead a very quiet life when the rest of the family goes out, and I just don’t encounter such things. The worst I might see is a rumble between my pups, and so I haven’t been desensitized. I must say that it’s a different story when everyone else comes home.

In other news, I am still fighting off the sinus infection. Fergus the Phlegmeister…buzz off! Today, I bought some kind of sinus flushing kit. I swear I’ve lost weight since I caught this thing and the kilos just keep pouring out my nose.

Last week, it was our son’s 14th birthday. Being a school day, it was fairly low key. However, my mother came up and we went out for lunch together, which was really great. This is quite a rarity as we usually do things with the kids in tow, or she has the kids so I can have a break. It also happened to be International Women’s Day, so it was good to spend it with her. In previous years, I’ve gone in the local march but it wasn’t held this year due to the council amalgamation. Wasn’t real happy about that as I like to do my annual thing  to fly the flag, especially as I can feel it’s the last bit of independent woman left in me. Anyway, these days disability rights are more my concern.

Anyway, I made my son what could have been the richest cake in history…a chocolate cake filled with Nutella and butter cream and topped with lush chocolate icing, and I decorated it with strawberries. It looked scrumdidillyumptuous, but I didn’t get to try it. He took it off to youth and, as expected, they scoffed the lot. Didn’t expect anything but the crumbs to come back. They were down on the waterfront and gave him a bit shout out.

On Saturday, I finally managed to watch our son sailing his boat…Fury, a Flying 11. Since I’m usually driving our daughter to and from dance, I don’t get to the sailing club very often and my husband misses out on much of the dancing as well. Anyway, the weather was glorious with warm blue skies without too much heat and the wind seemed to be about right. At least, I didn’t hear any complaints. If you’d like to read more about it, you can click through here: Sailing On The Wings of Poesie

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By the way, just a brief commercial break to say that I just found Rosie, our Border Collie x shark, chewing on my watch, which she’d picked off the bathroom vanity and she chewed through one of the bands. Grr! This chewing is starting to add up. I’m off to the butcher today. Next, she’ll be off to the dentist for extractions!

I also had a bit to say about that in Puppies of Mass Destruction.

In terms of writing, once again I took part in Friday Fictioneers. This week’s effort, A Stone In My Pocket, addressed the spiritual ramifications of suicide and also referred to a philosophical dilemma known as Pascal’s Wager. This proposes that it’s safer to believe in God than not, because there are no consequences if God doesn’t exist.

Well, I think that sums up the last week fairly well. How was your week? I look forward to popping round and catching up!

Best wishes,

Rowena

BTW The featured image this week was taken in Cologne in 1992 and I’m drinking a mug of Hot Chocolate with cream. Yum!

The Last Rose of Summer…Friday Fictioneers.

There was something different about this rose…the last rose of Summer. While the harsh Autumn winds had claimed the rest of her kin, she stood firm, holding her petals in tight. Clearly, she was waiting.

Once upon a time, I would’ve known she was waiting for me. That she would be my bride. I’d have pulled out my violin, and accompanied her sweet song. Kissed her tenderly, sweeping the dew drops from her heart.

However, the winds had changed. Tortured by her thorns, I only knew love’s scars.

I did what I must.

It was off with her head.

……

Rosa_'Old_Blush'

“The Last Rose of Summer” is a poem by the Irish poet Thomas Moore. He wrote it in 1805, while staying at Jenkinstown Park in County Kilkenny, Ireland, where he was said to have been inspired by a specimen of Rosa ‘Old Blush’.[1] The poem is set to a traditional tune called “Aislean an Oigfear”, or “The Young Man’s Dream”,[2] which was transcribed by Edward Bunting in 1792, based on a performance by harper Denis Hempson (Donnchadh Ó hÁmsaigh) at the Belfast Harp Festival.[3]

I have been researching my Irish roots for many years and recently started researching a group of Irish Famine Orphans from Midleton Workhouse County Cork who emigrated to Sydney, Australia. These girls included my 4th Great Grandmother, Bridget Donovan. I have been trying to pick up a bit of Irish cultural history and came across this dramatic poem.

– Wikipaedia.

“The Last Rose of Summer”

‘Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff Fields. PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford