About trishsplace

Australian wife and mother, born in Dublin, Ireland. Aspiring author (that is, I don't work at it enough!). Light and conversational tone. All thoughts my own.

Six sentence story – Love on the Line


The whole of her; heart, mind, body and soul were guarded, her standard state of being and today was no different. You’d think she was facing down lions or gladiators in the colosseum, rather than the one who held her heart, who promised to shelter, support and love her for what was left of their lives. But time had taken from her and left shredded skin and tattered soul and what light used to be at the end of the tunnel had become a barely discernible pinprick of light. Hope hurt, wonder teased, and it always seemed that joy was just out of reach. Shelley didn’t know if she could let her love behind the walls she had spent so long building, into the earthy temple, the humble retreat that kept her safe. But, oh how she wanted to welcome her lover, deeper than physical satiation, exalted above all other, to promise, to hold, to cherish; to guard.


Prompt provided by GirlieOnTheEdge

Rules of the hop:
Write 6 Sentences. No more. No less.
Use the current week’s prompt word.
Link up at Wednesday’s post. Link goes live at 6:00 pm through Saturday late…
Spread the word and put in a good one to your fellow writers 😀

PROMPT WORD:  GUARD

Friday Fictioneers – Open Heart


You opened your heart

exposing vulnerability

laid bare hopes, dreams, fear.

You welcomed unreservedly

risked hurt

your light shone bright.

You stood tall, strong yet fragile

You sought communion, connection

You called to life

Your day in the sun too short

Your view of the future curtailed.

As the sun moves away

As light leaves the day

So too, you retreat.

Slave to a seasonal beat. [67 words]


Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for continuing to set this 100 word or less challenge. It is certainly a commitment appreciated by many. Other 100 word stories can be read here.

Author note: I cheated this week and used something I’d already written – to this flower! Hope you enjoy it. Trish

Simply 6 Minutes – Returned

Countryside, by water, with the ruins of a church

A Drowning Church: Shettihalli

Things are so changed

I’m out of place

I do not recognise this space.

I try to touch

Bare stone

Grey grass.

My hand through everything does pass.

It seems that I have been away

The years have gone

And left decay.

While I have lingered

Wasted time

Moved on while I lay sleeping.

Now what has woken up my soul

Returned me to this world?

If once I left this mortal coil

Then why am I reborn?

A call, a cry, birds circle high

A human calls in pain.

I flit and float and find the ground

Upon which wastes a babe.

Oh, what has happened here, sweet child?

Oh, why are you abandoned?

This must be why I’m called to earth

To save you is the challenge.

I sit beside you, desperate child

My presence holds off vultures.

All I can do to is sit and wait

And hope somebody finds us.

Thank God, here comes a curious man

Intrigued by nature’s hawkers

And now, he’s found you baby, so

I’m free to leave you, daughter.


Thanks to Christine for this weekly challenge.

Simply 6 Minutes Challenge Note

  • Set up a timer or sit near a clock so you can keep track of the six minutes you will be writing.
  • You can either use one of the prompts (photo or written) or you can free-write.
  • Get ready and write for 6 minutes, that is it! Can you write a complete story? Can you think of a new Sonnet? Can you write 400 words? 400? 500? There are no restrictions on what kind of writing you do, but you should try to be actively writing for six minutes.
  • After you are done writing, include your word count and then post back to this page #Simply6Minutes or include your link in the comments section. Pingbacks are enabled.

City Girl

When lost and lonely, at last there’s home


View of the Melbourne CBD skyline, from Port MelbourneEver since I arrived in the city I have been afraid.

Childhood memories of family and love in my country home bounce off concrete and glass. Bootsteps echo off pavement, sometimes sharp, sometimes blunted they pace out my trembling emotions.

Six months ago my mother died after a battle with cancer, and with her went my family and the last good reason to stick around our dying hometown.

As was typical of many small town communities, the young left for the city lights as soon as possible, while everything else aged and withered. Businesses closed, reasons to remain removed.

Although I was delighted at the cash injection the sale of our home gave me, I felt some guilt. The treechange purchasers were delighted at the acreage, white fencing, trees and livestock and the heritage touches throughout the house. In a town where everybody else was running away, had these lovely people blindly stumbled into a dream, or a nightmare? I sincerely hoped they had a plan, but their excitement equalled my freedom. I thanked them every day, while I hoped for their continued happiness.

I have been alone and lonely in this culturally rich yet anonymous space. Lucky to find a cadetship at a premier newspaper, I was a very small fish that knew by heart my colleagues coffee orders. Timid in the face of abundant confidence, I listened, watched and learned while scribbling ideas and stories into my ever present notebook.

Two weeks ago a hello popped up on my Instagram. Nick was four years older and far above me on the school social scale, a sports hero and heartthrob for all the senior girls. And kindness itself to the wide eyed, wannabe reporter on the sidelines of every school and community event. He was always ready with a word bite and a smile for my camera. Many of those photos landed on my bedroom wall.

The feather in my cap was when he pulled me up onto the stage his last year of school, captain of our home footy team, when they won the premiership.

‘Our special mascot, local writer, Annabelle Corey. We couldn’t have done it without her,’ he announced to the crowd.

I could have died with embarrassment and hurrahed with delight. His arm was over my shoulder, he was sweaty and on the nose, but he knew me and cared. The highlight of my high school years – one hundred percent!

He’d left a trail of broken hearts when he accepted an offer to play AFL in Melbourne, but it was a glorious gift for him. To have a paying sports career while he studied engineering, his future was golden.

And this god had reached out to me.

‘Hey, Belle. Jungle drums have beat the news that you’re on my patch. Have dinner with me. My shout. It’ll be great to meet the grown-up Annabelle. You look gorgeous on Insta and I see you’re at The Age. Dreams do come true! Love, Nick.’

Love, Nick.

So here I was at the door of a too trendy-for-words inner city restaurant, staring at my reflection. Vibrant chestnut hair, pink flushed cheeks, nibbling my bottom lip, procrastinating. What would I say? Would he like what he saw? Would we find common ground? Would he like me?

The door opened and there he was. AFL fit, bronzed, with short, blonde and tousled hair and his beautiful warm eyes lasered onto me.

‘There you are,’ he said. The sun blazed across his face, his smile embraced me. ‘You took your time, sweetheart. Welcome home.’ [593 words]


RWA Aspiring Authors (friendly) September flash fiction challenge. 

Max 1,000 words

Story needs to start and end with a four-letter word and include the words, feathers, trail, boots and echo.

Friday Fictioneers – give a little rope

A white church with a steeple topped with a cross, and an old barge-like boat beside it

Photo prompt by Jade-Li

‘Father, do you know something we don’t?’

‘What do you mean, Johnny?’

‘The boat, Father. Have you had word from God, to be prepared?’

‘One should always be prepared, son. Ready to meet the Lord, our God. Strong in faith and confessed of sin. Be kind to your sister, and your friends. And to animals. When you reach the gates of heaven …’

‘Father, I’m only ten! Will I be meeting God soon then? Is that why you have a boat, to help me cross the river Styx?’

‘Styx is in Hell, son. You ….’

‘I’M GOING TO HELL?’


Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for continuing to set this 100 word or less challenge. It is certainly a commitment appreciated by many. Other 100 word stories can be read here.

Simply 6 Minutes – in my sixth decade

A monkey (lemur?) dancing in the desert


In my sixth decade, I do not dance!

How sad is that?

It would be amazing if I found my funky bone.

Grooved to a beat without compunction.

Swayed groovily to the sweetest dance track.

 

At home I twist and shout as I vacuum up dust.

Sing loudly in the car, tap a rhythm on the wheel.

Catch me singing to canned music in the supermarket aisle.

When a favourite tune pops up.

I push that trolley with a perky style.

 

But since I married in ’91, I have not danced in public.

I’ve been to several weddings, but I’m the boring one stuck in her seat.

And by extension, so is my husband who I’m sure would cheerfully stomp around the dance floor.

But he’s tethered by me.

Who he adores and promises ‘it’s no trouble’.

 

As I child I loved to dance. I’d cut the rug to Tina Turner (you know the tune)!

I’d dance to anything and everything with my sisters!

School socials were to die for, because woah – music, and dancing and more dancing

And donuts!

 

In my sixth decade, I long to dance and yet I can’t let go.

I’m body conscious.

I’m afraid I’ll look an old idiot.

I feel it’s too late

But I welcome everybody to cut a groove at my funeral.

 

In fact, I shall build the Spotify funeral playlist today!

And leave out dirges, and ballads and keep in Rock n Roll.

 

In my sixth decade.

Tragedy!


Thanks to Christine for this weekly challenge.

Simply 6 Minutes Challenge Note

  • Set up a timer or sit near a clock so you can keep track of the six minutes you will be writing.
  • You can either use one of the prompts (photo or written) or you can free-write.
  • Get ready and write for 6 minutes, that is it! Can you write a complete story? Can you think of a new Sonnet? Can you write 400 words? 400? 500? There are no restrictions on what kind of writing you do, but you should try to be actively writing for six minutes.

After you are done writing, include your word count and then post back to this page #Simply6Minutes or include your link in the comments section. Pingbacks are enabled.

A time to die

Synopsis

The day started badly and went downhill from there

(Written for Round 2 of #nycmidnight #flashfictionchallenge2022 – submitted August 2022)


Suspect or criminal man with handcuffs being interviewed by detectives in interrogation room after committed a crime

‘You’re a saint, Shirley.’

Michael looked terrible. I’d known he was sick before I entered Michael Roche, Lawyers. We’d spoken earlier and the husky voice and wet hacking cough were solid clues. Now faced with the fug of germ-infested air, deeply sunken eyes, lank hair and BO strong enough to ward off zombies it was clear that today illness was the MVP.

He’d pulled an all-nighter, weighed down by his fever. There was no rest when dealing with the wicked and our criminal client list was long and scary. There’d be no patience with postponement. Michael had to pull it together, and fast.

I’d come prepared with freshly dry cleaned shirt and suit, mentholated ointment, paracetamol and homemade broth. I’d also brought in a ring burner to keep it warm through the day.

‘Boss, you smell disgusting and look worse.’ I opened windows. An avalanche of tissues had hidden his desk. ‘Do you have shares in Kleenex? That’s a lotta landfill.

‘Give me a break, I’ve never been so ill. I’m secreting green globs. I can hear the ocean and we’re 200 miles from water. My head is killing me, and Ma Jenkins is due any minute.’

‘Followed by Mo the Beast, Curly the Butcher and Samantha the Striptease. It’s a full schedule, boss. A dangerous mix’

‘You’ve brought food?’

‘Yeah. My grandmother swore by this meat bone tea. Pork ribs and Chinese herbs combined. It is guaranteed to pick you up, expunge ill humour and spit you back out bouncing and raring to go.’

‘I’m sure it’s delicious, but I can’t smell a thing. Don’t think I’ll be able to taste it either.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know if I can get through the day.’

‘Get this inside you.’

I handed him a steaming bowl of broth, some paracetamol and cleared away the tissues.

After a moment, I saw he was slumped over the empty bowl, almost asleep. I roused him to standing and herded him toward his private bathroom.

‘Is he alright?’ Ma Jenkins, diminutive but deadly mob matriarch and mourning mother of Johnny Jenkins, drug dealer. Michael’s failed defence left Johnny languishing in Long Bay prison on a 10-year stretch. Always, anger blazed behind her pale eyes.

Michael appeared and took Ma’s limp hand. He appeared in better health, a real improvement.

‘Good morning, Mrs J.’ He gestured at me to leave. As I pulled the door closed, I saw Ma Jenkins peering into the herbal broth.

Ma was keeping her cool. It wasn’t always the way. She was a powder keg waiting to blow and it was a lottery which version we’d get on any given day. But as Michael guided her to the lift after their meeting, she was crying softly.

‘She was quite maternal,’ he whispered. ‘She asked after my health, told me I should be home in bed and topped up my empty bowl. Forced another couple of tablets on me too.’

‘A bit soon, boss.’ And very suspicious behaviour, I thought. ‘Do you know your skin is yellow?’

Michael shrugged.

‘She seemed resigned to Johnny’s fate. We won’t see her again.’

‘Mo is up next,’ I reminded him. ‘We’ll need to hurry him along, don’t want him here when Curly and Sam arrive.’

Mo the Beast was a local enforcer. As a favour to Ma, we’d taken his case of assault with deadly force a year ago, thinking him innocent. We should have known better. He treated me well, but he was brutal with the working girls under his sway. And he had history with Samantha.

I sensed Mo’s arrival before he’d stepped through the door. The air stilled, dust motes held in stasis, traffic noise abated. Then the tattooed bulk of Mo the Beast blasted into the room.

‘Morning, Shirley,’ he rumbled.

‘He’s waiting,’ I said. I treated our clients as naughty children, while braced to defend. They needed to know who was boss. I was not submissive but also careful to not poke the bear. We had cops on speed dial.

On parole, Mo had ‘allegedly’ roughed up a punter at the club where he ‘bounced’. Mo was desperate, disappointed, scared even. Michael couldn’t fix it.

My heart melted when I saw Michael had an arm across Mo’s shoulder as they exited his office. He could be so gentle with them. He’d removed his suit jacket and his tie was loose, he’d relaxed. Mo appeared subdued and defeated.

Then, catastrophe. A picture of dejection came face to face with the epitome of arrogant confidence in the form of Curly the Butcher, with Samantha on his arm. They were stylish, dashing and debonair – and deadly killers. They entered laughing, then stopped dead.

Sam sidled into Michael’s office, while Mo and Curly faced off. She had good defensive instincts.

‘Let’s take it down, gentleman,’ suggested Michael. Neither man was prepared to give. They were deadlocked.

Suddenly, Ma Jenkins rocked up. Great. The full circus was in town.

‘Boys,’ she said.

Immediately the tension released. Mo nodded to Ma, who inclined her head toward the lift. Curly swaggered into Michael’s office, reunited with Sam who was lazily stirring the hot broth. Ma joined them, whispered something to Samantha, patted Curly’s shoulder then floated back out.

Michael sighed deeply and broke into another wet cough. He was beginning to fade.

‘Boss, you should call it a day,’ I said. Curly and Sam lurched away from the broth. They seemed guiltily relieved.  

‘We can come back,’ Curly said. ‘No problem. Get better, slick.’

Michael slumped into his chair, slurped fresh broth, shook pills into his hand and waved us away.

He was sleeping when I checked back. He’d tipped his bowl. Broth spilled across his desk and dripped to the floor.

I closed the blinds, mopped up the spill with remaining tissues, and turned off the burner ring.

‘Time to go, boss’.  

He didn’t move.

‘Michael?’ 

Friday Fictioneers – a longing

Watercolour painting of a short glass vase containing a collection of seashells, set upon on a piece of wood.

Photo prompt by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

At the corner of my eye, it distracted me

That delicate blown glass, inherited from our nonna.

The one she carried tenderly from Burano

Tantalizing and fragile.

***

There were children, and dogs and large clumsy men

Bumping and thumping their weight about the house

We ladies chopped and stirred and turned out cake

We spoke our truths, lovingly broke bread

While that heavenly heirloom tottered in space.

***

How it held. How it waited

For a moment of inattention

It wanted to tumble, it longed for displacement

Too many years stood still

Sedentary, stable, stagnant.

***

It wanted to fall. [94 words]


Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (fearless leader) for continuing to set this 100 word or less challenge. Your commitment is appreciated by many.

Other 100 word stories can be read here.

Six Sentence Story – waste not

Waste your life in maudlin, moaning; that is a sin.

We have but a minute, so get stuck in to it.

Push fear aside, source courage, raise your chin.

***

It is not easy, so stand your ground.

Envision your joy, tell your story.

Dance and sing and bring the world and all her children with you on the journey.


Prompt provided by GirlieOnTheEdge

Rules of the hop:
Write 6 Sentences. No more. No less.
Use the current week’s prompt word.
Link up at Wednesday’s post. Link goes live at 6:00 pm through Saturday late…
Spread the word and put in a good one to your fellow writers 😀

PROMPT WORD:  SIN

Simply 6 Minutes – one face in the crowd

A field of sunflowers were all but one face forwards. One lone sunflower faces toward the camera.

Sunflowers

A life spent huddled in the crowd. Somewhere toward the middle, but often trailing behind.

Individual dreams not allowed. A herd mentality encouraged.

For a long time I didn’t wonder if there was anything else. It never crossed my mind.

I couldn’t see further than my own footprint in the sand, with a  peripheral sense of others.

But we all faced forward and did our duty.

We were blind.

***

One day, I tripped on some unevenness. That stumble broke my reverie.

The crowd walked around me, taking a sideways step to avoid collision.

Not one body reached down to pick me up.

I watched them retreat, then looked around me.

Nothing to the left. Nothing to the right.

***

I completed a turn so I was facing behind, from where I had come.

Fields of dreams, towering castles, lowing animals, buzzing insects.

I had been unaware and now had awakened.

I turned to look forward. I was unrestrained. I was freed.

***

What could I do? No boundaries. A wealth of unknowns.

Endless opportunity.

Freedom. [173 words, 6 minutes]


Thanks to Christine for this weekly challenge.

Simply 6 Minutes Challenge Note

  • Set up a timer or sit near a clock so you can keep track of the six minutes you will be writing.
  • You can either use one of the prompts (photo or written) or you can free-write.
  • Get ready and write for 6 minutes, that is it! Can you write a complete story? Can you think of a new Sonnet? Can you write 400 words? 400? 500? There are no restrictions on what kind of writing you do, but you should try to be actively writing for six minutes.
  • After you are done writing, include your word count and then post back to this page #Simply6Minutes or include your link in the comments section. Pingbacks are enabled.