Sunday Photo Fiction – ‘No birds came’

~ maryruth16 ~ 15 Comments

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Rosanna’s feeder hung stationary against a marshy grey sky but no birds came. The neighbouring garden; however, separated by a red cedar fence attracted all manner of birds. Swooping from great heights to land on a bird table in the centre, blackbirds, robins and even the odd green parrot would jostle for position as they pecked, squawked and nibbled their way through countless supplies of bird feed.

Rosanna watched the scene with sadness, wondering why the birds remained absent from her side. It seemed so unfair. Her neighbours were a couple with three lively kids and a dog while she was old and alone. She’d imagined the birds would be company of sorts, but perhaps it was her loneliness that put them off somehow. Nevertheless, every week she would empty and refill the feeder with seeds, in the hope that the birds might eventually have a change of heart.

One day, Rosanna heard a little whimper coming from the back of the garden so she ambled down to have a look. There, snuggled together on an old sweatshirt of her husband’s was a tabby cat and five black kittens, each mottled with white. When they saw Rosanna, they lifted their little heads and mewed in harmony. Rosanna laughed and gathered them up in her apron. And from that day she never felt lonely again.

This post was written for Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction – ‘Different genre, different shelf’

~ maryruth16 ~ 11 Comments

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He was an avid reader so they showed him their library. He should be safe in there, they said. But the shelf of books was anathema to Oliver; a haphazard mess of colour, size and genre.

His eyes ran along the titles on the spines. ‘Bird Photography,’ The Forge of God,’ ‘Cydonna…’

‘Not even in alphabetical order,’ he mumbled under his breath and his fingers twitched as he considered how to rearrange the books. As he did so, pinpricks of sweat began to appear on his forehead and his heart rate increased. He relaxed a little when he noticed that a novel by a man called Heinlein had been plonked next to a James Herbert but sighed loudly upon the realisation that a bunch of photography books were on the same shelf.

‘Different genre, different shelf,’ he muttered and began to chant it like a mantra as he emptied the shelves and placed the books in piles on the floor. He was soon so engrossed in the activity that he didn’t see his sister come in.

‘What on earth are you doing, Oliver?’

He glared at her. ‘Just arranging the books.’

She nodded and smiled then quietly closed the door.

‘The OCD,’ she whispered to her husband. ‘It’s worse than we thought.’

This post was for Sunday Photo Fiction

Back to the blog!

~ maryruth16 ~ 6 Comments

sss3.pngHappy to come third in Sometimes Stellar Storyteller Six Word Story Challenge this week after a long layoff!

After writing quite prolifically (for me anyway!) for the first six months of the year, I suddenly got stupidly busy with work and a cycling challenge, which has since developed into a wonderful hobby, and as a consequence I virtually neglected my writing. I’m terribly prone to procrastination so I need a certain amount of self-discipline and routine in order to get anywhere. It’s damn hard and even once I’ve established a routine, I don’t always find it easy to stick to it. I’m hoping that the dark, cold evenings will be conducive to writing – a period of introversion and solitude is long overdue I think.

Friday Fictioneers -Found at the bottom of some stairs (apparently)

~ maryruth16 ~ 11 Comments

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Found at the bottom of some stairs (apparently)

                There’s nothing more terrifying than waking up in a silent ward without any recollection of how you got there. It’s a natural instinct to stumble free of the starched sheets and stagger off down the corridors, trying every door. That’s what I did anyway

‘At the bottom of some stairs,’ said the doctor when I asked where I was found. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, love. We all make mistakes.’

But what was mine? Two pathetic glasses of wine?

Sketchy memories were one thing but total memory loss was another. Twenty years on and I’ve still no idea what happened.

Written for Friday Fictioneers

Sunday Photo Fiction – ‘The car boot sale bargain’

~ maryruth16 ~ 7 Comments

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Rob was obsessed with car-boot sales and every week he scoured the paper for new ones. There were so many now, popping up all over the place like pesticide-resistant weeds. They started early too, 6am in general. We gradually became accustomed to rising at 5 for a quick bacon sarnie and mouthful of coffee, then stumbling bleary-eyed out of the house to join the long line of cars snaking its way towards the muddy fields hosting the events.  Each time we’d take a bunch of old tat, most of which we’d return with, along with a bootful of new garbage, which Rob insisted would make us wealthy. ‘One man’s rubbish is another man’s riches,’ he’d say.
One particular Saturday he picked up a painted skull mask for £2.00.
‘How creepy,’ I said when I saw it.
‘It’s unique, Mabel. Quite a find. Look at the markings.’
But I couldn’t agree and the eerie thing even started to affect my sleep. I’d lie there for hours staring up at the ceiling, imagining it lurking in the next room. Of course we couldn’t manage to sell it and the E-bay auction dates came and went without a sniff of interest.
Then one day at 3 am, I heard a scuffle downstairs then footsteps.
‘Rob, Rob,’ I whispered. ‘Someone’s trying to get in.’
I felt nauseous as I heard voices that seemed to be getting nearer.
‘Ssh,’ said Rob and tiptoed next-door.
The next thing I heard was a blood-curdling scream as the would-be burglars made a hasty exit.
Five seconds later Rob came back into the bedroom wearing the skull mask.
‘I always knew it would come in handy,’ he said with a wry smile.

This post was for Sunday Photo Fiction

‘Henry’s Garden’ – FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER: WEEK #24 – 2016

~ maryruth16 ~ 10 Comments

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The first one was a surprise. The second too. The third produced a snigger. The fourth a chortle. The tenth, a flinging down of the spade.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Henry?’ said Beatrice as she rushed into the garden.
‘It’s these bones. They’re flipping everywhere.’
Beatrice looked at the ever-increasing pile. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘Any idea what they might be?’
She picked one up and rubbed the smooth surface with her fingers as though it were a genie’s lamp. ‘Ostriches.’
‘And how did ostriches end up buried in a Scottish garden?’
‘I’m sure there’s a logical explanation, dear.’
Henry remembered the odd comment made by the estate agent when they purchased the house.
‘You won’t be able to plant anything there, sir.’
Poppy-cock, thought Henry, but he suddenly realised that the previous owner must have owned an ostrich sanctuary and buried each dead bird in the garden.
There was no choice. He’d just have to keep digging until he’d got rid of the whole damn lot!
And so he continued while Beatrice went to stay in a hotel ‘until he came to his senses.’
He never did and six months later was admitted to a mental asylum, where he was often heard counting. 1,567, 1,568, 1569…

Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Week #24– 2016

‘That was the day’ – FFfAW (69th challenge)

~ maryruth16 ~ 7 Comments

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This week’s photo prompt is provided by phylor.

         They’d been cooped up inside the hotel all day so when the rain finally stopped, both were desperate to escape; Dana to soak up the sights of this fabulous city and Jack to send yet another text message.
After a few minutes of ambling, the pair came across a park, its trees and shrubs glistening from the earlier rainstorm.
‘Wow, Jack. Look!’ cried Dana as she spotted an exquisite cherubic statue shining in the dazzle of the late afternoon sun. The armless child was gazing heavenward, a beatific smile etched on the poor mite’s face.
‘Who on earth could have done this?’ murmured Dana as she spotted the arms lying nearby.  She picked one up and slipped on a string of brightly coloured beads that she’d bought at a flea market earlier in the week.
‘That’s better,’ she said and took a step back to admire her handiwork.
‘Sentimental old fool,’ muttered Jack, who’d been pinging text message after text message while puffing petulantly on a rolled up cigarette.
Dana stared at him. He’d barely said a word all holiday so how dare he make fun of her now. She opened her mouth to say so but before she could, a pigeon swooped down and landed on his head. But Jack was so absorbed in texting that he didn’t even notice.
‘Jack,’ said Dana. ‘Jack.’
But Jack carried on texting and when he eventually raised his head and said, ‘what?’                                                                                                                                                            Dana quietly replied, ‘It doesn’t matter.’
So that was the day that Jack wandered obliviously around Paris with pigeon poo all over his head and that was the day that Dana finally decided to leave him.

This post was written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Sunday Photo Fiction – ‘The Return’

~ maryruth16 ~ 10 Comments

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Heidi remembers this place from her childhood. She remembers the brisk walks her parents insisted they went on after church and the cheery, school-related talks her sullen teenager self was forced to endure as they bounded over fences and pushed their way through creaky kissing gates; She remembers the eggs they stole from the field near the farm. Left by wayward hens, according to her father, and so they were entitled. And the scrambled egg they’d make afterwards with the yolks as bright and yellow as the sun.

She remembers thinking how mind numbingly dull this place was. How the silence made her want to scream and scream until the ancient oak trees screamed back at her. She couldn’t wait to leave this place. Rushed off to uni as soon as she turned 18, fell into marriage before she was 30 and became an eminent lawyer by the time she was 40.

Now as Heidi strolls through the verdant Yorkshire countryside in her Hunter wellies and Barbour jacket, she breathes in the blissful peace, punctuated only by the chirp of a bird and bark of a distant dog, and feels sad that she hadn’t visited her dad more often.

He died alone, said the doctor. Was found slumped in a chair with Scottie by his side. Heidi cries when she thinks of this; but then she sees Scottie racing towards her, stick in mouth ready for her to throw it once more and she smiles.

This post was written for Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction – ‘One for the road’

~ maryruth16 ~ 16 Comments

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         The journey was tedious. Six long hours on an endless motorway and Reg refused to stop. Not even for the toilet! He’d just done a course on mindfulness and stubbornly believed that the only way to commit to an activity was to focus on it completely without straying for a moment, even for something as essential as a loo break.

But then he saw the writing. It was hard not to really. ‘The Pies’ was bold and brazen and scrawled on the bridge overhead. Reg speeded up slightly when we went underneath and his face changed.

‘What time is it?’ he said.

‘1.30.’ I didn’t need to look at my watch.

‘Hmm,’ he replied and kept on driving, but when he saw the next ‘Services’ sign, he indicated left.

‘I thought we were’t taking a break,’ I said.

‘Just a short one.’ His face was deadpan. ‘I’m rather peckish, aren’t you?’

I nodded, quietly delighted.

I picked up a sandwich in Costa, then watched in amazement as Reg strode over to a pasty shop where he stuffed a steak and kidney pie into his mouth.

‘I’d forgotten how much I loved them,’ he said between mouthfuls. Then he ordered another.

‘One for the road,’ he said.

This post was written for Sunday Photo Fiction