16 January 2019

270. THE DOOR


FRIDAY FICTIONNERS

    THE DOOR


That door with tape all over and a gilded handle was forbidden. So said big brother.

- Now shush! Leave your shoes here in the corner.

Little brother agreed to break the rule with his sister. He gently pressed the handle and peeped. His elder sister pushed him away and jumped inside with gusto.

Bang! Splash! A loud scream and a louder laugh was heard all the way to the yard.

Little brother pushed the bucket aside, walked over his soaked sister on the ground. Looking up and around at the what he saw, he said:

- WOW! wow! Wow! wow!




:-)     :-)     :-)     :-)     :-)


Author's Note: 100 words exactly as per my iPad word count. Do not fret. I'll write a follow up on next week's FRIDAY FICTIONEERS adapting it to what the photo prompt will be.

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo by ©Dale Rogerson.  Read,write your own little story and link up with us here for this week. 

9 January 2019

269. At the Edge of the Forest


FRIDAY  FICTIONNERS


At the edge of the forest


PHOTO PROMPT © Priya Bajpal

Once upon a time there were three brothers and a sister living in a mansion at the edge of a forest. Their father, the Baron, used to gather bits of this and that for a grand collection which he showed once a year on summer solstice day. For the remaining of the year his quaint collection remained hidden.

The elder boy, Alpha, asked one day where it was and if he could have a look at it before solstice day.

- No, son, your request cannot be met. It may stop the sun to travel on through the year.

Alpha was not happy with this answer. He summoned his sister Omega and commanded her to ask their mother.

- No, my dear daughter, I cannot help you. I do not even know myself.

On solstice day that year the sun stopped its travel through the year and summer remained around the mansion at the edge of the forest for ever.

:-)     :-)     :-)     ;-)     :-)



Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Priya Baipal. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers. 

WRITE A STORY OF YOUR OWN and  Add your own link

8 January 2019

268. THE PEGS AND THE WIRE



FRIDAY FICTIONEERS

The Pegs and The Wire

Photo Copyright Russell Gayer
     

- No, my love, it isn’t as bad as it looks! Granted, Io is not a very hospitable planet but it’s alright.

- In the background of that photo… is  it what it looks like?
- Yes, like an ice coated strawberry cake. The first pioneers, years ago, just couldn’t believe their eyes. But look here. See the pegs and the wire on a raised platform? This is where we are going to build our house. We started with a tentative lawn…

She burst out in laughter remembering her first landing on Io.

- Will I be able to visit you one day?

A very loud siren started hooting at regular intervals. She zipped her full pilot overalls and made it to the door.

- Farewell grandma, said the young one, tears coming down her cheeks. 


:-)     :-)     :-)     :-)     :-) 

word count more or less 100 words.

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Douglas M. MacIlroy.  Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Thanks to Rochelle https://rochellewisoff.com/ for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Russell Gayer for the photo prompt.

22 December 2018

267. My music library

I've always been a great fan and great user of YOUTUBE.

A new way of using the MUSIC side of it has been put on line some time ago. Since I really enjoyed Youtube as it was I didn't rush to try the new system. Now listen! It's well worth the move.

Here my own MUSIC LIBRARY with my own playlist for classical music with 30 titles.

19 December 2018

266. DON'T BE HUMBLE


Do not be humble! It’s a waste of time. You’ll be walked over, stomped, pushed away. This is my advice for today. Take it seriously from me as an old hen.

 To start with here’s the definition given by Urban Dictionary on line:

True humility is to recognize your value and others value while looking up to see there is far greater than ourself  into who we can become, who others can become, and how much more we can do and be.

It’s about remaining teachable, knowing that you do not have all the answers.

It’s being really good at something and knowing how good you are without feeling the need to announce it to the world.

When I left my country, France, in 1963 I was 19. I had finished matriculation with philosophy, spoke, read and wrote English and German on top of my native language French. I had succeeded in obtaining a car driving licence after trying my hand at my grandfather’s tractor from the age of 10. I could ride a horse, swim and hold a conversation on politics or religion… I had been a keen map gazer at boarding school and knew a fair amount of geography. I could also ride a bike… In other words I was quite smart!!!

Yet when I arrived in Haifa, Israel, on a migrants boat and was welcome by my pen friend’s family I never boasted of being so smart. There I knew nothing, not the language, not the culture as I was not Jewish, not the manners of the kibbutz. Nothing. I knew nothing and had to learn everything from scratch like a small child.

When Racheline picked me up to travel to where she lived, although we were of the same age and had corresponded for a few years beforehand, she behaved with me as if I was her younger sister. With patience she explained things, showed me things, and trusted me completely. However she never asked about my background, education, family or personal capacities. I remained her nerdy younger sister for ever.

When I arrived at the kibbutz in Galilee to work I never mentioned my background and capacities either.  There was an Arab guy on horseback riding around once I remember. My fellow worker from England asked the guy if he could try his horse. Which he did. I never mentioned I could ride and never asked to have a go. Apparently according to my English friend worker it was quite different.The Arab rider had only one rein to guide his horse.

The kibbutz where I worked and stayed for a year had been founded by a group of German speaking young Jewish people from Austria. As at the beginning I could not speak Hebrew they spoke to me in German. I never boasted I mastered three languages. In Israel everybody masters a number of languages anyway.

So I can say I had been humble, showing humility in my dealings with other people. Did it help? It did not help. With my humble attitude I once was declared a spy by Racheline’s elder sister. It didn’t matter much. And actually I don’t know if it is connected with my humble attitude. I thought so. But boasting was not my way anyway.

When I arrived in Australia and went for a job in federal administration I did not boast, just replied to questions. I got a good job as clerk in a federal government department. (yes, I’ve said it before!) It was seen as quite something for a woman, a married woman at that. I was a clerk, not a typist. My job was to compose letters answering the public mail about the statistics of Australia. I would give my handwritten letters to a typing pool. A good job indeed. The next position up from that was to become a secretary. Should I have boasted I could do so much more? so much better? No way. A married woman remains humble. Period.

It goes on like that right throughout my life. So now an old grumpy grandmother I boast! Yes ma’am, I’ve done a lot and single handed with a child to bring up too.

I am totally bilingual, i.e. have two languages wrapped up in two cultures present in my head at all times so that I don’t know which language of French or English I’m talking. I can handle German and have knowledge of Hebrew which I once could speak and write, some knowledge of Fulah which I once understood when spoken. And, last but not least, I am learning Russian. I can now slowly read cyrillic.

What else? I can boast of having sailed across the South Pacific, not safely on a liner, but as a crew member with various yachties. I survived a couple a typhoons at sea. What else? I survived being hungry stranded on an island in between crew jobs.

I can boast that once or twice, in New Caledonia and New Zealand, I was the tail end guide of horse riding bush rides for tourists. I survived falling badly off a horse twice. A scar on my forehead can witness.

What else? I can boast driving on my own across the Australian continent and across the European continent… hm… no, not quite across it. Actually it’s my next big idea and project. 

I’ll stop this list. But hear me! Do not refrain from boasting what you’ve done and what you’re capable of doing.

Oh I forgot... you see I'm not used to boasting really. I'm learning! I also studied at university, three years in France for a B.A. in ethnology and one year as a post graduate towards an M.A. in America. I can cook dinner too. I can tinker with a hammer and nails. And I am a self taught potter and actually ran a pottery studio and workshops in France. I could play the piano, can still read music. I also studied ballet and the Benesh system of writing movement.

I can ride a bike (yes, I've said that before) and grow my own vegetables.  

265. Two Men in a Boat


Friday Fictioneers

Two Men in a Boat



photo copyrights Adam Ickes



- You’re not going into that boat with those big boots!… Harry said. 

So George took them off and clambered into the small sail boat.

They sailed up river tacking three times, moored under the big bridge. Both jumped off and started climbing the embankment to the road. Barefoot George could not make it.     

- I am meeting Meeghan at the post office. Shall be back in a minute with her. Then we can sail down river to Windsor… Harry shouted as he disappeared at the top.

Scorching his feet on the sharp stones, halfway up, George decided to make it back to the boat. Casting off he hurriedly sailed back to the pontoon.

Will his boots still be there?

                            :-)     :-)     :-)     :-)     :-)


Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Adam Ickes.  Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Adam Ickes for the photo prompt. 

WRITE A STORY OF YOUR OWN and  Add your own link

15 December 2018

264. BITCHING


BITCHING...

Getting much older, past your seventh decade of existence, your memory works differently. It’s as if what you labelled as “nice” becomes an unpleasant memory, as if your true unconscious self were coming up to the surface replacing the conscious labels you gave to your life experiences.

I had been surprised once when visiting my aging “godmother” she said she was tired of hearing old ladies bitching around all day. I wasn’t sure what she meant then. I see it now. All those lovely photos of your past life looking pleasant, happy and fun, suddenly come up with the true blue feeling of the time that you repressed in haste.

I’ll digress for a while to talk about my “godmother”. When I was 16-17 in France living outside the boarding school in a kind of foyer, I walked one day to the protestant pastor’s place. I had questions! His wife opened the door and from then on she welcome me every time, taking me in as an extra offspring! I kept in touch with her throughout my life and visited her at a retirement home when my little boy, son of my Fulah partner,  was about 4 years old. She’s been a spiritual motherly guide to me. She was Swiss.

So, low and behold, I have become one of those bitching old ladies!

In my 20s I lived in Canberra, Australia. I had a good job as a clerk in a federal government Department and was happily married. A rosy life. My first contact with adult life happened there in the late sixties.

from left to right: my mother Rachel Lagarde, me Frankie, my husband Brian Smith.
In CANBERRA, Australia, in 1969

Brian James Smith was my husband. I was Frankie Smith in those days. He had a job in the Department of External Affairs and was paid a lot more than me. He was trained to become a computer programer and worked on the implementation of computerized pay lists for civil servants and diplomats. One day he told me that he had been offered to work in Geneva in the Australian Embassy there to implement computerized pay lists for the diplomats in Europe. And he had refused it.

Me now in 2018. Photo taken yesterday.
I never ever forgave him for that. In my memory he never asked me my opinion beforehand. Maybe he did. In which case I would have been terribly enthralled at the idea of living in Geneva. But I don’t remember he asked me. He simply told me he had turned it down and passed the offer to a good mate of his. I never forgave. To this day I feel so mad and cheated about it. My grandfather never made the slightest decision without referring to my grandmother. My parents used to talk at length about any decision involving the family. There I was presented with a final decision involving my very life. Hatred built up and was repressed. I pretended everything was fine.