I’m just about getting this in before the link closes!
Written for dVerse Poets Pub open link night. I missed the chance to post on Amaya’s Cascade challenge earlier this week so getting a two in one. It’s not in the exact form, but learned a lot in the process!
Images from hideawayreport.com (1) and wildfoottravel.com (2)
His question caught her off-guard. The room spun around her and she gripped the edges of the lectern to steady herself.
“Ms Silver, how would you explain the Hannah May incident?”
It was no secret that she had been Hannah’s life coach. A fact that tormented her. Buried guilt rose from past failures. Oversights.
It was she who had encouraged her to push past her fears, return to her love of sailing. She died in the storm of 2004. Neither sailboat nor her body was ever found.
Ms Silver found her voice, “Hannah May was brave enough to follow her dreams.”
Life coaches are amazingly positive people. And I’m sure they have their demons too. Ones they wrestle with and from which they find their own growth. Whatever the situation, it’s important to face fears that keep you from your dreams or the change you want to make in your life.
As much as Madame Christie enjoyed Venice she was anxious to get going. “Whatever is the holdup, Christo?” she snapped at the receptionist.
“I am sorry Signora Christie, but we cannot check you out.”
“Orders from Investigatore Alfonsi.” Christo pointed at a gentleman in uniform, who spoke above the hum of agitated guests gathering in the lobby.
“Listen closely everybody! Last night a couple was murdered in their beds. Nobody is allowed to leave without being interviewed.”
He twirled the ends of his moustache. Madame Christie knew she had the perfect character for her next series of novels.
Unfortunately I have not been able to write for some time due to many upsets in seemingly every area of life. I’m keen to think of this phase as transformation and not the mess that it is. To create, one must first destroy. Applies to many things beyond cooking and other creative pursuits.
SO when I sat down to write this week’s flash fiction, I was pleasantly surprised to see my photo as the prompt. I suspect it was our group leader, Rochelle’s way of sending a smoke signal my way to get back to writing!
Can’t wait to read everyone’s flash fiction.
This was written for Friday Fictioneers, a weekly challenge to write a story in 100 words or less. Hosted by leading author, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Click the blue frog icon to read more flash fiction.
Not all who wander are lost. And yet sometimes some of us who wander are lost. Lost in the daily grind and the call of the road, the ocean or the mountains is irresistible.
Ironically, travel makes me feel more at home. I am not as well-traveled as other globetrotters, but the places I’ve visited have left a mark on my soul. And I’ve decided to start sharing some of these experiences right here.
I’ve received many questions about the header image of my blog. And yes, it is a picture I took myself. While on a tour in Venice.
I arrived in this Northern Italian city on Trenitalia, a comfortable intercity train, from Torino. If you ever go to Italy, go to Torino. This is my home in Italy. It doesn’t have the tourist sights and magic and commercial business attraction like the other cities. However, nestled on the border of Germany they have a unique culture blended from Germanic-Italian roots, that you won’t find anywhere else. And it is the home of Nutella. Need I say more?
Stepping out of the Santa Lucia train station I was hit by a sense of intense surrealism. Boats, gondolas, ferries right off the station steps took me into another world. I was tempted to stamp my feet on the ground, feel my face to make sure I was really there in person. And not in some kind of insane dream. There are no roads in Venice; I knew that. Yet to see this first hand was fantastic. In other cities, you exit the station onto the tarmac. Here, you just about step into the Grand Canal.
During a walking tour of Venice, our group squeezed through the tiniest calles (streets, or alley-like walkways unique to Venice). One particular calle was half a metre wide. I was still pondering the measurements of it when I passed by a doorway. Glancing inside as I walked past it I saw the most intriguing sight.
I was the last in the group so I didn’t stop. The others were not as impressed by this doorway as I was and had marched on ahead spilling out into a spacious courtyard. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I looked back and it called to me. Taking a risk of losing the group and getting lost in Venice, something which happens too easily in that maze of calles, I hurried back to the doorway.
The sight of moulding books, together with wheelbarrows, crates and a car bonnet was so unexpected that it was hypnotic. Also what was with those painted footprints? The postcard rack and table and chairs made it appear to be some kind of shop. But it was deserted. No shopkeeper. No customers. I longed to go inside, explore it and perhaps an eccentric bookshop owner will emerge with whom I could spend the entire afternoon talking. Over cappuccinos. I snapped a few pics, took one last longing look at this mysterious place and went back to the tour group who were already disappearing into another calle.
I intended to go back later that day. But Venice being what it is, you cannot navigate it easily. Not all the Calles have name signs, so even a map will not be much help. Tip: Google maps is not much better either. I glimpsed a man reading a map, turning it this way and that, looking at his surroundings, scratching his head. This was a sign which I ignored at my peril.
I did get lost in Venice. Later that afternoon. After the tour ended, I decided to explore, underestimating the complexities of the city walkways. Every courtyard looked the same. Hundreds of bridges and calles everywhere. When I thought I could retrace my steps I found myself on the other side of the city. By the Ponte Rialto bridge.
I panicked. My train back to Torino was leaving in half an hour. Not only that, but in another hour, dusk would fall and I had no desire to feel my way through the dark. Asking for directions didn’t help. Some suggested I take a boat on the Canal back to the station. But I needed to return back to my hotel to collect my backpack. Eventually, I found an old man reading a newspaper on a stool. I thought he was sitting idle, but it turned out he was watching his kiosk a few feet away. He was reluctant to help me get back to the station. I offered him money. He gladly changed his mind.
Already embarrassed at my situation it was even more embarrassing to find I could not keep up with the old man’s strides. Venetians are fit! With long graceful strides that are deceivingly brisk. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t drive to work and instead tramp along the cobbled calles every day to every place you need to go.
Half jogging behind him, shopping bags in hand full of souvenirs and gifts, I burst out in laughter when I finally saw the sign of my hotel. Thanking him in Italian, (it’s amazing what you remember in moments of panic or joy) I had five minutes to get to the station.
I never made it. Trains in Italy run on time. I was hoping for three minutes delay, but no such luck. As I ran into the station, the train pulled away. Forced to buy another ticket, I sat down and appreciated the fact that I had one more hour in this magical city.
Venice has many names. It is called City of Bridges or City of Canals. For me I will always remember it as the City that Humbled Me. Getting lost was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. And now as it’s unique little bookshop image squats happily on the header of my blog, it has taken up a literary space in my heart. Full of wonder, magic, possibilities and mis-guided adventures.
Viggo awoke to the aroma of spiced tea. Smiling sleepily, he reached across the bed towards her but his hand fell on worn sheets.
He bolted upright. The boat lulled gently in the tide.
A single cup of tea sat on the counter by the sink. And a packet of his favourite cigarettes.
Lighting one he blew grey smoke around his tiny cabin. He loosed a slow sad chuckle. She was saying goodbye in the best way she knew how. Tempest, his beautiful gypsy woman of never-ending horizons was gone.
He sipped his tea. Cold from waiting too long.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by leader Rochelle. The challenge is to write a story in 100 words or less.
Click on the blue frog to read more cool flash fiction.