Friday, 22 November 2013


Write…Edit…Publish, the home of the monthly bloghop of the same name. You are welcome to submit any of the following – flash fiction, poetry, non-fiction or playscripts to a word count of 1,000 words – artwork and photographs accompanied by your written inspiration in creating your work/s. 

WEP's November blogfest, SHARING!


Three weeks to arrange a wedding wasn't as hard as people said it would be.  Some people assumed that she was pregnant so it was a shotgun wedding, as if that would happen these days.  Nobody in their right minds had to get married in this day and age, albeit some cultures still used arranged marriages but mostly in modern times people married for love. 

The bridal shop had a large range of magnificent dresses from frothy, bouffant styles with yards and yards of lace, tight bodices, revealing strapless dresses that didn't suit most ladies but who still suffered and squeezed themselves into tight corsets after months of trying to become the right shape, denying themselves meals and treats, suffering torture and torment of hours at the gym.  

Stella mentally shrugged her shoulders, she was the size and shape she was, three weeks wasn’t going to make a difference no matter what she did.  She wasn't ungainly, in fact she had a wonderful 20 year old figure, her fiancĂ©e had never complained.  

Sharing her day was becoming bigger than Stella and Rob had thought it would be.  Rob’s family was small, he was an only child of a single mother and there was a cousin and her family and an aunt and her husband, so for his side that was about it.  They could make up the numbers by inviting their friends on to the guest list. 

Stella’s family, now that was turning into a nightmare.  Her mum insisted that you could only invite this person if that person was invited and if you didn’t invite that person then you couldn’t invite that one.  Stella said she had wanted a small, intimate wedding.  Her father then put his foot down and said if he was paying for it then they had to invite the people her mother said. 

The acceptances and responses came flooding in, everybody accepted.  Stella was going to share her big day with hundreds of people and all she really wanted to do was share it with her husband-to-be.

She wanted to share her life with Rob, share the ups and downs and share bringing up children, share joys and sorrows.  She wanted to share her life until Rob was bald and she had grey hairs, cleverly coloured.  She wanted to share the pleasure of seeing their own children have children, enjoy the company of their grandchildren; this is what Stella wanted to share.

So in the grand scheme of things, as her grandfather was wont to say, what did one day actually mean?  Yes but it should be HER day, not anybody else’s but Stella caved in as she always did.  She went with the flow.  

She was the one who would walk down the aisle on her father’s arm; she was the one who would be ‘given away’ as though she was a chattel.  She was the one who would not say ‘obey’ in her vows.   She was quite willing to love and cherish Rob, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer but she would not ‘obey’ him.  They would share decisions and he knew that and was quite willing to do that or at least accepted the theory of that idea. 

The special day dawned, cold, wet, and miserable; this did not help her wedding day nerves.  Her mum told her the old country adage, ‘rain before seven, dry by eleven.’  True to form, a few minutes after eleven the sun started to shyly peak through the clouds as a weak September sun spread its warmth and seeped through the ozone layer and to dry up the pavements and gardens. 

Stella’s brother drove her mother to the church in his car, shining and gleaming after being through the car wash that morning.  The aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and spurious relatives, who had popped up out of the woodwork, were all waiting for her at the lych gate, its gabled roof covered in moss and lichen.

Albert waited in the living room, fidgeting with his collar and tie.  He would never admit to his daughter that he was feeling slightly nervous, he had to be strong and let his little girl go and be loved and adored by a man other than him.  He harrumphed and cleared his throat as he heard Stella descending down the stairs. 

A vision of white loveliness floated past his face.  His daughter was beautiful.  She was a gorgeous blushing bride.   Stella took his arm as they made their way to the waiting beribboned bridal car. 

Three bridesmaids helped Stella out of the car, arranging her dress around her and tweaking her veil.  Tessa, her best friend, whispered, ‘are you sure?’  Stella breathed a deep sigh, her blue eyes glittering with emotion and nodded. 

The vicar greeted the small retinue at the large studded oak doors to the church; they stood just inside the vestibule as he uttered some encouraging words, then he made his way to the altar. 

The organ started playing the Wedding March, so traditional for the white bride.  Her arm was shaking; Albert patted her hand that was threaded through the crook of his elbow with just the white lace gloves showing.  They started the walk down the aisle.  

Stella smelt the oldness of the stones of the church, she inhaled the woodiness of the pews, as she travelled further down the gangway she could smell new clothes, perfume and aftershave.  

They stopped at the steps to the altar, her father took a step back as did Rob’s best man.  Rob turned and looked at her, his green eyes full of admiration and love, a slight wink to her as they both turned their faces towards the vicar. 

The bells rang out; the photographer arranged the bridal group and snapped shot after shot.  He managed to get the large group photograph aligned to his satisfaction, the birds sang and the sun was still shining. 

 Word Count: 994


Tuesday, 19 November 2013

The Return - WWBH Short Story

 19th November 2013
They’ve changed it up this week and given us two photos instead of one photo and five words. The two photos must connect in some way. The other rules still apply - you have until next Tuesday night to submit your link and you have a 500 word limit!

So, here are the rules again -

1) Include both of the photos in your story in some way.

2) Keep your word count 500 words or less.

3) You have until next Tuesday to link up (leave a comment if you don't know how! We'll help you out!)

4) Link up with your blog hostess (NicoleCarrieTena or Leanne)

5) Have fun, don’t stress, let those creative juices flow.

And here are the TWO photos you will be using this week -

Photo # 1 via Flickr

Photo # 2 via Flickr

The Return
Late at night the street light cast an unearthly orange glow on the road below.  Granddad looked out of the door of his flat shivering slightly at the damp and dank weather conditions.  Getting older was a bother when you couldn't sleep.  He thought having his grandson, Colin, to stay with him after the breakup of his relationship would help give some structure to his days and nights but Colin hadn't returned home yet from spending an evening with his ex-girlfriend.

Now that was a fine kettle of fish, first of all she tells him he has to leave; she doesn't want him there anymore.  She tells him she still loves him but she is not ‘in love’ with him.  His grandson doesn't know where he stands with all these mixed messages his ex is sending his way.  

Then the evening goes wrong, Colin phrases a sentence in the wrong way and she is now desperate to have him leave her alone (again).  Granddad only hopes that he will ride that motorbike of his safely back through the dark roads and arrive home safely. 

The door closes softly, whispers on its latch and then catches securely.  Granddad moves slowly to the living room holding on to the edges of furniture as he makes his way back to his bedroom.  

He was getting old, osteoarthritis gave him gyp most days and a damp night like tonight didn’t help matters.  A nice cup of tea and a couple of painkillers would help and pass another half an hour while he waited to hear the sound of Colin’s motorbike engine slowing chugging up the hill. 

Eventually Granddad creaked his way up the stairs, past his grandson’s still empty room, trying to shrug off a feeling of foreboding that all was not right.  He sat on the edge of his bed, his eye drawn to the antique chest of drawers, one drawer was slightly open, piquing his curiosity although he knew every item contained therein.

He kept promising himself he would rejuvenate this piece of wood, French polish it with loving care, it had been his wife’s pride and joy, her place to keep knick-knacks and miscellaneous items.  Eileen was no longer here to share his life; he still missed her every minute of every day even though two years had passed by.  

He pulled the drawer out slightly further and reached in; his gnarled fingers enfolded themselves around a picture frame.  Retrieving it from the drawer he stared at the photograph.  The picture showed him and Eileen on their honeymoon more than 60 years ago. She smiled at him through the magic and power of black and white imagery.  

Charles felt a great sense of relief wash over him as he heard his grandson’s key in the lock, realising he had pushed his motorbike up the hill in order not to disturb the neighbours late at night. 

He was a very considerate grandson. 

Word count: 492