Words Left Unsaid

Okay, this this one is a little weird, and I will admit I got a little overly involved in a post that has been going around social media, as seen below. This is the story of Jeanne, and how she finds Claude’s letter, over 150 years later.

It also draw inspiration from this week’s Friday Picture Prompt on The Writer’s Mess, with the picture of the Love Locks. It is questionable as where this tradition actually started, and I like the idea it was far earlier than people think.


Dearest Jeanne,

I could live a thousand lifetimes, and never tire of the sight of your smiling face.  It is the memory of that smile that sustains me through the long nights, where I am far from home, far from everything, and everyone that I love.

I long for the day that this war finally ends, and I might have a chance to stand before you, and tell you how I feel.  That I might ask for your hand in marriage, so that we never again would be parted, and I could see these fair countries, with you at my side.

I have not the money for fine jewels, or fancy dresses, but I have left evidence of my love in every city I have passed in these long years of fighting, in the form of a lock, with our mark’s inscribed upon them, at every bridge, and I hope that some day I can show you each and every one of them. 

Forever Yours,

Claude

I could feel the tears welling in my eyes as I read the letter, for what felt like the thousandth time, but it still hit me just as hard as it did the first time. 

I left before Claude returned, too many years in one place had put us at risk, and I always thought I would see him again.  If I had known that this was how he felt, I would have risked it though, staying there, for him.

I travelled half of Europe after the first time I saw that letter, visiting locks that were little more rust, mourning what may have been, wondering why, Claude, why did you never say anything, and hoping against all hope that one day, even it takes a hundred years more, that I will look up and find him standing there, waiting.

Out of Focus

Hello Hello, the word of the week was blur and it got really weird.  The word blur was used for something moving to fast to see, and this week is horror, with all the blood, gore, and implied murder that I could pack into six sentences.  Don’t read if you are squeamish, and if you aren’t. then join our poor narrator, witness to something unspeakable. Really, it’s never spoken.


It was moving too fast for me to keep my eyes on it, and trying was starting to make me dizzy, or maybe that was the blood loss.

It was like a blur, moving in and out so fast I couldn’t focus on it, and when it stopped long enough for me to see, the carnage beneath it made me look away.

I was never one to have a weak stomach, but I had never seen so much of what should be on the inside spread in pieces across a white tile floor, and if I hadn’t been able to smell the copper thick on the air,  I would have thought I was looking at some bizarre modern art piece.

I knew that I was going to die, no one was going to survive this, and I should have fought it, rallied for life, but there was no way to forget this kind of horror, and there came a point where I knew that death would be a mercy, at escape from a life of trauma.

I wasn’t so lucky though, because that’s when the sirens rang in, loud and clanging, lights flashing blue and red, making the scene surreal in the ever-changing light through the window.

It ran, and I survived, not lived, survived, because I was missing too many pieces to enjoy my existence, every hour awake was pure agony, and yet it was the only respite I got from the abomination that haunted my dreams until the day I finally died.

White Knight

Hello Hello, and welcome to the event that will be Genre Flashfiction February. Yes, I am a little early on this one, but week one launched on Romance. This is the response to round one prompt: Write a piece under 300 words about the moment the character realizes they are in love. Follow Dan, as she realizes that Clive is a keeper. Enjoy!


He cringed when he heard the knock on the door, not looking forward to telling Clive that dinner was off, and that he had forgotten to call him to tell Clive dinner was off before he had schlepped all the across town to meet him.

He opened the door, and before he could say a word, Clive was in, waving a bag of what looked like takeout as he spoke. “I come bearing sustenance, for what I assume is going to be two hours of watching you try and finish your paper. Take five, eat this,” Clive jammed a sub into his hand, “and I will start looking over what your have so far.”

Dan gaped, looking down at the sub, from his favourite shop, a 45-minute detour at least by bus, then back at Clive who didn’t seem the least bit bothered to spend his only night off reviewing Dan’s homework and he knew, in that moment, that he was in love with this man.

The Tale of the Travelling Bard – Part Two

Welcome to part two of the Tale of the Travelling Bard, though it stands alone. This is the story of the bard’s Father, as he finds out what his son has made of himself out on the road, and how his son’s profession has changed the way he interacts with the bards that pass through town.


“Sir, please, I promise to weave a tale that will keep your patrons here drinking late into the night. All I ask in return is a spot of soup, and, of course, if you can spare it a room, is that really too much to ask?”

Really, yes, it was far too much to ask. These damn bards would wander into town and just expect free food and lodging until they felt like moving on. The merchants at least had a service, offered something in trade, but a story, a story!

Ie took one look at the furrowed brow of his wife, and he gave the bard a room, a bowl of soup, a biscuit and a cup of mead ignoring the mans profuse thanks, and instead looking at his dear Louisa who is glowing at the show of kindness.

“Do you think Danny is getting enough to eat?” She asked when I walked by.

“Of course,” he lied. “He is twice the story teller as this bloke, and a with a merchant he is sure to see a pretty penny. He’s probably having the time of his life. Don’t worry dear, just focus on remembering the story for next time he visits.” And she lit up at the idea of being the one to tell Danny a story for a change and focused intently on the bard, who true to his word had quite a story to tell.

The longer I listened the more, with a sinking feeling, I began to realize, he was talking about my Danny. Though I wouldnt’a called him of flaxen hair, he met the rest of the criteria, and I prayed to the gods that my wife didn’t realize that the idiot bard following around a monster hunter was our boy.

After that I was a little freer with my lodging for bards, and at least 4-5 times a year someone would come in with a take owing bard to Danny and I prayed all the more.

It’s why I was so surprised the day that Danny walked back into the tavern, taller, broder, fuller, a man. A man that anyone would be proud to call son. He hugged him Mum, took his bath, and came down and started to tell a tale.

I knew he had a gift, but gods, this was more than that, they were enthralled, ensnared by it, and drinking by the tankard unknowingly. The next night the tavern of the was so full I had to turn people away, and I knew my son’s ridiculous story inn was going to become a reality.

Danny had money now, or Daniel as he so liked to be called, and hired folks to build onto inn, making a stage, to tell tales and songs upon, and it didn’t take many months before we were adding rooms to the inn, getting another building, hiring staff. Our little middle nowhere town exploded as people came round from all parts to listen to Danny’s stories, and I couldn’t blame them, they were magnificent, the best I had ever heard.

He started teaching, my boy teaching, the art of story telling, and I couldn’t help but think back to the useless waif we had taken in all those years ago, and feel pride for being the one to keep him. My boy, the bard.