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.

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.

Cleaning House

Hello Hello, the word of the week is Mess, and this week I am using it in the cleaning up a mess sense of the word.  Follow the story of Heidi, who hates the smell of bleach, and is cleaning up someone else’s mess.  There is a lot implied here, but not much said outright, so I suspect triggers are off the table this week, but let me know if I am wrong. Thanks. Also this is in thiller/horror because while it is not suspenseful, it has that creepy vibe


The smell of bleach was so thick in the air that she could almost taste it, as it burned it’s way down her throat with every breath she took.

This was the part of cleaning that Heidi hated the most, the smell of it, and while every bit of her hurt from two hours on her hand and knees scrubbing the floor, it was taste in her mouth that made her angry.

This wasn’t her mess, she shouldn’t have to be the one the clean it up, but if Olga had the kind of control that was needed to do clean-up, there wouldn’t be a mess to clean up in the first place.

It should have been their mother here doing this, after all it was her decision to let Olga out, even though Heidi had begged her not to, and less than two days later here she was on her knees trying to scrub every bit of evidence from the grout on the kitchen floor.

It wasn’t perfect, this much bleach would let anyone with a nose know that something had happened here, and that alone would bring suspicion upon them, but there would be no forensic evidence to tie to them to it, not if she could help it.

Heidi had liked it here, had liked being Heidi, but that was over now, as once things settled, they would be moving on, lest they be suspects when the next missing happened, and she longed for the day they got to stay somewhere long enough to call it her home.