- This topic has 11 replies, 5 voices, and was last updated 3 weeks ago by
.
-
Posts
-
Now the November evenings are darkening earlier and there is that expectant chill in the air I was thinking about the art of storytelling beside the warmth and atmosphere of a log fire.
So, become that story teller beside a night-time fire and surprise me with the most heart-warming, scary, romantic, mysterious, or cautionary tale you would recount in the flickering light of flame and wood smoke.
The word limit is 500 words or less.
Forest Adventure
Grandma lifted a pyjama clad Ellie onto her lap and they both warmed their hands by the roaring log fire for a few moments. Grandma smiled down at Ellie and asked if she was sitting comfortably. Ellie nodded and snuggled into her Grandma’s warm, plump body a little closer.
‘Then I’ll begin,’ said Grandma in the time honoured tradition of the storyteller.
‘Once upon a time, on the edge of the Great Forest lived a little girl named Eliza in a cottage she shared with her mother and her father, who was a charcoal maker. He would leave each day to work somewhere in the middle of the forest.’
Ellie asked ‘Is charcoal like the coal we sometimes use on this fire?’
‘It’s similar, dear.’ Ellie seemed satisfied with this reply and so Grandma carried on with her story.
‘Eliza was not yet of school age and so she stayed at home helping her mother. But Eliza had no friends nearby to play with and, one day while her mother took a nap, she ventured into the forest to find her father to watch him work.
The trees were tall and looming and Eliza was feeling nervous in the gloom. Nevertheless, she carried on with determination. She decided to turn left, hoping there would be some clue as to where her father worked; the smell of smoke maybe. Suddenly, the trees thinned out and she saw ahead a sunlit glade. Exhausted, she threw herself down onto the soft grass and fell asleep.
Eliza was woken by the sound of tinkling laughter. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. There surrounding her; looking at her with curiosity were six tiny fairies, who were exactly like those in one of her picture books. She gasped and the fairies laughed again. Without speaking the six fairies took hold of Eliza’s arms and legs and pulled her up. She towered above them, so the fairies cast a spell. Eliza shrank to their size. She was alarmed, but then remembered Alice in Wonderland shrinking and having adventures.
Soon, Eliza and the six fairies were dancing and playing games. It seemed to last forever. She felt so happy with her new friends.
But she must find her father who would take her back home. Her mother would be worried to find Eliza gone. Somehow, the fairies knew what Eliza needed. They lifted her up and flew above the trees to where Eliza’s father worked. They cast another spell to restore her to her normal size. Then they flew away.
Startled to see his daughter, but knowing better than to upset her by asking questions, he took her gently by the hand and led her safely back to the cottage and her mother. The three hugged warmly and Eliza vowed never to venture alone into the forest again.’
Ellie yawned and in a sleepy voice said, ‘I love a happy ending Grandma.’
‘And I love you, darling Ellie.’
498 words excluding title.
I expect lots of you, like me, are creating and drafting exciting entries for the September Song competition but dont forget there are only fourteen days until the monthly (November ) competition closes and i’m looking forward to reading your entries for that too .
You asked for a heart-warming tale, Terrie, but my story, after I started it and got stuck, became the opposite. You’re welcome to disqualify it or not read it at all.
Content warning: includes postnatal depression
499 words including title
I Lied When I Said My Daughter Lived Abroad
After that walk up and down a steep crag, I sat beside the fire and stretched my legs. The hotel’s luxurious warmth soothed my aching calves. A glass of mulled wine, passed to me by another woman in our party, diluted some of the lingering discomfort of my mind.
Darkness fell outside and someone said, ‘It’s time for a story or two.’
Others in our little group laughed but no storyteller came forth. I kept a straight face – a mistake.
‘There’s something in your mind,’ one of the men said. ‘Go on, tell us.’
There seemed no harm in saying that I’d been thinking of my daughter, whose favourite places included a Scottish crag or several. I told them how we used to walk together.
‘Used to?’ I was asked. ‘And now?’
That’s when I lied, adding, ‘We don’t see each other often. I’ve no fireside tales, I’m afraid.’
The conversation moved elsewhere.
During our group’s walk a north-westerly wind had bitten at my lungs. During our descent from the crag, small boggy pools at its base had shone black and glassy like mementoes of cold, deep loch water.
In the hotel I must have appeared wrapped in reminiscence, because no one interrupted while I gazed into the fire. My daughter and her husband had lived in a pretty cottage beside a Scottish loch, where sunshine often lit the south-facing house. But on my visits I’d found the surroundings gloomy. Beside the loch, a narrow pebbled beach plunged into the water. I thought how little light there’d be under the surface, even a few metres from the shore. The loch’s depth had been measured but what that ravine might look like was outwith my imagination.
My daughter became pregnant and had a little boy. Oh, what a joyous day six months ago when I drove to the hospital to see my grandson. In hindsight, my daughter was too quiet, too distant from the start. Talking therapies didn’t help her bond with her son. Anti-depressants didn’t lift her. She stopped speaking. A planned admittance to a hospital met administrative delay.
I never envisaged her pouring petrol inside the cottage while her husband and son were out for a walk. That stone cottage had timbers dry enough to stoke any blaze. My daughter, despite mitigating circumstances, was convicted of wilful fire raising and destruction of property, and sent to a secure mental health hospital. She’s still there.
‘I did it to get help,’ she told me on one of my rare visits, for she didn’t want to see me often. ‘I thought the loch was my friend. Its darkness – that’s how I felt. But you’d never liked it and I couldn’t explain.’
I should have realised more, understood better.
Beside the hotel fire, someone started a ghost story and the party waited for pleasurable shivers. I watched the flames licking the logs, their leaps behind and around one another. I was already haunted.
Percy.
Percy was old. I knew that because everybody knew that. I went to see him because I was invited, and young, ambitious journalists don’t refuse invitations from Percy Fullbig’s people. The man who had seen it all, and predicted much of it. Predicted the Second World War, Vietnam, various troubles in the Middle East, the Financial Crash—if the stories were true.
He greeted me himself, at the door. He was dressed in black velvet, as though he had dined well with friends, enjoyed the port, and now the day was drawing to a close. His appearance? I don’t know. As sophisticated as Olivier, as commonplace as a man in the street, but charming, and welcoming.
‘Come in, come in!’
I was ushered through an entrance hall into a large, and very warm sitting room, lit softly by wall lamps, but principally by a large open log fire. In front were two plump armchairs with side tables, each with a glass.
‘Here, make yourself comfortable. And do try the Laphroaig. It’s a ten-year-old but from their first batch of tens, which means it went into the bottle almost seventy years ago.’
He went on, excitedly pointing out aspects of the flavour, and then settled into a comfortable silence. I’m not a great whisky drinker, but I’ll admit that this one had an extraordinary taste I liked. Something flickered in the corner of my vision, just beyond him in the darkness.
‘So then, the future,’ he said. ‘We’re all told that pessimism is realism, but I have to say that for once, I’m optimistic.’
Again, the flicker. I wanted to make the most of this opportunity, but it distracted me.
‘Something the matter?’ he asked. ‘Oh, I know. It’s that digital picture frame. Present from the family. It keeps changing. Please, go and have a look.’
I walked over to the table where the picture frame stood. The current display was a sullen looking girl of about four dragging a Teddy Bear.
‘That’s my great granddaughter, or one of them. ‘
The image changed to a man in late middle-age laughing as he was caught in his vest washing a Bentley.
‘My youngest boy, Alfred. That was taken a few years back. Here have another drop.’
As I turned to see him topping up our glasses, I just caught sight of the next picture and I almost cried out, only stopping myself with the utmost effort. It was Percy, but it was hideous. His hands and mouth were red with blood and he was eating—
‘Here you go.’
He was setting my glass down. I looked back at the frame. A large family group dressed for tennis. Trembling, I resumed my seat, and took a large slug of the whisky. I needed it.
He smiled, and raised his glass.
‘Cheers!’
I couldn’t seem to raise my glass.
‘I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have seen that picture. I’m optimistic about my future, but in your case pessimism makes more sense.’
500 words with title.
Only one more day remaining for anyone thinking about submitting something for the November competiton .
Jill – a heart-warming tale with a hint of caution and a happy ending as luckily the fairies didn’t try to whisk Ellie away.
The warmth between Ellie and her grandma really shone through and I enjoyed how you blended something modern with a fairy tale too.
Libby – I tried to leave the scope of the challenge a little open ended as I guessed there might be a at least one not so heart-warming tale wanting to emerge so it was good to see something that teetered on human darkness and horror. You cleverly revealed the self-blame of the mother in not noticing the problem sooner and likewise hinted, although the storytellers daughter ‘liked’ the loch it seemed to echo the darker side of her mind working. A clever fireside tale. Thank you.
Ath – Almost from the outset I guessed this was heading into a dark and disturbing tale. The almost throwaway line ‘if the stories were true’ was the first hint. The likeable taste of the whisky was another while the reoccurring flicker just added to the sense of building horror, and when it manifested with the image of Percy in the picture I definitely flinched, imagining the fate of the poor journalist. The use of the changing picture frame gave off veiled echoes of a Dorian Grey type individual and was a clever modern twist.
Still wincing as I think about this tale.
Oh dang, after the enjoyment of reading each story, this is the part I find the most difficult. Three eloquent tales each woven quite differently from the other – they are all excellent examples of writing talent that hooks a the reader and carries them along to the end of the piece.I wanted to choose them all … but finally …
I chose Ath to take us into the end of year competition challenge becasue the revolving picture image of Percy kept drawing me back to his story.
Congratulations, Athelstone. I look forward to your December challenge. I enjoyed the other two November fireside tales very much too. Thank you, Terrie for setting an interesting challenge, which brought out the Grandma in me, although I have grandsons not a granddaughter! Jill x
Thank you, Terrie! And congratulations on a truly creepy story, Ath. And Jill for a heart-warming, magical tale – exactly right for the time of year.
- You must be logged in to reply to this topic.