A Sequel for Mr. Edwards


Photo credit @ Sandra Crook from her travels down the French waterways.

A Sequel for Mr. Edwards
by T. Delaplain

It had been Mr. Edwards idea to help Renee write “his” sequel from the quant château in Provence. In fact the sequel had been entirely his idea. The promise had been extorted from her during a fierce re-write; the result of a tussle over the laptop and a tumble on the divan. Mr. Edwards, a minor character in her first novel had definitely become a distraction in the sequel. Her hand hestitated over the delete button.

“No Mr. Edwards, I do not see you as a seductive rogue, perhaps a stable lad in chapter 13? Never forget, Sir. Your place is on the page.”

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Mr. Edwards can’t seem to stay where he is written or stay out of my flash fiction. A distraction indeed! If you’re curious about this literary terrorist you could read any of these flashes.
Of All the Gin Joints
Exit The Scoundrel
A Novel Romance

Please wander over to Friday Fictionners and read more 100 word tales.

A Mother’s Reward

Friday Fictioneers
Photo Credit @Liz Young

A Mother’s Reward
by T. Delaplain

Seven lay resting: too early, too late, born still, the measles, poisoned blood. Those that God left, the Great War took away. Wandering through the stones and crosses stepping over a fresh mound of turned soil through a haze of lilies, she offered praise and forgiveness. Arms finally full, now she could care for her babies.

An offering for Friday Fictioneers. We will give you 100 words to say your peace.

Paper Days

Photo credit @JellicoStation

Paper Days
By T. Delaplain

You folded the fuselage into a triangle then tightened the binder paper into a nose. You licked a finger and raised it to the sky; a northern breeze, good visibility. Precise dirt smudged creases, torn into perfect straight lines, you fashioned the wings to maximize lift. Continue Reading

Walking on Water, Fly Rod in Hand

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Photo credit: Ted Strutz

Walking on Water, Fly Rod in Hand
by T. Delaplain

“It’s all in the wrist, Trace.” My Dad’s line whipped behind him, slowly returned and walked across the calm water in a lazy “S”. I swore as my tangled fly drove its hook into my thumb.

“Try again, it’ll come.” He handed me his tattered creel. This relic of his youth held all his truths. They had shared the silent hours of meditation, the lonely farewells to his fishing buddies and the rapture of just being.

The fly rod, his staff.
The river, his bible.
The mountain, his chapel.

I recast with perfect pitch and rhythm.

Today’s sermon,”patience”.

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Some stories write themselves. A voice takes you along for the ride and you write. My Dad was a grand story teller and his advice was always given by example. This is his story. He had no use for churches but had an incredible reverence for our natural world and wild spaces. There was never a problem that couldn’t be solved with a fishing rod in hand. He believed that the best stories are about the one that got away, that the water always flows under the bridge so there’s no time for regrets and there’s always another opportunity around the bend. He believed in feeding any neighbor in need and often fished with that in mind. He had endless patience when teaching me how to fish or do long division. I still look to him for answers and sometimes those answers come in strange 100 word packages.

Take a seat in the chair and write a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Held In Memory

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Photo credit @Al Forbes

Held In Memory
by T. Delaplain

I slide into the backseat, lie on my back and imagine the moonlight. I’m assaulted with longing so intense that it can only be desire. The taste of your breath lingers still. I run my hand over the discolored upholstery. I can almost smell the vanilla ice cream mishap: kids and dogs and chaos.

My tears cloud the rear view mirror again. Continue Reading

When Faith Becomes Grief

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Thank you for the photo Dale Rogerson

When Faith Becomes Grief
by T. Delaplain

The familiar incense of candle wax, smouldering wicks and desperation forced the bile to rise in my throat. It had been a routine operation, on a common ailment, on a run-of-the-mill day, yet here I am with my extraordinary grief. Continue Reading

Silenced

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Photo credit at C.E.Ayr Thank you Sir.

Silenced
by T. Delaplain

“May I?”, La Señora lifted her wrist to check the time. “A text will arrive on the mobile in your left pocket in exactly twenty seconds. I assume that’s your phone Nando,” she raised a brow in invitation. “Trust me, by then “El Jefe’s” blood will be a faint whisper on the cafe floor and even the gringo’s news will have been sterilized.” Continue Reading