Trifectra: Week 101

This week Trifectra asks for 33 of your own words inspired by the following picture.


Word Count 33

Damn you Collin for not supporting me. All I asked is two days a week kid free, but no. Instead I’m cramming my studies in a café during my lunch hour. Thanks!

Sunday Photo Fiction: January 26th 2014

Well I know it is late but this is my attempt for Sunday Photo Fiction, a 100-200 word photo prompt provided by Al Forbes. Why not take a look over at the other stories posted each week and have a go yourself. Have a bit of fun and see what your mind creates :)

sunday fictioneer


Word Count 170

I still wake up with flashbacks of that day, my grandkids playing at the bottom of the garden near the stream. They loved to fish, they were getting older and at sixteen and seventeen I had started to trust them to enjoy their fishing alone, without being watched by me or their grandfather. I was in the kitchen making tea when I heard them both announce that they had caught something, I could hear their commotion as they ran up to show us there catch. I stood there smiling knowing how proud they would be with themselves but as I turn round to greet them with my biggest full of pride smile, my eyes were met with fear and horror on their fresh faces. My eyes gazed down from there sheet white faces to see the bloody remains of a baby in their arms. The police said it had been in the water over 3 days, I don’t think that image will ever leave me again or my precious innocent grandsons.



Everywhere around me, every corner, every inch and every sound radiates the essence of me. The memories and stories these walls hold could never go away surely.

When I’m gone what happens then? If I can’t imagine the next person not feeling and sensing my own history in these bricks and mortar how will it be when I move?

What would be worse? Not sensing the previous owner’s history within its walls and having the luxury of feeling the walls are a blank canvas to make my own, with new memories and stories. But this would have the added insult of the knowledge that the next tenant, in my old home, would be able to just as easier clear away my presence in my home of 12 years.

Or the scary concept of moving into a new house and it not feeling like my own home as the feeling of a previous presence, with its own history and memories still lingering, but with the comfort that my own home, my old friend, won’t betray me by letting go of its memory of me?

What a scary concept both seem to be, or am I just living in denial that such objects could hold such important human feelings. After all what makes a home? Is it the bricks and cement which cradles your life, history and memories? Is it the items that are held within the building which has helped you live in such a comforting way? Or is it all in your own head, and the idea of the connection between the structure and items held within them are just the human way of connecting life together within a sense of grounding and being physical.

These feelings seem too intense to stay stored inside a single head; I maybe just over analysing a single thought but a single thought can spiral out of control. I need to wrap my head around this; it was my desire to move, my hopes and wishes for something bigger and better with more freedom to grow and move on from sad and hard times. After all not all the memories where happy, there have been quite a few which I would never like to relive again but they did all help to mould the person I am today.