Friday Fictioneers – City Life

Every week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (thank you, Rochelle!) hosts a flash fiction challenge, to write a complete story, based on a photoprompt, with a beginning, middle and end, in 100 words or less. Post it on your blog, and include the Photoprompt and Inlinkz (the blue frog) on your page. Link your story URL. Then the fun starts as you read other peoples’ stories and comment on them!

Last week I was very busy, and I’m afraid I didn’t manage to read all the stories. If I missed yours, I’m sorry – I shall try to do better this week!

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PHOTO PROMPT © Yarnspinnerr

City Life

Makshirani disembarked from the train. Crowds jostled. The city was very different from home. What would her new life be like?

A young man approached.

“Namaste! I’m Dayasara. Aunt Abhilasha sent me to collect you.”

“Namaste.” Makshirani made the gesture of pranamasana.

“Come. I have a moped.”

Makshirani clung on as Dayasara zigzagged between the heavy traffic. The streets grew narrower, stinking and full of flies.

Dayasara stopped by a dilapidated colonial residence.

“You’re sharing with four girls; I’ll introduce you. Can we meet when you’ve settled in?”

Makshirani looked down modestly.

“Only if Aunt says I may,” she murmured.

In the Keukenhof Gardens

This story is a fictionalised account of an actual experience I had in the Keukenhof Gardens. These gardens are in Holland, close to Amsterdam. They are absolutely magnificent, and are open to the public for eight weeks every year, a ‘must see’ if you’re visiting Amsterdam.  You can read and see more about the gardens here: https://keukenhof.nl/en/discover-the-park/open-2018/

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In the Keukenhof Gardens

Orange, scarlet and golden blooms sing softly beside the dark lake. Silver light reflects peacefully from ripples in the lake’s waters. The scent of thousands of flowers glows in the air.

I walk, slowly, along curved paths. Gravel scrapes under my feet. April sunshine lies warm and weightless across my shoulders. A gentle breeze strokes me, like feathers, like silk, like the tender fingertips of a lover.

Faint and distant music hangs like wood-smoke in the air, tickling, teasing, and I follow. The tuneless tune allures, rousing me, and I follow. The tone becomes harsher. There are others on the path. Still I follow.

The path broadens, the music loud now, raucous dance-music on a mechanical organ rasping out the joys and sorrows of the world. People talk, laugh, shout, and the dance sweeps up their voices into harmonious dissonance. It booms in my head like brass and tinkles like crystalline snowflakes.

All the emotion in all the world shrills through those organ pipes, crashes with those cymbals, the drum beats driving the dance before me and after me. I sing beside the deep waters; I dance beside the orange and scarlet blooms. Silver tears ripple silently down my cheeks as I see my part in the dance – and rejoice that it holds so much of the gold of love.