Fancy joining in with the Bloggers bakeoff?

My Good Pal, Mel, who’s blog Caramel is always entertaining, is organising a Bloggers Bake-off event on the 21st/22nd of August. Click on the link to her post to find out more.

https://crushedcaramel.wordpress.com/2021/08/06/its-all-garys-idea/

I can’t articulate enough my support. I encourage you to take a look.

I caught a fish – It was this big – A Story for Rory, A Guy Called Bloke

 

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Photo by Adrianna Calvo on Pexels.com

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Back when I was a nipper, I was taken fishing by my Grandfather.

I was only six or seven and so my memories aren’t clear, but I can’t articulate enough how much that trip meant to me. Particularly as my Grandfather died the following year.

He was a character, that was for sure. My most vivid memory of him was that he loved his whisky, with just a dash of water in it. I remember clearly his voice calling out to my Mother “Don’t drench it Gwen, whatever you do!”

On this particular day, we set off in his car. He was the terror of the area because he insisted on driving at twenty miles per hour and no faster, regardless of how many people cursed and beeped their horn. It took nearly forty minutes to reach the harbour, a trip that takes me just twenty nowadays.

Grandfather had managed to pull a few strings with some of his old contacts at the harbour where he had worked as a docker for many years and managed to borrow a small motorboat for the day.

As the engine went “Putt, putt, putt” it became clear that Grandfather was no faster on the water than he was on land.

Eventually, we reached a spot out to sea and grandfather taught me how to cast the fishing line.

Something tugged on my line almost immediately.

“Grandpa! I think I’ve caught something,” I exclaimed.

“Well, reel it in son, don’t let it get away” he cried back.

Together we reeled in the line, it took both of us, then it emerged, the biggest fish I had ever seen. It was as tall as I was, admittedly I wasn’t tall for my age,  but it was pretty impressive considering we’d forgotten to pack any bait.

 

[300 words]

This story was written for A Guy Called Bloke’s Challenge, click on the link below:

Spin The Keyboard Yarn – Baby Steps First

 

I have also included the following word prompts:

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/04/03/rdp-wednesday-articulate/

https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/04/03/your-daily-word-prompt-drench-april-3-2019/

FOWC with Fandango — Contacts

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/04/03/penitent/

 

Right OK. I admit it, I didn’t read Rory’s instructions fully. I skipped the part about marking the story out of ten for believability! So I was a bit taken back by the marking…

Anyway please forgive me, I am most penitent. 😉

Here is what I should have added.

Out of Ten, how believable do you think my story is?

 

 

 

Genre Challenge – Penitent Hostage.

This story was written for the Genre Challenge: Romantic Thriller

https://thehauntedwordsmith.wordpress.com/2019/04/03/genre-writing-challenge-april-3/

 

Rosalie stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself up in a soft towel.

Something instinctively told her that she was not alone in the flat.

The hairs on the back of her neck started to rise.

She should be alone. Her husband was at work and she had the flat to herself for a few hours. That was why she decided to have a nice long shower. There was something about letting the water drench you, that usually calmed and relaxed her. She had been very tense of late.

She just finished drying herself off and put on a loose tracksuit when her instincts told her to move away from the door just as it burst open and two men wearing black from head to toe stormed in.

She screamed but one of the men forced a leather-clad hand over her mouth. She kicked out, hitting the other man in the neck with her foot. Then she felt something heavy hit her on the head and then nothing but darkness.

When she regained consciousness, her head was still sore, and waves of nausea nearly caused her to regurgitate her breakfast.

Her hand and feet were bound together tightly and a gag was tied over her mouth. She lay on the floor of a dimly lit cell.

She started going over things in her head, reciting poetry that she’d learned at school, reciting Shakespeare plays. This was part of her training to keep her mind active in situations like these.

Just as she finished re-enacting Julius Caesar and was about to start The Merchant of Venice, the door to her cell opened and two more black-clad louts came in, possibly the same ones.

They roughly picked her up and carried her out of the room.

She let her head and body go limp but carefully tried to catch a glimpse of something that would give her a clue to where she was. The corridor was long with a handful of empty cells leading off it. Only dim electric lights provided any illumination.

At the end of the corridor, they climbed up several flights of steps, then emerged into a large room, with white walls and smooth floors.

She lost track of the turns they then took, down several corridors, three rights, then a left, followed by several more stairs.

Finally, they dumped her body into a chair, removed her gag and left her.

Then a bright light shone in her face, blinding her.

From beyond this light, a voice came, rough but with a certain sarcastic tone to it.

“You are Mrs Maxwell, I take it? Wife of Jonathan Maxwell the Spy?”

She said nothing.

“Your husband has been giving us quite a bit of trouble recently, Mrs Maxwell. Preventing our shipments going through. I am hoping that you will provide the leverage to get him to stop. It is imperative that our operations continue. I have prepared a ransom note, and to add that touch of authenticity, I’d like you to sign it yourself.”

“What if I don’t?” her voice did not betray any of the fear that she felt inside. She was proud of that.

The voice laughed, “Oh, Mrs Maxwell, you don’t want us to get nasty, believe me. If you cooperate, there is no reason why you cannot survive this and in time be reunited with your husband.”

Suddenly the door burst off its hinges and several armed men ran in, wearing SAS uniforms. A man dressed all in black, his head obscured by a balaclava sauntered in and walked up to two SAS soldiers who were holding a smartly dressed man, dripping in gold.

The man in black then punched her former interrogator in the stomach and he doubled over grunting.

“Take him away,” he said, pulling off his balaclava.

She glared at him and said “I can’t articulate how mad I am with you at this moment! What kept you?”

He laughed “I’m sorry, Darling, I couldn’t act as quickly as I wanted to, my contacts at the SAS took a while to pull strings. I hope they didn’t hurt you. I assure you I am most penitent. How can I make it up to you?”

He untied her bound feet and arms then pulled her into his arms.

“Oh, I suppose a trip to the Bahamas might just do the trick,” she said as they kissed passionately.

“I have to admit, that was an excellent plan, you made the perfect bait, my darling”.

 

The End.

Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 03/April/2019

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/04/03/rdp-wednesday-articulate/

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/04/03/penitent/

https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/04/03/your-daily-word-prompt-drench-april-3-2019/

FOWC with Fandango — Contacts

 

Sunday Afternoon Reading – My Fantasy Story Part 23.

I was posting instalments of the Fantasy story I wrote 17 years ago every Sunday and Wednesday afternoons. The most observant amongst you may have realised that I haven’t posted an instalment in some time. In fact, the last one was posted last Friday, the 17th of August.

Well here is the next part. I hope you are enjoying it.

If you want to read it from its genesis, here is the link:

https://talesfromthemindofkristian.wordpress.com/2018/05/26/a-fantasy-tale-part-one/

 

Part Twenty-Three

Piotr Drake had not been enjoying himself. No, not at all. He was not in the best of moods. He had been travelling on the road for several days, since leaving the City of Savarias, on horse back and dressed up like a Mage. This had presented a couple of problems for Piotr. Firstly, that despite being a coachman he was not at all a good horse rider. He was fine with horses when he was sitting up high and they were harnessed to the coach and he had the reins and his whip. He found sitting on them quite unbearable. Truth be known he was not at all fond of horses. Riding them, he felt that the horse was more in control of the situation than he was. It took all his strength and stamina to keep the horse from straying from the road to have a munch of some tempting thicket. The way Piotr gripped his reins you would have thought he was riding a fierce stallion. Actually the horse was a particularly docile example and had been christened by its original owner, ‘Plodder’.

Continue reading Sunday Afternoon Reading – My Fantasy Story Part 23.