15 Minute Fic - Word #140
I took part, once again, in the 15 Minute Fic challenge. This week I decided to write original fiction instead of fanfiction.
So here is my untitled ficlet, partially set in 1970's Northern England.
Word #140 - Carpet
I always hated that carpet. Every time I visited my grandmother, I was forced to sit upon the shaggy brown pile, since I was a child and thus undeserving of the limited seating in the poky little living room. It itched on my bare legs - as the weekly visits to my grandmother's cottage always took place after school, and I was left wearing my hideous green school uniform. My discontent was made worse when my grandmother would comment upon how much I looked like some sort of flower when I sat in her living room. Some garden variety posy with my bushy red hair, wearing a stem-coloured uniform and constantly fidgeting on the brown, soil-like carpet as though the wind couldn't let me rest. Each time she saw me, every week, she would remark,
“Francis, my dear! You truly are like a flower! Look at how much you have grown this week!” She would peer at me, behind thick, metal-rimmed glasses and poke me on the nose with a wrinkled finger, “Ah, another freckle. You've been in the sun, I see.”
Then before I could open my mouth to respond she would address my mother, or my father and enter 'grown-up talk time'. It was a time when I was unable to speak, or else I was subjected to the age old saying “children should be seen and not heard”. So I was left to sit in silence upon the ancient and most uncomfortable carpet, swirling the fronds in circles and leaving patterns, before a sharp glare from my mother stopped me.
On those occasions, I would sit and stare at my grandmother. She was an interesting looking old woman. Her hair was as frizzy and wild as mine, though drained of all colour. It was thinned out almost as though it were grey smoke billowing from her wrinkled head. Her eyes were the brightest blue - even more so than my own, and were enlarged by the thick glasses she wore. Her eyesight was quite terrible, she often complained. She was always dressed in nice clothes - I never once saw her in a dressing gown or nighty. Dad told me it was because of the war years when she used to get up to work in the munitions factory in the early hours of the morning. No matter how early our visits, she was up and dressed as though she were about to meet the Queen. I used to watch the loose, puckered skin on her neck wobble as she talked. Her voice was soft, well spoken, but occasionally creeping into an accent she had long tried to hide. She liked to pretend she was better off than she really was. I often asked Dad why if she was so well-off, she didn't have a television. Most of my friends had black and white televisions, and some even had colour. If my grandmother had a television, I wouldn't have had to sit and play with that horrible carpet.
Then again, I wouldn't have appreciated my grandmother so much.
Looking back now, I have such fond memories of her. She really was lovely and always gave me sweets. She told me to save them for after tea but as soon as we left the cottage I would scarf them down. Peppermints. Even today if I eat a peppermint it takes me back to that little cottage.
So here I was, 30 years later, standing outside her old home. My grandmother had died long ago, and there had been other owners since, but I had recently learned the cottage was being torn down to make way for a set of five new family homes. The plot had a large garden after all, despite the cottage itself being very confined. I don't know why, but I felt the urge to come say goodbye to the place. Standing outside the door, unable to enter, I felt a deep longing to go sit on that horrible brown carpet once more, though I knew I wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing that sweet, crinkly face smile over at me with twinkling blue eyes ever again.
I did end up going a little overboard on the time limit, just to round it off. It couldn't be helped, as my laptop in incredibly slow and the autosave on OpenOffice would freeze the program for a few mins, and it lagged even when making new paragraphs or correcting my many typos. When it actually came to writing though, it probably took only 15-17 mins.
So here is my untitled ficlet, partially set in 1970's Northern England.
Word #140 - Carpet
I always hated that carpet. Every time I visited my grandmother, I was forced to sit upon the shaggy brown pile, since I was a child and thus undeserving of the limited seating in the poky little living room. It itched on my bare legs - as the weekly visits to my grandmother's cottage always took place after school, and I was left wearing my hideous green school uniform. My discontent was made worse when my grandmother would comment upon how much I looked like some sort of flower when I sat in her living room. Some garden variety posy with my bushy red hair, wearing a stem-coloured uniform and constantly fidgeting on the brown, soil-like carpet as though the wind couldn't let me rest. Each time she saw me, every week, she would remark,
“Francis, my dear! You truly are like a flower! Look at how much you have grown this week!” She would peer at me, behind thick, metal-rimmed glasses and poke me on the nose with a wrinkled finger, “Ah, another freckle. You've been in the sun, I see.”
Then before I could open my mouth to respond she would address my mother, or my father and enter 'grown-up talk time'. It was a time when I was unable to speak, or else I was subjected to the age old saying “children should be seen and not heard”. So I was left to sit in silence upon the ancient and most uncomfortable carpet, swirling the fronds in circles and leaving patterns, before a sharp glare from my mother stopped me.
On those occasions, I would sit and stare at my grandmother. She was an interesting looking old woman. Her hair was as frizzy and wild as mine, though drained of all colour. It was thinned out almost as though it were grey smoke billowing from her wrinkled head. Her eyes were the brightest blue - even more so than my own, and were enlarged by the thick glasses she wore. Her eyesight was quite terrible, she often complained. She was always dressed in nice clothes - I never once saw her in a dressing gown or nighty. Dad told me it was because of the war years when she used to get up to work in the munitions factory in the early hours of the morning. No matter how early our visits, she was up and dressed as though she were about to meet the Queen. I used to watch the loose, puckered skin on her neck wobble as she talked. Her voice was soft, well spoken, but occasionally creeping into an accent she had long tried to hide. She liked to pretend she was better off than she really was. I often asked Dad why if she was so well-off, she didn't have a television. Most of my friends had black and white televisions, and some even had colour. If my grandmother had a television, I wouldn't have had to sit and play with that horrible carpet.
Then again, I wouldn't have appreciated my grandmother so much.
Looking back now, I have such fond memories of her. She really was lovely and always gave me sweets. She told me to save them for after tea but as soon as we left the cottage I would scarf them down. Peppermints. Even today if I eat a peppermint it takes me back to that little cottage.
So here I was, 30 years later, standing outside her old home. My grandmother had died long ago, and there had been other owners since, but I had recently learned the cottage was being torn down to make way for a set of five new family homes. The plot had a large garden after all, despite the cottage itself being very confined. I don't know why, but I felt the urge to come say goodbye to the place. Standing outside the door, unable to enter, I felt a deep longing to go sit on that horrible brown carpet once more, though I knew I wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing that sweet, crinkly face smile over at me with twinkling blue eyes ever again.
I did end up going a little overboard on the time limit, just to round it off. It couldn't be helped, as my laptop in incredibly slow and the autosave on OpenOffice would freeze the program for a few mins, and it lagged even when making new paragraphs or correcting my many typos. When it actually came to writing though, it probably took only 15-17 mins.