copyright G.L MacMillan
Eau de Newfoundland
Stanley keeps tiny bottles of water from everywhere he’s visited, but he only ever opens one. He collected it on the beach in Griquet, Newfoundland. Smelling the salt water brings him back to that wild land of rock and trees, where moose roam and majestic icebergs float silently by the shore.
It’s not the nature he misses though. He left her there somewhere, that sandy-haired Newfie beauty he met by chance inside a Viking hut.
He keeps opening the bottle because if he listens closely, he can almost hear her, like the voice of an outport angel.
“Whaddya at, b’y?”
I feel this story needs some explanation for those who have never been to Newfoundland. I grew up there and although I have not been back in many years, it will always be home to me in many ways. So, for the curious, bored, or otherwise inclined, here are some links to peruse.
The inspiration for the title
L’Anse Aux Meadows
You can call this a second string Friday Fictioneers piece, not because it’s worse but because there was no way it was fitting into 100 words.
“How much for the tuba?” I asked.
The clerk told me.
I smiled and let nostalgia glaze my face like a Kristy Kreme donut. “You know, my mom used to play the tuba. She had lungs on her like a pair of steel bagpipes. Growing up ,I thought she could put her lips to an elephant’s trunk and blow him up like a balloon, just like in the cartoons. Once, I put a ball bearing into the bell of her tuba before a performance, just as a prank. She played that whole concert, keeping it hovering in there. It wasn’t until the final note that she launched it up and out. Knocked out the conductor cold.” I chuckled, in a subdued way. “She passed away last year.”
The clerk looked amused and sympathetic at the same time. “Sounds like quite the lady. You know, I don’t normally do this, but I think I can give you a 20% discount on it. For your mom’s sake.”
“Wow, thanks!” I said. “That means a lot to me. I’ll think of her when I play it.”
I paid and arranged for the delivery. Then I strolled outside and down to the next music store. One down, three to go for my brass quartet.
“How much for the trumpet?” I asked when I was inside.
The shopkeeper told me.
I nodded and looked far away. “You know, my old grandpappy used to play the trumpet . . .”
This Friday Fictioneer prompt was an interesting challenge. To me, it said primitive technology in the midst of modernity. So that was the jumping off place for this story. Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the picture.
copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
The Light of Times Past
“Great job, Shane. Those cybos didn’t have a prayer.”
Shane smiled and nodded. He stowed his blaster rifle, flew home, and threw the main breaker.
That time was precious—that hour he spent daily in the oil lamps’ glow, with not even a single LED breaking the spell.
Shane was proud of his job defending humanity from the cybo attacks.
But still . . .
He missed those days—doing homework and saying prayers by lamplight in that old wooden house, with its blue door and freezing outhouse.
He took out the old German Bible, opened the cracked cover, and began to read.