Z is for… Ze end

The house that a lot of this month’s stories took place in — my grandparents’ house — no longer exists. Or rather the house itself still exists, the shell of it remains, but the inside is completely different.

One of my biggest regrets was going to see it as it was being gutted. I was in my late teens by that point, and well out of childhood, but seeing the kitchen torn out, the tiles broken, the inside a ruin, was a shock. It felt like someone had abruptly jerked me out what remained of my childhood and kicked me out into the cold.

I really wish that I didn’t have the memory of how sad and forlorn it looked, all empty of furniture and people, and all broken up inside. Continue reading

The Boy From The Moon – Speakeasy #169

The Boy from the Moon had arrived at Brigitte’s window one sunny afternoon, as she was doing her homework. His golden hair floated around him like a cloud, and his eyes were of the palest violet. He wore a purple silk waistcoat and a pea green bowtie.

He introduced himself as the Boy from the Moon and offered to take her to the beach. Brigitte accepted, because what little girl would refuse such an invitation from a boy from the Moon?

Off they flew, lifted by the wind.

They listened to the sea in the seashells, ate wild blueberries and cartwheeled on the sand.

When the sun had set, they sat on a rock, watching the sea. The Boy smelt of hot sand and vanilla. It was the happiest moment of Brigitte’s life.

“How did you come here?” she asked.

“I grabbed the tail of a comet,” he replied, as though it was obvious.

“How will you get back? Comets don’t come here very often,” she said, glancing at the sky where the stars twinkled, remaining firmly in their place.

“Oh I don’t need a comet to get back. I will soak myself in sea water and the Moon will pull me in.”

“She will?”

“Yes. Haven’t you heard that the Moon operates the tide?”

Brigitte nodded, she had learnt about that in Science Class, just last week.

“Well,” continued the Boy, “When the tide goes out, I’ll follow it all the way home. Would you like to come?”

Brigitte’s heart soared. She was about to say yes, when she thought of her Mama. She would be worried by now, what would she think if Brigitte didn’t come back? Her Mama often cried now that Pa had gone, telling her that Brigitte was all she had left. If Brigitte went to the Moon, who would look after her Mama?

“Oh…Oh dear,” said the Boy, shaking his head.


“You have Responsibilities. I hear they’re very heavy. I’m not sure if the tide will be able to lift you.”

“I don’t have Responsibilities,” protested Brigitte.

“You do, you were just thinking of one.”

Brigitte bit her lip.

“Fine, I won’t think about my Mama. I want to go with you to the Moon.” She could always come back and visit, couldn’t she?

Brigitte took the Boy’s hand and they waded into the water. She gasped from the cold. Waves pushed against her as though they didn’t want her in the sea.

“It’s so cold,” she cried, “we’re going to catch our death.” And if she died, who would look after her Mama?

The Boy turned to look at her, his pale eyes glowing softly in the night, full of sadness.

“Your Responsibilities are too heavy, I can feel them dragging me down.” He stroked her cheek. “I don’t think I can take you with me.”

Brigitte knew then that she couldn’t bear for him to leave her behind. She clung to him fiercely.

“I take it all back, I don’t care about being cold. Please take me with you.”

“I’ll try.”

They waded further until they were treading water. Brigitte spluttered as waves crashed over her head, but still she clung to the Boy.

“It’s starting,” he shouted, “can you feel the tide?”

Brigitte willed herself to feel it. To her dismay she felt nothing, but the Boy’s hand grew faint in hers, as though he was disappearing. She squeezed it harder, and it reminded her of how tight her Mama held onto her some nights.

A large wave crashed into Brigitte, sending her rolling towards the beach. She gasped for breath and looked around for the Boy. She called and called for him, but the sea spread out around her, calm and empty under the moonlit sky. The waves had disappeared with the Boy from the Moon.


Brigitte put her youngest to bed. Her two other children were already tucked away, reading a bedtime story with their father. When she kissed her baby’s forehead she caught a familiar smell. Hot sand and vanilla. She stood up, heart thumping, but the room was empty. She felt a pinch of sadness.

Brigitte had a good life, a caring husband, loving children… A good life, full of Responsibilities.

Every so often though, she thought of the Boy from the Moon and she found herself wishing she could go back to that beach, and throw herself into the sea without a care for anyone or anything.

It was the only thing she regretted.

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A quick explanation for those who haven’t come across the Yeah Write Speakeasy before. It’s a flash fiction challenge.The concept is very simple: every week a sentence is given that must be used somewhere in the  flash, and there is a media prompt (photo, art, music, or video) to inspire the piece. Then those who want to take part write a piece of flash fiction of 750 words or less including the sentence, and based on the media prompt, and link up the post to the Yeah Write website (click on the badge above for the link).

I’ve been (lurking) watching people do this for a little while, and finally decided to jump in. The prompt for this week was “It was the one thing she regretted” and the media prompt was the video below.

I had never heard of Pink Martini before but I love that song.

Hope you enjoyed my take on the prompts. And as always thanks for dropping by!