I don’t think there’s enough fiction on this blog, given its title.  It’s got plenty of ideas, but not much in the way of stories.  So I’ve decided to start “Friday Fiction”.  Every Friday I will post something fictional.  It could be a short scene, or a longer story, or something else entirely.

I doubt this is a new idea, but I’m hoping that the public commitment will force me to actually get some of the ideas into a state I’m happy to share.  Feel free to prod me with sticks if it gets to Friday evening and I haven’t posted anything fictional.

Here’s this week’s offering.

 

Amelia sighed and scratched her nose.  Was there really a point to this?  Still, Grams insisted, and it was always easier to give Grams what she wanted.  Her eyes stayed shut.

She listened to the sounds around her.  A bird trilled, loud and clear.  The wind rustled the leaves.  An insect buzzed.  In the distance a car crawled past, its engine purring.  The sun, gently warm on her face, tinted the inside of her eyelids red.

Her body wanted to droop, her arms heavy in her lap.  The ground cradled her legs, crossed in front of her.

Grams was moving around in the house, humming quietly.  It sounded like she was baking.  Amelia breathed in deeply, and the scent of peaches filled her nose.

Something about it bothered her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Something rustled the undergrowth behind her.  A bird.  She could almost see it, each hop rustling the leaves under the magnolia bush.

She sighed again, and fought the urge to glance at her watch.

Grams’ voice came from nowhere, making Amelia jump.

“What did you hear?”

Amelia opened her eyes and looked at the kindly face of her grandmother.  There was a slight twinkle in her eye, as usual, but she seemed serious.  Amelia had a sudden sense of how old Grams looked.  Surely she hadn’t had that many wrinkles last week?

She described the bird, the leaves, the insects.  She mentioned the car.  Grams was nodding approvingly, but seemed to be waiting for something.

“Nothing else?” she asked.

Amelia hesitated.

“Are we having peach pie tonight?”

Grams smiled, and turned back towards the house.

“Come and see.”

Amelia scrambled to her feet and shook out her legs.  Been sitting still too long, she thought, and skipped a few steps to catch up with Grams.  They entered the house together.  Amelia frowned.  Something was off, something different.

She followed Grams to the kitchen.  There was a mixing bowl and spoons, and a pie dish, just like she had been expecting.  But there was no half-made pastry sitting in the bowl.  No pie-fillings.

And there, on the counter, an unopened tin of peaches.

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