On the Edge – Friday Fictioneers, November 2022

When the path ahead is too steep, step slowly, eyes down.

Thus we climb to the cliff-top, my gaze fixed on the flexing white slabs of his calves, using his bulky frame for shelter –  wondering whether he took his meds today.

We reach the precipice; he goes to the brink.

“Here,” he says, motioning me forward.

I can’t trust him, though. Not these days.

Suddenly a jagged semi-circle is gouged between us, as if by an invisible marker-pen.

He tries to step away, too late.

Oh the noise…  

 

Hot tea, warm clothes, a nap.

Then maybe alert the coastguard.

The photo this week is one of mine, taken at beautiful West Bay on the Dorset coast, just an hour’s drive from us. I could have posted a re-run from the last time this picture was used – Erosion – but it seemed some people had to read it twice to understand it.

Happy Thanksgiving to Rochelle, the multi-talented leader of Friday Fictioneers, and to all my American writing colleagues.

About Sandra

I used to cruise the French waterways with my husband four or five months a year, and wrote fiction and poetry. Now I live on the beautiful Dorset coast, enjoying the luxury of being able to have a cat, cultivating an extensive garden and getting involved in the community. I still write fiction, but only when the spirit moves me - which isn't as often as before. I love animals, F1 motor racing, French bread and my husband, though not necessarily in that order.
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25 Responses to On the Edge – Friday Fictioneers, November 2022

  1. Dale says:

    Brilliant, Sandra, She shall not miss him overly, ‘twould appear…

    Like

  2. michael1148humphris says:

    I think that a second cup of tea is called for. A grand story Sandra

    Like

  3. neilmacdon says:

    You’ve surpassed yourself here for darkness and character

    Like

  4. James McEwan says:

    My goodness, I can feel the sudden release from years of responsibility that has fallen away; just like the crumbling cliff edge. Perhaps a small service instead of an elaborate funeral is called for.

    Like

  5. Dear Sandra,

    Not a lot of remorse there. I love the nonchalance of the last couple of lines. lovely photo once more. 😉

    Shalom,

    Rochelle

    Like

  6. Pingback: FF – When… | elmowrites

  7. elmowrites says:

    Great photo, Sandra, and a stunning story to go with it. I began to wonder if she hadn’t given him the slightest … shall we call it an ‘encouragement’ at the end there.

    Like

  8. granonine says:

    Sandra, I want you to know that I posted mine before I read yours 🙂

    Actually, our stories are not that similar. I love the descriptive language you used. And that she gained her freedom!

    Like

  9. liz young says:

    ‘Oh the noise’ got me first, and then that last line. Brilliant!

    Like

  10. Iain Kelly says:

    It almost feels like she may have prepared the ground somewhat there…!

    Like

  11. msjadeli says:

    I wonder whose idea it really was to walk up there…

    Like

  12. Sue says:

    Hmm, how much forward planning? Organised as well as practical, I suspect

    Like

  13. Danny James says:

    Not too much of a loss for her I guess.

    Like

  14. She doesn’t seem at all upset, relieved even.
    I’m constantly amazed by the number of people that stand and even sit on the cliff edge near me unaware that it’s falling away at quite a rate every year.

    Like

  15. Nobbinmaug says:

    The sense of relief is palpable. With the ambiguity of whether or not he took his meds, I wonder how real the threat was.

    Lovely picture. It makes me miss my days living on the coast of Northern California.

    Like

  16. poetisatinta says:

    That’s the way to do it! Great photo thanks 🙂

    Like

  17. plaridel says:

    what a bummer. he rose to the occasion only to fall to his death.

    Like

  18. Dahlia says:

    Wonderfully crafted!

    Like

  19. Bill says:

    An excellent story and photo, Sandra. Well done.

    Like

I'd love to hear your views; it reassures me I'm not talking to myself.

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