Author: Francoise Ducroz

  • Breaking the spell

    My body has its own voice and
    today it’s asking me to go
    in the lake for a winter swim.

    Today, my body says – no more excuses, girl –
    I want to feel cold and wet
    and move through the water with ease.

    No resistance, no hesitation.
    Large strokes, long movements.
    Like a fish, head under water
    and eyes open.

    Today is the day I break the spell
    an old fisherman put on me
    when my mother, my brothers, and I
    spent a winter on the Mediterranean shore.

    I was three years old and already knew
    that I belonged to the water’s edge,
    constantly pulled towards the waves,
    whatever the weather.

    That morning, we were ready for mass
    and while my mother was distracted,
    I ran to the shore in my Sunday clothes.
    Thinking he was being helpful, the man stopped me.

    And he,
    at that moment, saved my patent leather shoes.

    I don’t remember what he said to me
    about sea monsters
    dragging down and eating
    misbehaved little girls,
    but his words have kept me from
    swimming ever since.

    I live at the edge of water and, except
    on hot days and never venturing far,
    I seldom get in.

    And if I feed on changing horizons and
    the play of light on water,
    I rarely allow myself the pleasure of total immersion.
    One ancient curse holds me back.

    But today, my body knows what it wants.
    Today we’re going in – trusting.

    Unrestrained.
    Today, we’re breaking the spell.

    February 3, 2026

  • Of Grace and Fortitude

    by Francoise Ducroz

    As the evening light fades on the Highlands, 
    they gather around the table and say Grace.
    A single candle on the table
    heads bowed,
    hands folded at the heart,
    the family stands together
    for their meal of turnip soup and barley bread.

    The elder begins the prayer of thanks 
    for sturdy walls against the northern winds,
    for sheep safely gathered,
    for warm food on the table
    and for the pit fire heating the cottage’s single room.

    And tonight’s prayer has a humble sound
    of hope for another season.

    Today, the landlord came to collect his due.
    He rode with his bailiff and two sturdy highland ponies, 
    as always in late summer.
    He had been demanding and arrogant,
    noticing another mouth to feed when the child cried for his mother's milk,
    but he left satisfied with four sacks of grain loaded on the mounts
    heading for the neighboring croft over the hill.
    The harvest had been generous.
    With a growing season longer than usual,
    gentle winds, soft rains
    and a warm sun.
    So tonight, they are serene and grateful.
    Together.
    Thankful for their robust, able bodies,
    for the fortitude nestled in their strong hearts,
    for the fruit of their labor 
    and the Grace of their love.

    Read on Francoise's travel blog on the journey of life
    https://words2evolve.com/2025/10/of-grace-and-fortitude/

  • THE SADDLE

    by Françoise Ducroz

    Stepping out of the Three Moors Hotel before dawn, she headed outside town where the young apprentice said the Master lived. Her step was resolute; she was finally meeting the unequaled
    saddlemaker of the Atlas mountains.


    Troubled, she had traveled for days on an elusive search and had often questioned its wisdom.


    ” No more what-ifs,” she thought. ” As in my dreams, my steps have led me to the desert, and now I must trust the way.” She pressed on.


    The Master had agreed to see her and entrust her with his masterpiece. A saddle so delicate, so finely crafted, a leather so soft to the touch, adorned with gleaming gems the color of warm sand and night sky. But most of all, the Master’s saddle would fit only the fairest and most valiant horse. A steed that would know the way back to the temple, and the old Master knew where the
    animal was grazing.


    So much depended on the success of her sacred journey. The people did not know, but the old Master understood.


    Today, she would receive the saddle and pledge to return it, her duty faithfully met. The golden horse would take her to the buried site. She didn’t know how long it would take, but she knew
    that while riding, she must sing the words of the forgotten tongue, so unfamiliar to her ears, that she had memorized.


    The horse, the saddle, and her chant were the gifts required by the ancient stones to set the people free and heal their self-inflicted wounds.


    So, she was ordered; her purpose clearer than ever, her intent sharper than she had ever known. About to meet her fate, with bread and water for a few days, she stopped an instant and asked for a blessing. Then hurried again. The old Master and the Akhal Teke mare were waiting.

    326 words _ Short short story _ Françoise Ducroz