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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/

Touched by grace, they were ready to explore the days ahead. The journey to the Universal Hall had not been easy that cold December morning. Eva had bumped into someone along the way, her focus on what the coming year might bring momentarily interrupted. She sat quietly, seeking guidance, and a gentle, quiet voice urged her to continue. It advised her to choose an angel card for the year ahead. She drew “Abundance.” Her friend received “Grace.”

“What does grace mean?” they asked each other. The quiet voice answered simply: benevolence. Neither fully understood the depth of these words, but over the next few hours, they sensed the unfolding potential.

Gradually, things became easier. The right people appeared at just the right moments. The ground beneath them softened and grew stable. Grace flowed freely, and they revelled in this moment, feeling the gentle power of benevolence and abundance guiding their path.

It really felt like somebody was there, but I was definitely alone in the garden next to the new sanctuary construction site.

It was very early in the morning. I had woken at five and as the summer sun was already up, I decided to go for an early stroll. The place was so full of memories, my own and those of hundreds of people.

In my mind’s eye, I could still see the old sanctuary, and even feel the velvety fabric of its seats.

Yes, many presences of people and events were shimmering in the air. I took them into my heart and felt it expand, making my whole being feel one with the area.

I could sense the past, the present, and the future as a wonderful and powerful shimmering presence and felt deep gratitude to be part of its wonderful angelic presence.

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

The chatty bookseller tallied up the purchases and asks, “excuse my curiosity, but the person on the back of the books looks very much like you.

Are you the author?”

I smiled, enjoying my own fantasy of being a famous author being recognized. “Yes, I replied, I actually already wrote the first one.”

He looked confused. “What do you mean by having written the first one? Your name is on the three of them.”

I looked him straight in the eyes, knowing well that I was going to say would not make sense to him . But it was fun to play along.

“I have not yet written the second nor the third. They are part of a trilogy . I’m actually in the planning stage of the second one.” As I expected he looked confused even starting to be upset.

“Are you making fun of me? Your books are here in front of me . I just tallied them.”

I moved one step backwards as I was not sure how he would react. “I actually come from the past. I found a way to travel into my future. This is my first attempt. I thought it was a fun test to seek out my books in the future.”