Friday, November 27, 2015


The given words at Sunday's Whirligig are mayor, steps, close beyond, never, forgotten, begin, health, age, enter, senior and adventure. I've used most of them! 

The picture at this week's Friday Fictioneers comes to us courtesy of Sandra. Rochelle is hosting as ever!

He could see France from up here. Often he would stand and gaze out beyond the blue water to the land that was for so many years home to him and his beloved wife Mathilde.

Mathilde suddenly passed away. She was no age but poor health claimed her. He returned home and became my neighbour. There was no one here to greet him. No family, and his friends were long forgotten. He was so lonely.

Sometimes he came here and watched the seagulls as they stepped from the cliffs’ edge, and soared heavenward. He envied them.

I’ve brought some flowers with me. They’re from his garden. And I've made a little wooden cross on which I've written his name, George. I’ve placed it close to the edge. I think he'd like that.

The cliff in the picture prompt is very like the white chalk one near my home, Beachy Head. Sadly, it is where at least twenty people come each year and end their lives. Many more are persuaded not to by the chaplains that patrol the edge day and night. 


Sunday, November 22, 2015

All the world is a stage man!

 (Please CLICK HERE for my contribution to Sunday's Whirligig)

At Magpie Tales we have an image of the bird that featured in one of the bard's  best-known plays, Macbeth.  A magpie.

Today's picture at Sunday Photo Fiction is of the rebuilt Shakespearian Globe Theatre on London's South Bank - somewhere I often go myself! 

Still the hungry hoards gather beneath mine stage, expectant; eager to heareth mine words, readeth mine thoughts. Mine stories of yesteryear still enthral. Wherefore I asketh? For three centuries and ninety-nine years has't passed since I departed this mortal coil.

This day, mine Romeo wouldst weareth a baseball cap backeth to the front, and  his Juliet a frock of brazen brevity. Richard the third would'st giveth his kingdom f'r a Ferrari. The maggot-pie bird  that did the noble Macbeth dread, dust still fright but will henceforth bear a name anew.

Wast I to scribe this present day, mine office would still be’est to maketh dastardly characters performing deeds of dread. But not a dagger I seeth before me, but a Glock 380. Dogberry the bumbling watchman wouldst weareth the badge of a sergeant. Mine audience would’st siteth e're a television device eating popc'rn.

In the year cometh I wilt celebrate four hundred twelvemonths since mine consummation. But still I am a cool dude in the eyes of those that readeth my words. Crowds will still throng in haste to my playhouse. Friends, Romans and countrymen will still lendeth me their ears. So let us fill our goblets to overflowing with the juice of the vine and raise them high. Then doeth it again four centuries hence.

I’ll still be around strutting my stuff even if you are not buddy! Yea!


Saturday, November 21, 2015

Come fly with me!

This week's given words are blackbird, afternoon, whistling, barbaric, rhythms, moving, tree, pierced, pantomime, bawds, whirled and snowing 

I was strolling in the park when I saw a tree moving across the grass. There was a blackbird sitting on a branch whistling come fly with me. It was a really hot afternoon, phew it was hot. It was snowing too, not ordinary snow. It was more like whirling pink popcorn. 

There was big puddle to one side of me. The water was every colour of the rainbow and the sun was setting in it. Pretty. There was a little maidmer sitting on a stone in the middle. She was like a mermaid, only the other way round - a fish with gorgeous long silky legs and twelve pretty painted toenails. 

grotesque woman came gliding toward me. I thought she was on roller skates. Only she wasn’t, she was being carried along by a huge bunch of multicoloured balloons. You should have seen her! She looked like a cross between a pantomime dame and a bawd. Disgraceful I thought. Suddenly the blackbird swooped down and pierced the balloons with its beak. Pop pop pop.

I was about to ask her for a date and she went pop too. The barbaric bird then grabbed her gaudy clothes in its claws, stuck its tongue out at me and flew up the moon. 

Don't believe me? Well, it was London, and it was the sixties. I will say no more!


Friday, November 20, 2015

Amen they sang. Amen

Herewith a couple of hundred words inspired by this week's single word  prompt at Sunday Scribblings 2. Inescapable.
 Gladys the gossip was  heading my way. I looked left, I looked right. Inescapable.
‘Hi Gladys’ I sighed as I prepared myself for several minutes of did-you-hear-abouts, and guess-what-I-saws.  But she ignored me and walked on. Her horrid little poodle tugged on its lead. Usually it climbed my leg. Odd I thought.
As I approached the church I heard the sound of people singing my favourite hymn. I felt strangely drawn towards the ancient building.  As I entered the porch they sang Amen. I pushed open the massive oak door and an eerie creek echoed throughout the silence within. Nobody noticed.
I sat at the back, before me a handful of black-dressed mourners. They sobbed. How sad. Before them stood a cheap wooden coffin; atop a single wreath of wilting white roses. Poor soul I thought. Poor soul.
I watched as an elderly gentleman was helped to his feet. He tottered toward the lectern, a cane in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other.
As he turned to face the meagre congregation, a little girl in the front pew turned to face me. Tears streamed down her ashen cheeks. Daddy she whispered. Daddy.
My dutiful father. My precious daughter.
I wanted to leave but there was no way out.
Amen they sang. Amen.





Thursday, November 19, 2015

Me and my shadow

Friday Fictioneers. This week Rochelle has offered us a picture by fellow scribe C.E.Ayr

As I was walking down the avenue, the sun smiled at me. Trees bowed as I passed and birds tweeted twello. I waved at a flag and it waved back. A mannequin in a shop window raised his top hat. How polite I thought.

Unfortunately, I tripped on a worm that was dancing a merry jig, and my shoe flew off. I asked a passing gust of wind to pick it up, but it said blow that and kept going. How rude. My shadow offered to get it for me but sadly he slithered down a storm drain.

Do you think I’ll be able to replace him on Black Friday? 


Sunday, November 15, 2015


My nouvelle is based on the picture provided by Tess at Magpie Tales

She was accident prone, but somehow always escaped unscathed. Catherine was known as Cat to her friends. ‘You’ve got nine lives’ they used to say as she recovered from yet another brush with death.

This time however, it was somewhat more serious. A simple slip in her kitchen left her with a dreadful injury to her head.


Her anxious family gathered around the hospital bed. They were warned to expect the worst, but they didn’t want to believe it. So when Cat’s eyes slowly closed, their grief was overwhelming.

‘It’s not over yet’ thought Cat as she drifted away.

The window was ajar. A kitten crept through the narrow gap and leapt from the sill to a bench. She carefully picked her way between the pans and brushed against the pots stopping now and then to breath in the still warm contents.

‘I said it wasn’t over’ she purred as she licked clean a plate. 


The Narrator

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly writing challenge where a photo is used as a prompt for a piece of fiction using around 200 words. Here are my 205!

As acting jobs go, this has to be the oddest I've undertaken. I can see you looking for me. Hello, I’m over here – on the wall - the white carved face!
I stand very still on a platform behind the set and poke my head through this hole. It’s a funny role. I stay dead still, only speaking when the stage is empty between scenes. According to the programme, I am The Narrator. On page five, see?

My make up takes ages. And it itches. I can’t have a scratch though, so I suffer in stillness. One day, I sneezed and an ear fell off. You should have heard the laughter!

I watch the audience. They smile, they frown, they cry, they eat sweets. There was someone in the front row eating chocolate cake the other day. My mouth watered – literally. I dribbled like a gargoyle.

At the end of the play, the actors link hands and bow. I don’t. I continue to stand there stony faced. Then they part in the middle, turn, and point at me. I smile.

So, another performance over! I’ll get this muck off my face and meet you in the pub in ten. Mine's a Stones on ice!