Sunday, October 23, 2016


Posted Sunday October 23

He loved the woodland at twilight for it was peaceful, seldom visited by others. As he wandered this way and that, so too did his mind. Stories just appeared from nowhere. Tales of times gone by; yarns of days yet to come. One evening he stopped at the edge of a pool and threw in a pebble. He counted the ripples as the wake drifted outward, wheeling in ever-increasing circles; just like the story that grew within. He lost track of time as a thousand words bounced from here, leapt from there. Only when light signalled the break of day did he realise he had spent the night with his muse, his true lover, his inspiration.

That was me - well, kind of! I used always to scribble down my stories in a notebook, but never anything more. Nobody read them, because no one knew of them.

But ten years ago today, the twenty-third of October 2006, saw the birth of this blog. I thought it time to tell my tales, share my passion, and hopefully share in other’s too.

Like you too I guess, it takes no more than an insignificant event to plant a story in my mind. For I believe we see beyond what others see. We love to delve into imaginary places; We thrive on fantasy.

And so with fourteen hundred posts published and two hundred and thirty thousand page views in the bag, I fully intend to continue my ramblings! I hope that we'll continue walking the woodland together.

Today's given words at The Sunday Whirl are -  plant, bounce, thousand, birth, we, way, spent, tell, delve, break, wake and thrive.

At  Sunday's Whirligig we have- woodland, twilight, count, wheeling, lighter, lover, passion, wander, drift, edge, pool and find 

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction

Posted Sunday October 16

Mummy says that if I’m good, very very good, fairies will come and nibble the stuff in the bird feeder thing that Daddy put up in he garden yesterday.

So today I made my own bed, I helped Daddy make toast for breakfast, I didn’t have strop when I was told to have a shower (I hate having showers, I prefer to play with my rubber duck in the bath) and I have already come to bed and set my Barbie alarm clock ever so early because fairies like their breakfast just as the sun peeps over the hill. I don’t.

I think I saw a fairy once. I hope I see some in the morning. Do you think I will? I have  left my curtains open a teeny weenie bit and I have sat Mister Teddy on the window sill so he can wake me up if I sleep too long and they come before Barbie wakes me up, because I do sleep too long sometimes.

Mummy just shouted up the stairs ‘Who are you talking to Millie?’ 

‘Mister Teddy' I said!

So night night -  hope the bed bugs don't bite! I’ll tell you tomorrow if I am lucky and see the fairies.

Thanks to Sunday Photo Fiction for this week's inspirational 


Saturday, October 15, 2016

Sunday Scribblings 2

Posted Saturday October 15

Typical isn’t it? Supper finished, and time to slump in my cosiest chair and watch telly with just my bottle of malt for company. Best of all, The Terminator had just started. I love that film.

Ring-ring. Doorbell. I considered pretending I was out, but then thought I might just have won on the lottery and there was someone outside with a cheque for a few million.

But no. Instead, I discovered my friend Rosey. She had locked herself out of her flat and needed the spare set of keys I look after for her. I went to get them and when I returned to the door she wasn’t there. Instead I found her plonked in my special chair watching the pirated copy of Alice Through the Looking Glass she strangely gave me for my birthday!  (Some ladies aspire to be like Kim Kardashian. Rosey? Alice!)

‘Couldn’t spare a thimble of chardonnay I suppose?’ she asked with that innocent little-girl-lost expression she does so well.

Needless to say, one drink became a bottle and then the start of a second. Clearly she was going nowhere so I reluctantly suggested she stay overnight. She lit up at the offer and immediately asked me where I would be sleeping! I told her in no uncertain terms that I was to be in my bed and she would have to make do with my inflatable camp bed.

That was last night, and when I got up this morning Rosey had mercifully gone. I ran a bath and when I got in the water was cold. Rosey! I thought I’d console myself by eating the beautiful croissants I brought back from France the other day. Gone. I got the coffee jar from the cupboard. I nearly emptied it yesterday, but I saved enough for one cup. Bloody empty! To add insult to injury I tripped on an empty wine bottle.

Why do I like her? God only knows! 

For Sunday Scribbling 2 where the given word is Overnight.


Sunday's Whirligig

Posted Saturday October 15

It is dark. Very dark. I’m walking. I’m not dreaming. Walking. Along a track.

Look, a distant light. Flickering. It’s getting closer. But I’m standing still now.

So many people They are all around me. In black cloaks, carrying flaming torches. Faces hidden beneath hoods. They are mumbling. Do you hear them? I’m not dreaming. Prayers. Yes, murmuring prayers. They speak of re-birth and unholy desires.

See there, a fire. A skillet sits atop, steam swirling, drifting ’tween the branches of a tree. Someone dips bread into it and offers it up. Thick blood-red liquid drips to the ground.

And here. A bed of sticks. A man's body lies upon it. I’m not dreaming. I am not. It is naked, it’s white skin pure as porcelain. But the face is old. Creased. Weary. Blue eyes stare skyward, unblinking. Those eyes. My eyes? I’m not dreaming. My eyes.

They surround me. Mumbling, murmuring. One by one pulling back their hoods. My parents, my sisters, my friends. What are you doing here? I’m not dreaming. Tell me I’m not dreaming. They are throwing the torches onto the pyre...

Soon it will be morning. Yes. Soon this will be over. But I’m not dreaming. What’s happening. Where is everybody going? Come back. I feel dizzy. Everything is turning hazy. I'm in pain. I hurt. Where am I?

I'm not dreaming...

I'm not...

I'm not


For Sunday's Whirligig where the given words are -  many, track, skyward, porcelain, flawed, birth, desire, ancestral, prayer, morning, bread and skillet


Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Friday Fictioneers

Posted Wednesday October 12

I was King of my Kitchen! My empire, my territory, my domain.

In my pristine whites, I was master and mentor.

Tradesmen came and went. Butchers, greengrocers, fishmongers and poachers. I wheeled, dealed, passed cash over and under the counter!

My aides prepared, peeled, chopped and one washed pots.

It was my consulting room, advice centre, surgery. I witnessed teenage angst, advised on relationships, stuck blue plasters on bleeding cuts.

It was my studio, workshop, my laboratory.  I designed, experimented and created , surrounded by cookery books, hastily written recipes and copies of old menus.

My orders arrived on little pieces of paper, some scribbled, often illegible!

Do I miss it?

No way!

Thanks to Rochelle at  Friday Fictioneers both for hosting and providing this week's picture prompt


Six Sentence Stories

Posted Wednesday October 12

Her mother holds her, feeds her, cleans and dresses her;
 always there for every need.

One moment the warmth of the womb, 
the next a strange new place, 
for she’s in the springtime of her life.

In the summer of her life she blossoms, blooms 
and brings into this world a child of her own. 

Weary with work she looks forward to the future, 
for now it’s the autumn of her life and 
her child is now a mother too.

In the winter of her life, 
she gazes at the world through unfamiliar windows
 unsure of where or who she is.

Her daughter holds her, feeds her, cleans and dresses her;
 always there for every need.

For Six Sentence Stories where the cue word is season