Sunday, August 20, 2017


Post 1583. Sunday August 20

There was never a space, not in his diary, not in his life. Not in his heart.

But look at him now, over there at table fourteen staring mindlessly at an upturned menu. Just him and a few empty chairs. Empty spaces.

It came as quite a surprise when he told us she'd gone. A silly argument that got out of hand he said. She's gone away he said, never to return. It made no sense.

It was indeed a silly argument. A misunderstanding. Yes, she was meeting another man, one of his friends but not for that. They were planning a party, a party for his special day. Yes, they whispered, exchanged knowing glances, and the occasional wink of an eye, but not for that. He confronted her but didn't believe her explanation. You've spoiled the surprise she said. The next surprise was hers.

She loved the vegetable plot at the bottom of the garden.  She'd cleared a space ready for growing beans. A few days later he filled the space, but not with seeds.

He won't say where she's gone. Probably buried her in the vegetable plot someone said in jest. How we laughed!

Word count 197

Loosely based on this week's picture at Sunday Photo Fiction


Thursday, August 17, 2017


Post 1582. Thursday August 17

Six Sentence Stories

This place is mine, my special place where seeds become saplings, saplings trees.

From here I watch, I observe and listen to sounds, relaxing sounds and eerie sounds, thunder and deafening silence.

I see fish leaping, animals scurrying, birds swooping and people being people.

I watch couples embracing, arguing, standing back to back, walking apart or worse.

When I close my eyes stories act out before me, stories of love, of hope; stories of despair.

This place is mine, it's where I create, from where I write and when I choose, share.

At this week's Six Sentence Stories the cue word is Mine

To read my Friday Fictioneers story 'Boozie Bathing' click HERE


Wednesday, August 16, 2017


Post 1581

Friday Fictioneers

Last night my girlfriend bathed in champagne bath oil. She climbed out all pink and shiny and I  couldn't resist giving her hot little body a squeeze, but she went pop, shot from my arms and hit the ceiling!

I fancy bathing in red wine; a cheeky little Claret with a hint of blackcurrant although it would be more like marinating and I’d probably emerge looking like an enormous beetroot. Perhaps a well-crafted beer would more sensible.

For now, I’ll make do with a squirt of citrus washing-up liquid, and pretend it’s gin and lime!

Word count 101

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and providing this week's photograph.


Tuesday, August 15, 2017


Post 1580. Tuesday August 15

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

He had no need to sit on a filthy blanket in the street.  He didn't need the loose change dropped at his feet. He chose to live alongside those that had no choice. 

In the depth of the night, he wandered past benches and shop doorways leaving money he had collected and more besides for the wretched souls as they slept. When they awoke they had no idea from whence it came. But find it they did, every morning. 

Years earlier his parents were cruelly stolen from him by a tragic accident. He inherited their vast fortune. He had no other family and had never formed friendships. A review of his charmed life thus far disquieted him, so he resolved from that day forward to dedicate his life to those whom society had cast aside. He became a new person, an unseen guardian angel. Bit by bit he handed out his legacy to those most deserving. Invisibly. Anonymously.

One day he disappeared. No one missed him. After all, he was just another down and out.

Word count 176

This week's photo prompt is from ArtyCaptures

Sunday, August 13, 2017


Post 1579. Sunday August 13

For Sunday Photo Fiction where we have a picture of Doctor Who's Tardis!

Knock knock”

“Who’s there?”


“Disguise who?”

 Disguise in love with you!”

John got home from work later than Lea and they always did a knock-knock joke before she'd open the door and let him in.

“Knock knock”

“Who’s there and why  that funny voice?"  Lea giggled. "John?"

“Knock knock”

“John, you are scaring me”

Lea edged open the door a little. A man in a black hoody pushed his way in and slammed his fist on the light switch plunging the flat into darkness.

"Hello Lea"

He switched on a torch and held it beneath his chin.

“Get out” she shouted shoving him back. He staggered but held his ground. Still, with the torch lighting his face he lowered his hood. She recognised him as the creature from whom she’d fled two years earlier. She froze with fear. He turned the torch on her.

“I said I’d find you, Lea".

“What the hell do you want Mike?”

“Stupid question Lea. I want what's is mine. I’m taking you home”

“Knock knock” Nothing. “Knock knock” Louder.

“Lea, open the door sweetheart” Still nothing.

John used his key to let himself in. Lea was nowhere to be seen.

Word count 199



Wednesday, August 09, 2017


Post 1578. Thursday August 10

Six Sentence Stories

I love hot spicy food even though it makes me itch, but when a friend challenged me to join him last night at a curry restaurant famous for setting people on fire (not literally of course!) I accepted.

The dish looked scrummy and smelled amazing; the steam was so spicy it made my eyes water and my ears itch but undaunted I shovelled the first load into my mouth. 

**** I yelled, louder than intended and a restaurant full of red sweaty faces turned in my direction, then after croaking an apology, having a scratch and a gulp of water, I was off again.

Itching from head to nether regions I battled on,  one hand eating, the other scratching and that's when it started; hic, burp, itch, hic, burp, parp, scratch, burp and as I couldn’t stop I admitted defeat. 

Last night I kept leaping from my sweat soaked bed to have a scratch, nip to the loo or both at once, and I still haven’t recovered.

Oh no, here we go again, I must dash to the bathroom...  quick... quick... quick...too late!

For Six Sentence Stories where the cue is Scratch



Post 1581. Wednesday August 9

Friday Fictioneers

I can't sleep.  I curl into a ball, sheets twisted around me.  I turn this way and that, that way and this. Should I confess; admit it was me? Can I live with myself knowing an innocent soul has been blamed for my misdeeds? But if I own up my friends, family, even my kids will suffer for my transgressions; bullied, ostracised, worse.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock. I hurl the clock across the room. Tick tock yes no tick tock.

I rush to the bathroom and douse my face with water. On the shelf,  I notice some pills. There is a third way.

Thanks Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and CEAyr for the photograph