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Post 1606. Thursday September 21

Six Sentence Stories

He tried to crack the brittle topping on his crème brûlée but despite stabbing it with his spoon it refused to yield so he jabbed it with a knife which had the desired effect inasmuch as the topping cracked, but the dish leapt off the table sending a slimy slick of crème across the floor.

Unfortunately, a waiter carrying a tray of drinks was but a step away and despite making a gallant attempt to stay upright, he started slithering and sliding like a drunken skater and the wallbangers, whiskies and wine launched themselves into the air, drenching everybody in an alcoholic shower!

A couple of drink-drenched diners jumped to their feet knocking their table skew-whiff which sent a plate to the ground splattering chef’s 'plat du jour' all around their feet, and the waiter, realising one was losing her balance, tried dashing to save her but although his legs moved like Fred Astaire performing a tap-dance, he made no forward progress whatsoever.

Then it all went into to slow motion as the young lady fell backwards, the waiter fell forwards, both ending up in a tangle of arms and legs in the slop on the ground and as several fellow diners tried to help the hapless couple they too ended up on their derry-aires taking their food with them.

Suddenly one girl grabbed a fistful of fettuccine and rubbed it into her friends face, someone else did the same, and in no time at all, it turned into one hilarious food fight.

A letter to the local paper, presumably from an ex-sailor, suggested the name of the restaurant be changed to the Mess Deck and several other correspondents thought it would be a great idea if they made the food fight a regular event which really does sound like fun doesn't it?

For Six Sentence Stories where this week's cue word is Plate.

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Post 1605. Wednesday September 20

Friday Fictioneers

She’d wave her stick as we ran away giggling about our latest prank. We were horrible kids and taunted Hilda repeatedly.

I clear houses now. Someone dies, nobody cares, so I empty them. I went to Hilda’s dilapidated house. I pushed open the door, sweeping aside junk mail and some cobweb covered shoes. On a dusty dresser stood photos of children. One holding a certificate, another dancing, one in a wheelchair. I found a letter from a hospice. Thank you, Mrs. Hodges, it said, and below were dozens of children’s names; big, small, wobbly, neat, the way kid's signatures are. And kisses. Lots of kisses.

I hope we’ll meet again Hilda, up there. There’s something I need to say.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Sarah Potter for the photo.

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 Post 1604. Tuesday September 19

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

I drive into the blackness leaving the dazzling lights of the city behind. Why is the road so empty? I should be almost home by now, but I’m not. Where am I? Did I miss a turning? I’ll turn around, yes, that’s what I’ll do. Go back and start again.

I’ve been driving for ages. I should be back in the city by now. But I’m not. Where am I?

My engine just spluttered. It’s stopping, I’m stopping. Oh no, the petrol gauge says empty. But I filled up before I left. How can it be? I’ll have to walk. Where's my torch? It should be in here. Where is it? It's gone.

Where am I? It is so dark. I can’t hear my footsteps? Where’s the moon gone? Why’s it so quiet? Why so still? I’m cold. I am so cold.

Is there anybody there? Please, help me. Where am I? Where am I...?

Word count 156


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting and to Pamela S. Canepa for the picture.

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Post 1603. Sunday September 17

Sunday Photo Fiction

My doctor said there was nothing more he could do. Just a matter of time he said. My clock was winding down!

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

Only one thing for it I thought, I’ll make one of those lists, bucket lists or whatever they’re called. And I did.

Great Wall of China. Tick. Parachute jump. Tick. Half marathon. Tick. Tallest building in the world. Tick. You name it, I’ve done it!

It’s my birthday today and there is just one thing left to tick off. I’m doing it at midday precisely. It’s like a bungee jump except there’s no cable attached to the bridge. A few seconds to go.

Tick-tock-tick-tock-ti………...

Word count 107

This week's inspirational photo prompt is provided by John Robinson.

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Post 1602. Thursday September 14

Six Sentence Stories

She wandered barefoot in the meadow, the soft grass caressing her feet.

‘Reach for the sky and cast aside the clouds’ an unseen voice murmured as all around, butterflies danced, birds whistled sweet melodies, and a waterfall splashed a thousand sparkling crystals into the air.

‘Reach high, reach far, and you shall touch paradise’ the unseen voice whispered whilst the sun's’ warm rays kissed her palms.

Her heart was filled with blissful hope as she reached higher and higher, walking on tippy-toes, hands held open in eager anticipation.

'Take care where you tread' said the unseen voice, then she tripped on a rock, fell and broke her arm.

‘Whoopsie’ the unseen voice chuckled, 'I did warn you!'

The cue at Six Sentence Stories is Cast.

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Post 1601. Friday Fictioneers

It’s some time since I last told you what my friend Rosey has been up to, but this week's photo of bread reminded me of something!

Rosey rarely goes to church, but the other Sunday she wanted to attend Holy Communion. Being a bit out of practice she asked if I'd accompany her. Apart from occasionally sitting not standing and standing not sitting, she did pretty well. Midway she pointed out the service sheet said gluten-free communion bread was available which seemed to tickle her! Then in a hushed whisper, she asked me what the sanctified wine was; was it like Sancerre? I thought she was joking but with Rosey, you can’t be sure. I was worried that whilst receiving communion she’d ask if they served Chardonnay! Happily, she didn't.

To read another 66 stories about My friend Rosey, click HERE.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting, and to Kelvin M Knight for the photo prompt.

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Post 1600. Tuesday September 12

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

He was renowned for his potted plants. Potty Pete the locals called him. He had hundreds of them all over his patio, in the garden and indoors.

His wife Flora didn’t share his passion for terra cotta. ‘More interested in them than me’ she used to say.

It was no secret that Flighty Flora had several flings with local men, but when she became pregnant by the Catholic priest Pete decided enough was enough. 'Pack your bags and go' he shouted. 'I'm going nowhere' she yelled.

That afternoon while he was at the garden centre looking at plants she went berserk, smashing every one of his precious pots and trampling on his beloved flowers. Then she suddenly disappeared.

A couple of days later, after Pete had disposed of the debris, a truck arrived with a consignment of new pots, sacks of compost and masses of new plants. A couple days more and his displays were back to their former glory. He sat and admired his handiwork. Just one job remained – to clean the blood from his chainsaw.


Word count 174

Thank you Priceless Joy for hosting and shivamt25 for the photo.