Wednesday, October 18, 2017


Post1618. Wednesday October 18

It's raining, thank you for sheltering me. I climbed you as a kid, remember? I fell once and broke my arm! I always tell you my secrets, they’re are safe with you. My first love and I carved our initials in your bark; look, they’re still there.

In summer, you shade me. In autumn, you roll out a golden carpet and in winter you stand naked and proud, you old show off! Then it’s spring again and you turn bright green.

You were there for those before me; you’ll be there for those who follow. But today it’s me you shelter.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting, and to Sandra Crook for the photo.


Tuesday, October 17, 2017


Post 1617. Tuesday October 17

I should have seen the writing on the wall. He’s no good they said. Look what he did to her they said. That was their own fault said I. He loves me. How wrong I was.

You’re safe now they said. A safe house, he can’t trouble you now. But they lied. They bloody lied because he’s here. I can see him through the crack in the closet doors. He's over there, see? There, wandering to and fro, fro and to, a crowbar clenched in his white-knuckled fist.  He’s going from one room to another, up the stairs and down again. Room to room, room to room, this way and that, that way and...this.  My heart is beating, he’s getting closer, my heart is throbbing, he's snarling, I’m dizzy, he’s reaching for the door, I’m..I’m..I’m….

It’s a safe house they said. You're safe now they lied.

121 words.

This week's photo is by Gant-Sud.

Sunday, October 15, 2017


Post 1616. Sunday October 15

Between 1788 and 1868, approximately 162,000 convicts were transported from England to Australia by the British government. Many were deported for petty crimes; others were political prisoners. Most stayed in Australia with some rising to prominent positions in Australian society. Approximately twenty percent of modern Australians are descended from transported convicts.

It is the fifteenth day of October, in the year of our Lord eighteen seventeen. I am shackled below deck, just one of two hundred and eighty other pitiful souls. Through a gap in a hatch, I gaze at billowing sails as the wind of change transports me to a new life.  I see black clouds change to white; they no longer threaten me. My wretched existence thus far lays dead in the water. I am hungry for a future where the sins and wicked deeds of my past are left behind. A convict, yes, but a spirit freed.

Regrets? Yes. But I will never forget, for my memories will serve as a constant reminder of what is important to me in the years to come. 

A new day, a new life, a new me.

As you may have observed I have wound back the clock on this week's photo prompt at Sunday Photo Fiction!

Wednesday, October 11, 2017


Post 1615. Thursday October 12

She lives alone in a little wooden shack nestled deep in the middle of the forest, isolated from the frenzied existence of townsfolk and at one with nature and the creatures of the undergrowth.

In this place, everything she needs and all she desires surrounds her, and she covets the silence; no need to speak for there's no one to hear.

One misty moist morn she stands in her doorway, entranced by droplets of dew sparkling on slender blades of grass and dancing upon quivering cobwebs.  

Her eyes are drawn to a hazy apparition rippling midst the aged oaks; a spirit perhaps for spirits are said to dwell among these trees.

Mesmerised, she drifts outside, barefoot, head held high, arms outstretched then glances over her shoulder before fading away into the hoary miasma.

The end, a new beginning, who knows?

This week's cue at Six Sentence Stories is Spirit



Post 1614.

Whenever someone visited Joan’s home, her mynah bird yelled  'Hello gorgeous - fancy a good time?' She mentioned the problem to her priest who also had a mynah bird, only his just said prayers. A meeting was suggested; maybe his bird would have a positive influence over hers.

Joan took her bird to the priest's house where the holy mynah was deep in prayer. True to form hers shrieked  'Hello gorgeous - fancy a good time?' The priest’s mynah chuckled so he walked over to the cage and said 'What’s so amusing?' His mynah looked to the heavens and said 'My prayers have just been answered'!

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and to Douglas M Macilroy for the picture.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017


Post 1613. Tuesday October 10

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 136

As a child, he would sit on the towpath and wave to passing barges loaded with heaps of coal and piles of timber, dragged along by enormous plodding horses. He was fascinated by the brightly painted flowerpots and kettles scattered along their roofs, and sagging lines of washing fluttering in the breeze. How he envied the urchin children that ran around the decks without a care in the world.

He longed to become a bargee when he grew up, a grimy-faced captain with rolled up sleeves proudly guiding his boat and family along meandering narrow canals. But it wasn't to be.

Barges no longer silently ply their trade along the waterways of rural England. Now they travel the rivers, horses replaced by throbbing diesel engines belching clouds of smoke.

He still sits on the towpath, but now just holidaymakers float past oblivious to the fact that generations lived and toiled where they now enjoy their wine and fine food. He no longer waves.

Word count 163

Thank you Priceless Joy for hosting, and Barb CT for the picture.

Sunday, October 08, 2017


Post 1612. Sunday October 8

Boring boring boring. I mean, spending all day every day with a load of beige Egyptian relics doesn’t sound like much fun does it?

Fred only had one work colleague. Florence. And she wasn’t even a person, she was a feather duster. They walked around together every morning before opening and titivated the exhibits. He liked to tickle the pharaohs nose then go aaa-choo! He would flutter Florence's feathers over a busty beauty's boobies then stick his tongue out at its stony-faced expression. Sometimes he would turn a storyboard upside down to see if anyone would notice. They usually didn’t. The few people that did wander around looked as bored as he was.

There had to be something else he could do, something more fun. He asked Florence what she thought, but she wasn’t much help, but he did promise to take her with him if he left.

I’m pleased to report Fred has now moved on. He’s a different person and has never been happier. He is now... drumroll... a caretaker at the local mortuary and he’s taken Florence with him! Well, he needs someone to talk to, and they love tickling the corpses noses

Word count 194

This weeks photo prompt is provided by Kathryn Forbes