The Walk Of Shame.

Another  picture prompt with the Friday Fictioneers over at Rochell’s place. Requirements… A hundred word flash, inspired by the picture on loan from Amy Reese. Go on over and join in or read the individual stories  by pressing her name                                     🔜  Rochell Wisoff-Fields.


He shouted, his face against mine, his breath steaming my glasses. Men shouldn’t need to shout, my Gran said a good man knows how to be respected. I can’t hear what he’s saying; it’s loud. Mr Waddington said, “be healthy, don’t eat sweets and such, or smoke. Eat fruit and vegetables they’re healthy”. I said, “How can you teach us that sir? I see you eating crisps, smoking, drinking from a flask like my dad keeps next to his bed… and your fat”. That was when he shouted and made me do the walk of shame to the headmaster’s room.



Have you ever walked that corridor, sent shamefully past a whole class lips twitching scared you might pee your pants? let me know in the comments I would love to hear.


The Interloper.

A 99 word flash fiction on a prickly subject is the prompt this week over at the carrot Ranch, press   Charli  to join in make connections or read.





Sissy knew there’d been an interloper, things moved, food consumed under cover of darkness; she’d have them tonight, catch them red handed. Settling down in her chair among the shadow’s she was twitchy jumping at every creak.

Three thirty she heard it, a patter of feet, as they came close she leapt! Knocking a glass to the floor ‘CRASH’ Incensed she scratched and fought. Just then Mark switched on a light. “Sissy, did you bring in a hedgehog”?  He promptly chased them out into the cold night, scratched his head picked up the broken glass and returned to bed.

A lighthearted 99 words, did you get it? do you know who or what Sissy was?Let me know in the comments I love it when you talk.

Above The Sky Light.

Photograph by Robert Bultot for use on Friday Fictioneers Prompt only. Press here to visit Rochelle Weisoff-Fields blog  where you can join in or connect with more 100 word fictioneers.  from-roger


A twinkle of lights fell over the stairwell as spotlights hit the patterned skylight. People tucked away in plush apartments for the night were oblivious to what was happening above. A hum could be heard it throbbed and pulsed, followed by electronically stylised notes.

One by one the doors opened, children clutched teddies, men smoked cigars and Women holding nightgowns shut while others scratched and craned their necks. In single file they climbed, in silence they followed the sweep of the staircase; until they gathered on the roof terrace, never to be seen again.


What do you think happened next? Id love your input, leave it in the comments I promise to reply soon.

Microfiction challenge #15: Freedom.  The Beauty Of Emmeline. 



Emmeline took Earnest‘s hand and with a gentle tug she walked him into the surf. Holding his arm aloft as if in dance.  His face lit up, his nose twitched as he inhaled great nostrils of sea air. Each step he took brought a new experience. Each Gull he heard was to him an orchestra and so animated was he that Emmeline could hear it too. Earnest was lost for words his senses were full to bursting, the feel of sand betwixt his toes; the exhilaration of salt spray lashing his cheeks, his ears so attuned to the mighty oceans roar; he trembled.

Emmeline smiled, a tear joined the spray upon her lashes, and she knew it was worth the ruined shoes and sodden hem to see his face. Earnest threw wide his arms, ripped the fastenings from his great coat and cried. “As God be my judge, I am humbled to be a blind man, for never could a sighted man see more than I this day”. 

Emeline’s adventure paid off for once, her forwardness was not out of place. Together they would grow old knowing there was nothing that Earnest couldn’t see… including the beauty of Emmeline.



We are using one of Ilja Repin’s paintingsThis is my response to the  prompt, press  Jane Dougherty to join in, connect with many great blogs and read some super stories.

How did I do? Did you believe in Emmelines story? Leave me a note I will respond soonest; once I’ve changed from my wet shoes *wink wink*.

Farewell Summer.

The prompt for a 99 word story  to be in by 13th september is goodbye. To join in or read all the entries press here .

 Mine is 99 words but it is a poem I hope it can pass muster as it is a flash, it is fiction, but not truly flash fiction as we know it.

Thanks goes to Charlie at the carrot ranch for her continued posts stories and prompts, through trials and tribulations she stayed firm.  


Autumn fruits and winter boots, wrapping up for the day,

Cold noses on the children, their cheeks glow as they play.

Reddend skies apple pies, climbing fences made of wire,

Warming stews and evening news tucked up by the fire.

Halloween, bonfire night, toffee apples on their sticks,

Burning smelly candles right down to their wicks.
Warming bubbles  soothe the bones 

reading stories, haunting tomes.

Fond memories seep inside my head,
of windy nights wrapped up in bed.

We put away flimsy dresses

tie up loose flowing tresses

Say farewell to summer

the honey and the Bee,

That’s what Autumn,

conjures up for me.

It Keeps Me Awake.

To join in the Friday fictioners  prompt at rochelle’s place         press here

The photo prompt is below I now have 1000 words no more.


“It keeps me awake, that tick tick sound, the whirr and the clickety-clack; It comes In the middle of the night.” I am still full of sleep sat on my bed where I tossed and turned. Sliding my stiff feet over the edge, I wriggle my toes into the fluff of inadequate slippers too flimsy for stairs. But they hug and reassure me that it’s okay to be standing. My bones creak at the thought of carrying the weight of a whole body at this time of night. I orientate myself to drag a wrap from the foot of the bed and tug it on; tying the belt too tight in temper.

“Every bloody night, when will it stop”? I spoke out loud as I stomped downstairs. In the half-light that shone from the gap in the curtain, I could see it. As if the moon was lighting up just one thing Great Grandmothers treadle machine sat on the hearth bathed in light. I walked up to the old treadle and looked at it; weighing it up as if it would be different. Tonight I noticed something odd, a piece of scrim sat under the presser foot as if a seam had only moments before been sewn. “This is stupid, I know you are long gone, Grandmother and you didn’t even meet me so why would you… haunt me”. I looked about hoping no one was there. “I don’t know what you want or if I am going mad but please let me sleep”. If she was there I’d cack myself, and if anyone else was they’d surely have me sectioned being as I lived alone and didn’t believe in ghosts. I put my hand out to touch the wheel and the clickety-clack of the pedal made me jump, for a split second, it had whirred into life.

At the door I flicked on the light, things always seem better with a light on. I noticed the empty bottle on the coffee table the red ring staining the wood, ”Well that didn’t help me sleep did it” I said to the emptiness as I scratched my head and frowned. In the kitchen, I made a cup of tea and gathered a cloth and soap to tackle the stain, but on my return, it was all in order. To say that I was freaked out would be an understatement. First, the treadle working on its own, then the fabric under the needle which incidentally hadn’t been there before and now the wine stain and bottle vanishing. Being a logical person I thought about it and drank the tea. Mother had said “a cuppa sorted everything” I smiled at the memory and wished I had more of her, more than the old long-legged doll sitting naked next to my bed and her grandmother’s sewing machine. Thinking hard I asked myself “If Mother were here what would she say”, no answer whooped into my head, no ghostly spectre glowed in the dark and answered, Mum didn’t come back.

I went to the treadle and placed my hand on the oak table, squatting down I began to peer into each nook and cranny. There between the presser foot under the scrim was a piece of paper. Gently I pulled on the paper, it was rolled into a thin shape and poked in the hole where a bobbin should be. Unrolled, it revealed itself to be a drawing of a dolls dress, a rough pattern drawn in pencil on what seemed to be tea stained paper. Down one side, it read “1917 Dorothy Moore, all bodies dolls etc are to be covered. All girls must digest the pattern into their memories, and use the new machine to sew straight seams and hems. In future, their dolls, like piano legs will be dressed appropriately”.

Can this be great grandmother telling me to dress Mums doll? Or is it grief playing tricks? Either way, I would make the dress tomorrow and hope the rusted treadle was up to the task.


This is my first time joining the Friday fictioners prompt and I’d love your comments,  I will get back soonest. *smiley face*

Post card to Ellen… when writing to take your mind off horrid stuff, you could be stressed and not read rules properly or even go stark staring bonkers. This should have been one hundred words and not the thousand I thought also the deadline isn’t two O’clock and I haven’t a clue where I got that.


What Is Humanity


I will stay

In this selfish

Warped world

Where life Is


Like sweet


And plastic




And Wine,

The conscience

Wipers of time.

Where pain

Is ignored

Unless it’s



Is something

Found in a book.

A being

No one sees

Or knows


Sway over

Lives of millions,

Who’s name

Is used to

Take life

And restrain

The freedom

Of many.

But I


To stay

To have

My say

To love

And try

To understand.

To fight,

For what is


Time to give  tolerance a chance, I am reading some awful things in the news today. In Bristol  a ten year old boy was  snatched off the street he was forced in to a disused building  beaten and left confused and scared;  because of the colour of his skin.

This was one of several hate crimes I read today and each day brings more, homophobic attacks, religious and ethnic  hate and discrimination, fear of the unknown can never be an excuse. Neighbours who wouldn’t cross the road to help, people without conscience or morals. Where will it end? When will we remember what it is to be human?

.Leave me a comment, let me see the disgust  in your words restore my faith in humanity. Please.

Crime Never Pays.


This is where my story begins as I am sat making notes and putting things right. This is not a fairy tale this is Jack’s comeuppance “Pay back time” *cough* The story begins with the local newspaper headlines.

Jack Spriggins And His Mother

 (Of Beanstalk fame) Arrested!

Inspector Checker did not relish his job today. He had brought prominent towns folk in for questioning , and they stood charged before the beak at one O’clock.
“Order, order” cried the judge as the courtroom filled with onlookers who scrambled and shoved for a seat.
Mr. Jack Spriggins of Jackstown Hall Jacks Town, you are charged on this day as follows.

One case of fraud, As you fraudulently wormed your way into Mr and Mrs. Ogre’s home by falsely passing yourself off as a poor orphan.

Three Cases of Theft, one, a bag of gold, the second a golden singing harp,and thirdly a goose that lay golden eggs.

You face the charge as follows: living off the ill-gotten gains of such larceny.

One case of cold blooded murder with a deadly weapon.

Before the crown, this court, Judge and Jury How do you Plead to the six charges?

“Guilty as charged M’lord” said Jack dropping his head into his hands.

“Mrs. Widow Spriggins You are charged with the following” called the Judge shaking his head gravely.

1. Three cases of handling stolen goods, and living off said goods to the betterment of yourself and your son.

One charge of concealing a crime, namley a murder.

Collusion therefore culpability to that murder.

Child abuse, as you, on the day your son swapped your cow (Milky white) for a bag of beans, you did beat him sorely and sent him to the loft space; to sleep without either food or water.


“How do you plead” He bellowed to the shaken woman.
“ Mrs. Widow Spriggins” the Judge tapped his gavel for order and glared at the gallery. A buzz flew around the court as the widow fell to her knees. The harp startled by the malarkey suddenly played a soothing tune, the goose laid two golden eggs in fear of the noise and the widow sobbed.
“Guilty as charged M’lord” the widow cried.

The bag of gold rattled and shook as the floor vibrated. The towns folk gasped in fear not believing their eyes. Just then a woman, who was bent at the waist, with her back scraping along the ceiling approached the bar. Her nose long and warty dripped a puddle of snot on the judges table, she wiped her bulbous eye with a stick like finger and said. “Fe Fi Fo Fum I smell the blood of an English man, be he live or be he dead I will grind his bones to make my bread”. The chandelier shook, her breath puffed green clouds of stench over the court.
“Silence! Silence I say! or the lot of you will be held in contempt” The Judge roared banging the gavel once more.


He craned his neck and eyeballed the Female Ogre. Sniffing sharply he scooped up the splat of mucus with his palm; retching at the pungent smell he wiped it into the bin.
Once the hubub had died down the court awarded Mrs. Ogre all monies, businesses and homes; that the offending couple had accrued. Mrs. Ogre satisfied with the outcome, went on to live as happily as one would in the circumstances, without her dear husband  and with wealth beyond her belief. On her leaving the court was adjourned.

A hush of breath was the only sound inside the court room as the Judge took his seat and looked directly at the prisoners dock. A gasp was heard and a rustle of skirts as the black cloth was placed on his head.

The apology by Jack and his mother that was received by Inspector Checker was not made public and deemed inadmissible. Jack and Mrs Spriggins were taken to the town gallows and as they say the rest is history.


Speculative reports said Ogre Widow became fat, some said she was as round as tall. She it was said suffered from awful bouts of flatulence that hung like a smog over the town  for many a year. Mostly they the towns folk kept quiet… at least when in her company.
Inspector Checker was made Chief Super intendant and given smart uniforms for his men and unheard-of pensions, along with a state of the art station house. The Judge retired and lived a quiet life in a small cottage deep in the woods, with a few chickens a goat and a cow named Milky White.

“Is it just me who wonders what came next? Should we show children that crime doesn’t pay?” Leave me a comment id love to read 😇😉

My Head Is In My Manuscript.

I am not going physically,

I haven’t a secret key to a special place,

but an agent wants a look at my hope for a book.

 For a while at least my work will be my feast.


 Keep your fingers crossed for me,

it’s a learning curve you see.

Giving it a go may teach me

something I don’t know.

So I thank you all for your patience, loyalty and friendship. I will give this my best shot and if, just if I am sucessfull I will celebrate with you all. If I am not we can commiserate and learn for the next time. 😇 


Shed No Tears.


Shed not a tear when I be gone,
Don’t wet your cheeks for me.
I’m in the ink you write with
That you can not seem to see.

I sit beside you daily,
as you go about your life.
Watching out for trouble
I try to ward off strife.

I whisper secret stories
In your ear for you to write.
I infiltrate your thoughts
When you put out the light.

So there is no need to feel lonely
Or to wander there in gloom
For I am in every corner
Of each and every room.

Colleen and Ronavan prompted with belief/believe thank you both.

I resurrected this poem because it fits perfectly, i wrote it for an author who was grieving and said she could no longer  write. It now fits me as the words my Dad would say to me when I doubt myself.  If we just believed in ourselves we could achieve anything. Leave a comment, place a word let me know what it was you heard.