Five Tasty Buttons.

Five chocolate buttons were the undoing of her.

There, on the saucer adjacent to her empty mug sat the five caramel filled white chocolate covered buttons. The child watched the door for Mothers return. A hand slithered surreptitiously towards the willow patterned saucer and grabbed. The woman snatched and stuffed them into her dribbling maw. A cacophony followed, the child shrieked, her Mother pointed … police were called.

Because of those innocuous chocolate delicacies … she finds herself in the Church hall attending addicts anonymous.

Gingerly she stood screwing her finger round a tail of escaped hair, “My name is Josy” she lied; they all did, “I am addicted to … she mumbled … dregs.” Her cheeks took on a shade of beetroot. “I have to eat or drink what others leave.” You could hear a fly attempting to kill its self against the Gothic Window, bump, bump it went.

Her breathy speak and wet palms were proof of her struggle. Tom the resident peeper began the rousing clap, congratulating Josy for managing to admit the shameful addiction, the first step is always the most difficult.

At the end of the share session, they mingled over tea and chocolate covered hobnobs. She didn’t accept a cup or plate. Tom thought it was her resistance technique. So quietly he lay his palm on her shoulder and nodded. Josy, startled, shrugged him away and scowled. People eventually said their goodbyes and drifted off. Except for one … Josy, she hid behind a pillar until they had gone.

The weekly rag ran with the headlines … Local woman detained for psychiatric assessment, The lady who so far remains unnamed had to be forcibly restrained after being found under a table in the Church of Mary and Saint Ethlereds hall. Beside her, saliva smeared plates and cups scattered willy-nilly across the newly laid oak floor. The distraught rector had to be sedated at the scene. Through his sobs, he told of being unceremoniously grabbed by the leg; pulled beneath trestles and forced to endure such an abomination. “She was sucking on my fingers licking my palms for the longest time; it was awful.” He cried.

The Jane Doe was held under section 136 of the mental health act for 72 hours to be assessed as to her competency to stand trial, this being her second arrest in as many weeks.

I love to hear your thoughts, it helps me hone my craft. Play along, tell me in the comments what other fabricated addictions could the people have … in this church hall.

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Valentine is A Happy Cat.

I am feline great about my Valentine. ๐Ÿ‘„

Are you? Happy Valentines to everyone.

Is This A Writer’s Affliction? Or A lack Of Conviction. Writers Block.

I have always thought …
We may have a bad day. We may have no ideas. Blank unforgiving spaces between our writer’s ears.

Maybe we are feeling low, With life to do and places to go.
So we put it off … penning I mean.
We procrastinate and are not so keen.

When we give ourselves a shake,
Stop feeling lazy; checkout of our writing break.
Pick up a pen and start again. It’s not a bore or some godless chore.

It is a gift, a time to live and work in fantasy.
For most, it would feel like ecstasy.
How many others wish they could too … if the shoe was theirs; instead of worn by you.

Writers Block … is it just a phrase?
to disguise the days we chose to Laze.

Pictures by way of Pixabay.

What do you think?

Is there truth buried in my tongue in cheek?

Or is it a contagion, a nasty communicable disease? I truly want to read your replies c’mon let me have it straight between this writers eyes. ๐Ÿ˜‰๐Ÿ˜—

Come On In Where Scare Awaits. #DarkVisionsHorrorAnthology #Book Tour.

Today, I am reviewing Dark Visions. To set the mood I prepared a spooky scene. *Whispers* Be safe, don’t go into the basement!

Keep the lights on …

*in a rough gravelled voice* Do not Answer the door …

At first glance, Dark Visions appears to be a Halloween anthology but there is so much more to this book than that. With 34 creepy stories under a spookily mysterious cover. Stories that will make wonderful gifts for any avid reader.

The Corner shop By Dan Alatorre. Feel the fog crawl up your back, hear the clop of the hooves, taste and smell the stench of urine from the alleyways. But don’t look away. It is a taste of what this book holds.

The Changeling by Christine Valentor. This one shocks from page one. Her skill to put you in the room is enviable. She writes a tale of foul and grotesque goings-on.

Geoff Le Pard, his writing style is crisp; in the voice of both his stories. What if … What if the words he chose to write came true? His dreams became scenes; in reality. This gripping short story made me scared to go to sleep; my hand trembled to pick up a pen.

It is full of bite-sized; easy to read, but hard to forget stories.

Swimming by Frank Parker.

This Is an intriguing tale written with clarity as much as mystery. Not a traditional horror more psychological. One that tells you just enough to have your mind bothered for hours.

No spoilers here, just a few words leaving the taste of fear coating your tongue. Do not be the one that’s disappointed, buy your copy before it’s too late. What! CAT got yer tongue. Waaahhhaha.

Get your spook on like I did making my pumpkins puke.

Read my debut Story contained inside this horrifying book.

‘The Documentary’

Where Red- riding- hood is more than she seems.

If you would like to hear me read my story come to the best Halloween party on Facebook where stories and horror meet. Click Here To See

Don’t go just yet, I would love to know; ‘Did you buy it? ‘Are you hoping to?’ I love to talk, please leave me something in the comments.

When you buy it, remember you’re review counts. leave one on Amazon. We will be thrilled to read it.

The Link to purchase Dark Visions is right HERE

Thank you to Anne Marie who can be found Right Here for producing the trailer.

My Super sister Anne Maxwell for painting the best wolf for my own story.

Pixabay for the cat. And myself for the other media.

Yes! Sir. #soCs

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “yes” Use it as a word, use it in a word, extra points if you start and finish your post with it. Enjoy!

Yes! This is what climbed down in front of my face. I was In the supermarket gathering items, reading label’s, trying to compute calories, sugar and fat. Really not taking much else on board when this happened. On yesterdays trip it was eyes peeled, trolley nicely filling up when . YES! A flipping “S” word, him up there๐Ÿ‘†dropped like James bond absailing into th O2. Hairy legs wriggling from a sign, you know the ones (TEA and sanitary protection isle 4).

My arms froze in crucifixion position my eyes crossed, I leapt back and the Agave nectar spun out of my hand and slapped hard into the direction of a passer by. At that precise moment I was doing an impression of a first nation Indian warrior dancing on hot coals … voice and all. Meanwhile the recipient or victim, (of the Agave) had turned to face me, as it’s thin plastic container slapped his forehead, split and sent rivulets (all in slow motion) down his face and suede jacket. ‘Humpf, who wears suede to do the shopping anyway?’

I remember hearing a frantic tannoy announcement but couldn’t understand what was said, for some random screeching commotion that was going on. That was when I realised it was me. Some person was dragging me towards pet food and finally clamped a hand over my mouth. Yesterday was a not such a good day for shopping.

The ‘S’ word had long since gone scuttled away no doubt looking for Miss Muffet. Two girls were cleaning down the irate man in isle 4 ( he appeared to enjoy that bit) and I was escorted (manhandled by a chauvinistic security guard) out to the door to my car,

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minus my shopping and thoroughly traumatized. “You will go home and think yourself lucky that the gentleman in isle 4, does not … do you for assault” said the security man close to my ear.”You have serious issues” I went on to suggest mental ones. How dare he I thought, but meekly I unwound the window and said “Yes Sir I am going … I promise … yes”
P. S. Just in-case you didn’t notice “I hate the “S” word, I do Yes.”

What don’t you like? That could get you to loose control? leave me a comment and I will get back as soon as I can.๐Ÿ™‚

Forest Child.

Sue Vincent invites you to join in press here to leave your piece or read many imaginative others.

Today’s word is track.

Some say those that were born here have … the thing. The magic of the forest, sap running through veins, nooks and crannies, corners that hold secrets. A quirky look at life, grounded in soil and mulch.

I was born of this place, in the cottage hospital on the edge of Savernake forest. An ancient wood 2750 acres of mystery and as you would expect history. As a child, I once was found sleeping at the foot of the Great Bellied Oak.

Fred liked to walk with his girls through the forest, when time allowed,The youngest would no doubt need carrying before the track had stopped its meandering. The day was sunny and all was lush, branches flicked light this way and that, birdsong was full-throated all in all he thought, its a good day for a walk.

Me, the three-year-old, me, loved to walk the most, but my chubby legs would not always keep up with the want to finish. That was when Daddy’s arms helped out and shoulder high I would grab his ears to hold on and soak in the atmosphere. Shafts of light threw colours or that was what Dad said, I knew it was something special. My sisters four and six didn’t really want to walk but we all loved Daddy and his treats. The story goes that I had held daddy’s hand until we stopped to share a picnic; a bag of Smiths crisps with a twist of salt and a bottle of Orangina. Three straws he pulled from his handkerchief pocket we sat on Dads tweed Jacket three little bums; eyes as big as saucers. Once the feast was over we stood so he could shake his Jacket. Like a magician, he pulled a white paper bag stuffed with soft Pontefract cakes from his cap. I remember how we oohed and ahhed, how he did the Dad magic, producing a perfect round Pontefract coin from behind our ears.

This is where our stories differ, (Dad’s version) the sisters playing chase ran off the track, I couldn’t keep up my legs were far to short for his turn of foot. So he told me to wait and not move from the spot and he’d return as quickly as he could. (My recollection) My feet could not go fast enough as I was swept behind a frightened Dad through the forest, my hands wet from licking the liquorice from my fingers slipped free, and I fell with a bump. When I woke Dad was not there, I was laying on a bed of moss at the foot of the Giant oak. A voice whispered as I sat up; ‘do not be afraid child, we forest folk always look after our own.’ I looked around but could not see anything more than a wisp of colour flash by my head. Daddy, with one sister under each arm, was struggling to walk and calling my name. I told a very cross face that he wasn’t to worry his head, the forest folk took great care of me, when you were gone.

Our stories have like Chinese whispers altered with the years, but last week was the first time I returned to that spot. Now a road is next to the Old Big Bellied Oak, and the A346 south of Caudley trundles caravans and cars by oblivious to the magic.

Were you born somewhere magical? Or have you visited such a magical place? leave me a comment I love to converse.