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Picture prompt.

Under the sod lay Jake; my first love. For forty years the grass grew fertile and green. He went unnoticed … until.

Barney moved in, a lodger I said, but it wasn’t long before, he was sharing my bed. He was persistent, I was lonely and had space. Barney was a twinkler and had a nice face. At sixty I didn’t expect … stuff, to happen to me.

That Summer a heatwave killed the grass; revealing a shape. Coming back from shopping I was shocked to see. Jake poking out and Barney’s head looking at me. From a hole in the lawn.

Use the picture prompt to write 100 words. PRESS to join in.

Picture prompt was lent only for the use of the #FridayFictioneers by Ronda Del Boccio.

Did you think she had murdered a bloke? Did the reverse twist catch You? Tell me talk to me.

Under The Sod

An Educated Walk

To join Rochelle’s prompt press ‘here’

A hundred miles I walked. Stinking dirty miles, in shoes that didn’t fit. The right too tight, reminding me, squeezing too much in leaves little space to breathe.

The left, two sizes too big, rubbed raw my foot. It made me bleed until it seeped through the lace holes and rolled back the skin, but on I walked.

It taught me to say no, to leave room to be kind, so I can grow a better man.

It taught me, never to be too proud to admit, this is too big for me.

It needn’t hurt to learn that lesson just take an educated walk.

Thanks for the Photo @Sarah Potter

A Taste of Freedom.

#Fridayfictioneers  are here once again, in 100 words use the picture as the prompt, (picture to be used for fridayfictioneers only) Thank you for the loan Jan Wayne fields.

My guy drove us through France, stopped to sample the Volvic water, and take in the spent volcanoes. We camped on the edge of the Tarn under some lime trees. The grass scorched and brown, the water coming from the Gorge was numbingly cold; after the eighty-degree heat of the day. Water sloshed over the huge smooth pebbles and gurgled its way under the arched bridge. Together, skinny dipping without a care. Bravely we swam with the Beavers under the arches and warmed our bones on the stones while slurping cold beer and humming along with the cicada’s closing notes; enjoying the taste of freedom.

Photograph taken with my own hand Ellen Best.

Did you attempt “Risqué camping”? Let me know in the comments… surely we weren’t the only ones to bare our skin in a place where nobody knows you?