#I write

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.

Five Tasty Buttons.

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. 😉😗

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

eye-of-the-beholder-ff-meme-89404249.jpg
Rochelle’s newest prompt is live #FridayFictioneers have on loan the picture below, many thanks to Yvette Prior who owns the copyright. Click HERE to read more or join in the fun.

Charlotte looked at her coffee table disgusted. In the otherwise pristine apartment, the table was Alien to her. Clutching her head in her hands she rocked, gently wiped her face with an old sodden discarded tissue. She threw it as viciously as anyone could. Another fad diet from her latest magazine, four days of cigarettes, whiskey and sugar lay next to the vomit bowl. How gullible am I that I would even try it, she cried. Charlotte only needed to lose two stone to fit in the bridesmaids dress, to be perfect for once. Or so she thought.

Have you gone to extreme’s to lose weight? Been sucked in by bogus fad diets? I would love to hear from you, drop it in the comments I will get back quick smart!

Four Wasted Days.

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

I have been lucky enough to have my poem chosen to be performed by Casey Lee Brock. A spoken word artist. Below is the result of that collaboration.

She wears the scars of the divine

They think she’ll forget given time.

that she’ll bow to the pain

And pray in his name.

But she won’t, instead,

she will cry in her bed

For God, on a mission,

Or ancient tradition.

The girls In her tribe

Just frown.

At the stain they see

On the six year old’s gown.

The heat in her face as

Infection slots In place.

Death is often the way.

Not saved from the cut,

Like a kick in the gut,

Her Mother held

Her hand that day.

It happens In a home

Just like yours,

carried-out behind

Closed house doors.

When blood seeps

through the cracks,

it’s covered with a mat

Never to be mentioned

Again.

I didn’t think it could be,

Because I was too blind to see.

Not in a house that’s

Next door to me.

For those who can not open YouTube.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1FtUkd_aIgRt2MgPvX8MvOgHYD4Dv9dO1/view

Thank you Casey for choosing to perform my piece I am very proud.

The article below was taken directly from Feb 2017 ITV news.

A case of female genital mutilation (FGM) is either discovered or treated in England every hour, according to the analysis of NHS statistics by a charity.

Between April 2015 and March 2016 there were 8,656 times when women or girls attended doctors’ surgeries or hospitals and the problem was assessed – the equivalent of one every 61 minutes.

Did you know this barbarity was so prevalent in the UK? Talk to me please. I will get back to you promptly.

Watch “Right of Passage” on YouTube. #FGM

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner week 28. Pick up your muse and write, read or join in. Post on the blue frog up to 200 words. press  here

Picture prompt from pixabay.

The easy jet from Paris was disembarking, any minute she’d bypass the baggage collection and speed her way into his arms. I see her looking, calm almost detached, her hand guides her carryon, a hard shell yellow case on wheels. Straightening my tie I breathe deeply, give a tug to the bottom of my uniform then step forward. Her face lights up, her eyes stop momentarily on his and like Judus he nods towards me.

Blond hair flopped over her eye as she turned her head to follow his nod, she sees me. “Mirrium Naughton please,” I direct her with an open palm towards customs. Her pupils enlarged, small beads of perspiration sat on her top lip. She whipped her head back to meet his gaze once more, “come with me.”

My first arrest in my new role was one I will never forget. Handshakes all round, my back slapped several times. But still, the bad taste coated my tongue each time I thought how easily her husband betrayed her.

What do you think she had done? pop your thoughts in the comments I can’t wait to read.

Paris or Bust.

Monday morning and postie arrived. The Husband smiled as he signed for the new lights he had made for his car; three weeks they took to arrive.
When he came back his face altered, gone was the smile put in place for the postman, his bottom lip bulged and his voice sulked. “it’s too cold to put them on outside.” I frown and feel my ears stick up like a Hare on hearing a fox. I can feel it, something is coming … Together we gaze through the bifold doors to the garden, him clutching his parcel and thinking, me checking the birds still have food in the feeders. Suddenly he perked up, became animated, “I wonder, if I opened the doors and drove carefully over the deck, it’s not like its a scrappy old car. ”

He didn’t finish.
I spun to face him, a nerve in my cheek began to tic, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and I shivered, like someone walked over my grave. We silently faced each other for what seemed to be an imesurable amount of time.

“Sigh … okay it was only a thought” The zip nicked under his chin and drew blood as he fastened his jacket. His boots cracked the ice as they were slapped over the deck. I began to steady my breath. Then I recalled receiving such a look, it was delivered over half moon specticles and then knew … I had inherited The Look.

Have you used such a powerful look? Did it work. Leave me a comment I love to connect.

The photo’s were borrowed from adverts, thank you (Hadley glass and Auto trader) as I hadn’t cleaned the ducks calling card from the glass on the garden room and mister wasn’t keen on the numberplate showing or me sullying his car with a label saying not on my watch!

The Look That Said It All.