Saturday, December 03, 2016

Sunday's Whirligig

Posted Saturday December 3 2016

For goodness sake stop whinging you silly  old fool. You are not going to die (cross fingers behind back)

Ninety-five is nothing these days (double cross fingers behind back) Languidity comes to us all as time goes by (is that actually a word?)

All this nonsense about the autumn of your life, your aching back, your suffering - oh how you are suffering (place back of hand upon brow and speak in a theatrical fashion)

Obviously, the loss of your wife was a bit unfortunate but there’s no point in longing for the past. Life goes on (hopefully) and there are plenty more fish in the ocean (like that old trout down the pub last that hinted she was ready and willing to be netted!)

Come on ‘ole mate, you are exceptional... for your age (whoops, shouldn’t have brought the age thing up again, best change subject)

Right, we going down the Red Lion. It’s your round by the way (I don’t like leaving a session when it’s his round next, you may never get it!)

Come on pal, don’t pretend you are dozing off (give him a nudge) Hey matey, don’t fall asleep on me now (give him a gentle shake ) Albert  fella’ come on. Albert, wake up....Albert....Albert...Albert!  Oh blast.

For this week's Sunday's Whirligig  where the given words are languid, autumn, coming, loss, exceptional, outline, hinted, back, more, die, suffer and longing,


Friday, December 02, 2016


Posted Friday December 2 2016

It grieves me to put these words to paper but write them I must. No longer can I conceal my deceitful ways. Shed no tears, rather rejoice in the knowledge that you are saved from living in the shadow of my despicable and devious behaviour.

She read no further and tossed the letter aside. A smile, the first for many a long day broke across her face.

Time now to settle her debt with the lascivious creature she had employed to firstly seduce him then threaten to expose his shady deeds. lt was well earned, for their wicked scheme had proved eminently worthy. At last, she could shed the shackles of their tedious marriage and release the flibbertigibbet within her; join the bohemians and dance the boards for the titillation of gentlemen under the bright lights of the city beyond. She was free.

Inspired by this week's photo from Louise at The Storytellers Abode  for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 


Sunday, November 27, 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction

Posted Sunday November 27

Transparent Trevor I called him. He couldn't keep a secret from me, no way. All I had to do was look into those pale blue eyes of his and I’d have a pretty good idea what he was thinking; well, most of the time! His eyes were like the windows of his mind and I could see right through them.

Trev was never the same after Jane, the love of his life passed on. He stopped going out the house. I reminded him once that it was still his round at the pub. But he didn’t go to the pub anymore.

Little by little his eyes became hazy; I couldn’t see past them. It was like looking at a cloudy sky and a setting sun. I wonder what he was thinking? And all Trev saw was a cloudy sky and a setting sun. For him, every day the sun set a little earlier. Each day he would wake at sunrise and stare from his window as the world went by. Then the sun would set. The next day the sun would rise then set a little sooner; the next day sooner still. 

Sunset, sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset......sunset

Inspired by this week's photo prompt at Sunday Photo Fiction

Saturday, November 26, 2016

The Sunday Whirl

Posted Saturday November 26

The movie wasn’t that scary. As horror flicks go, it was quite lightweight. Trouble is, my friend Rosey can’t really handle anything more disturbing than Bambi so I guess I only have myself to blame for the mess. There's the sticky popcorn she flung all over my cream carpet when she jumped and the mouthful of red wine she sprayed across my glass coffee table when she screamed. Add to that, the river of brown currently making its way down my white wall. My fault again I suppose for leaving a pot of chocolate mousse on the floor. She was suffering having just seen a giant speaking spider on the screen so I paused the film and told her to sit by an open window and vent for a few seconds. On the way she trod on the corner of the tray propelling the mousse skyward.

She drives me mad, but that’s a small price to pay for having such an amusing and entertaining friend. (I thought I’d better say that in case she reads this and gets cross with me for telling you about it!)

I wrote this for The Sunday Whirl where this week’s given words are film, tray, handle, add, sit, vent, window, mess, pot, law, drive and spray. I used all but one but there’s no ‘law’ against it!


Sunday's Whirligig

Posted Saturday November 26

I sometimes sit in the churchyard, for despite the silent army of gravestones standing to attention to honour the dead, the place is alive with sounds, smells and movement.

Sunday I watched as the faithful few filed into the ancient building. From the open door, I heard the tuneless singing  of songs of praise and the rattling valves of the wheezing organ. I listened as they mumbled along to the liturgy. I wandered in and the priest passed me swinging the censor, the smell of incense filling the air. Somebody tried to stifle a cough. A head turned toward me illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. We smiled. I wandered back outside.

A kid rushed past me. ‘Ready or not here I come’  A  tousle-haired head bobbed down behind a tomb. I used to hide there.

I cast a furtive glance to my right where a lady knelt beside an overgrown grave. With a tiny pair of scissors, she clipped at the weeds whilst dabbing tears from her cheeks with a lace hankie. I knew her years ago. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to thank her. But I couldn’t so I blew her a kiss as she ambled away.

Yes, I sometimes sit in the churchyard. Not because I seek peace and quiet; I get plenty of that. I just like to know what is going on above the ground. 

For Sunday's Whirligig where the given words are  valves, church, coughs, weirdness, liturgy,  kids, smell, heads, dabbing, swinging and scissors 

I didn't use weirdness but I guess it perfectly sums up what I have just written!


Thursday, November 24, 2016

Friday Fictioneers

Posted Thursday November 24

We always thought Sally had a secret. Something she wished not to share hidden away behind locked doors deep within the recesses of her mind. Was it to do with her teen years? Perhaps, for she always  steered the subject away whenever it came up.

Sally disappeared one day. No warning. Last June it was. Here one day, gone the next.

A couple of days ago a few of us were having a drink together. We were reminiscing about Sally when a young girl wandered in. She looked vaguely  familiar. She walked up to us.

‘I think you might know my mother’ she said.

 ...... is hosted by Rochelle, and this week's photo  prompt comes to          us courtesy of CEayr

Tuesday, November 22, 2016


Posted Tuesday November 22

The sun sets early in November. Very early. I can watch it from my chair. Some evenings it's spectacular but yesterday's was unbelievable. I’ve never seen  the sky as golden. It shimmered, it glowed. As I gazed from my window  I became sleepy, I couldn’t think why. After all, I’d had a relaxing day and I never go to bed before midnight. But at six thirty last night I fell asleep sitting in my chair.

I was aching when I woke this morning. The clock on the wall said six-thirty. Had I really been asleep for twelve hours? I never sleep for twelve hours, let alone in a chair. As I stretched my arms and rubbed my eyes I saw the sunrise. I’m a bit of a sleeper-inner, so it’s something I rarely see. The sky was golden. It shimmered, it glowed. Then something occurred to me. Surely the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and  This way east... that way...

I rushed to the window. Standing in my garden I saw my parents, my sister, my friends; my best friend. My dog. They stared at me, unblinking, unmoving. Nothing was moving. 


The end.

Written in response to the photo by Footie nd Foody at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers