Was I that girl,

You took as your muse,

The innocent canvas

For your craft to abuse,


Was I that girl,

You traced onto paper,

Sketch book reflections,

For you, the creator.


Was I that girl,

You sculpted in clay,

Moulded and formed,

Till I learned to obey.


Was I that girl,

You painted in oil,

Rendered immortal,

In sweat and gold foil.


Was I that girl,

You wrote sonnets for,

Melodies of sorrow,

Of what was before.


Oh, I was that girl,

I know it is true,

For the woman I am,

Was created by you.


Well, you’re not going to believe this but it’s time for Friday Fictioneers again. “What, it can’t be” you shout, “Oh yes it is” I shout back in my best panto voice. Come on in and tease your feet in the water, you know you want to…… Each week nearly 100 people attempt the 100 word photo prompt hosted by Rochelle Wisoff- Fields.


Photo copyright : Claire Fuller

I see faces I know.  I know them because my heart tells me I do, but my head tells me different.  It’s like my mind’s closed up shop and headed off for the summer.

Across the room sapphire blue eyes beckon me over. I’m safe with ‘blue eyes’, I can feel it. I feel at home.

There’s a girl with wet eyes, she looks at me but doesn’t really see me. I don’t like her, she’s pretty. She’s come to steal ‘blue eyes’.

“Dad, will Mum ever come back?”

‘Blue eyes’ looks at her, then me.

“The doctors don’t know, Honey”

In The Night


I see your face in my dreams again,

In sleeping hours, in twilight thoughts,

Where shadows dance a muted waltz,

That hinders hopes and stifles doubts.


I hear your voice in my dreams again,

In whispered breaths, in shadows cast,

Where sonnets tell of tales of woe,

Of what we had and what has past.


I hold your hand in my dreams again,

In feathered touch, in heated feel,

Where skin is burned beyond the pale,

And flames that dance in passion’s zeal.


I kiss your lips in my dreams again,

In honeyed oak, in ripened berry,

Where taste ignites a fervent need,

As battle rage and scruples worry.


Morning breaks I know not when,

But in my dreams we’ll meet again.

The Trunk – part 2

Here is the second part of my ongoing short story –  Part 1 can be read here 


She didn’t know how old the letters were, but by the colour of the fading paper and the dry texture under her fingers she guessed they’d been there a good many years. The ink was still readable though, a smooth blue tip, that seemed to swirl across the paper. Another guess told her female, something about the flow and care of the pen stroke.  She looked for the signature at the bottom of the page just to be sure. ……. ‘Mark’,  well that was a little unexpected.

She went back to the start,

“20th May 1969

Dear Ms Wade,

I hope this letter finds you well, and does not cause too much distress. I really do not know how to say what I must but think it would be for the best if I state the facts I have been given and how they may relate to yourself. My name is Mark Roberts and I believe I may be your son………..”

Sally gripped the letter in her hand, her eyes instantly pulled from the page to the photo frame on the wall. It was her graduation one, mum looking radiant and dad grinning like a peacock. The three Musketeers he’s called them, oh yeah it was clichéd, but that was dad to a tee. Her parents had been so thrilled when she came along that the feeling never left them.  After years of struggling to conceive and then dad’s illness, they never thought they would be able to adopt. But Sally had been offered to them when she was 4 months old and her dad had been smiling ever since.

Sally swallowed and looked back at the letter,

………………… I was born on the 13th March 1943 in Deal in Kent. My birth certificate states my mother was Julia Ava Wade and my father, unknown! I have reason to believe you are the Julia Wade I seek. Please believe me when I say I hold no ill will and do not look for any form of recompense with regards the past. My situation is such that I need to find information with regards my medical background and this is my sole claim to your person.”

Jesus, he writes so impersonally, Sally thought. This guy was writing to his mother. Surely there should be something more, something else, although she didn’t really know what. She’d always felt so secure in who she was that she’d never given any thought to her own background. It had never been an issue. Sure, she knew she was adopted; Mum and Dad had never kept it a secret, but it never left an after taste or a yearning to know more.

She turned the page and carried on reading,

“If you are the Julia Wade I am looking for, please send a reply to the address above. I implore you to acknowledge your receipt of this letter and hope we can meet in person at your earliest convenience.


Mark Roberts “

Sally put the letter down, unfolded her legs and made a pit stop to the kitchen. Instead of refilling the glass she grabbed the bottle and brought it back with her. Habit made her check her phone. Two texts from Simon. She stopped, she thought about answering but then looked back at the letters and changed her mind. Instead she switched off the phone, threw it in her bag and swallowed another mouthful of wine. She didn’t have the energy to deal with him tonight. She sat back on the sofa, picked up the second envelope and opened it.

“14th June, 1969,


What happened, I waited under the clock at the station, as you asked. Why didn’t you come……………

Check back next time to see what happens……………



We live through times that change,

And fight through cause and blame,

Through battles no one speaks of,

And we lose more than we gained.

We smile through silent pain,

And cry through doors that close,

We see through tinted lenses,

And age through wood and grain.

We laugh through words not spoken,

And read through lines not said,

We walk through paths unchartered,

And run through doors not chosen.

We love through ones we trusted,

And fail through faults not known,

We learn from chances squandered,

And we pray our struggles counted.

Getting A Head.

Time for this weeks Sunday Photo Fiction, a 100-200 word photo prompt provided by Al Forbes. Please take a look over at the other stories posted each week and have a go yourself. You can’t beat a good prompt for a bit of spontaneous madness…..


(Word Count : 200)

The bag was heavy on her shoulder. She reached up adjusting the straps, loosening the grip on her skin.  She stopped and let the bag fall. Her hands lifted to the cool red brick as she waited for her breathing to steady. Down below, the water bubbled in anticipation; she could hear the swirling agitation crashing against the boulders. She could taste the spray rushing forward, the power and the passion of the frantic flow.

She bent down and opened the bag, her hands working autonomously to her body. They worked on their own, knowing what they had to do. She lifted out the carefully wrapped bundle and unfolded a corner at a time, her fingers teasing the outline of the face looking back. His wide eyed stare, still holding that look of shock before she’d raised the sabre high and swiped his head clean off.

She lifted the head, bowed a silent farewell and dropped it in the water below. She’d come back with the rest of him later. She picked up her hem and danced off the bridge, her high pitched laughter could be heard all the way back to WordPress Manor, the home for the creatively insane.

The Trunk – part 1


Wrestling with her conscience Sally let the faded silk ribbon trail between her fingers. Traces of a rich blue azure still marked the underside as she teased the texture between her thumb and her forefinger. She dropped the bundle on the coffee table as if touching it would burn her hands. Letting go of the ribbon she sat back on the sofa, chewing on her lip; the bundle of letters like a beacon flashing on the coffee table.

Although it wasn’t a coffee table at all really, just an old leather luggage trunk she had found in the attic when she’d first moved in. The attic hadn’t looked like it had been used in decades, so she really didn’t know where the trunk had come from or how long it had been there.  But when she’d been searching for bits to furnish the flat, she’d fallen in love with it. She’d already spent months scouring the flea markets and charity shops for ‘classy chic’ which in reality had turned into ‘classy cheap’.  So the old trunk had been perfect. There had never been a key, until today.

She had been foraging in the attic again when she found a carefully folded piece of linen; an embroidered handkerchief with a trail of tiny violets wrapped around the initials, J.W. She’d opened the hankie and a key had fallen onto her lap. She had somehow known what the key was for. Back in the lounge she’d carefully placed the key in the lock and turned; the expectant silence broken by a tiny click inside the trunk. She’d stilled. Opening the lid with a touch of trepidation, excitement catching her breathe, speeding it up and making her hands a little sweaty and unsteady.

Inside, the lining was worn and barely discernable against the wooden framework. The trunk had been empty and she swallowed her disappointment. Until she spotted a bundle pressed tightly into a corner at the base of the trunk. She lifted it out, twenty or so envelopes wrapped with ribbon. Sally felt an involuntary shudder somewhere deep inside, like someone had just walked over her grave. She closed the lid, holding the letters in her hand. Then she put them down on the table and sat back.

She looked over at the bundle, her curiosity going into overdrive as she reached for her glass, downed the contents and picked up the letters again. She gingerly pulled the ribbon, loosening the knot, letting the silk float to the floor. The one on top had a worn red stamp in the left hand corner ‘Return to Sender’. She gently flicked through the pile, noticing the same faded stamp on each. She pulled her feet up onto the sofa, tucked her legs underneath and opened the first letter.

Check back next time to see what it said……………………………………….

As You Sleep


I watch you sleep,

And I do not care,

For when you breathe,

I know you’re there,

I watch your face,

Through shadows veil,

And I know each line,

Each small detail,

I watch you move,

In slumbers wake,

And let you dream,

While I’m awake,

I watch your hand,

Fall into mine,

I feel your warmth,

Your touch sublime,

I watch you turn,

My heart succumbs,

And I watch you sleep,

Until morning comes.

The Sound Of Music

Time again for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the fabulous Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. A 100 word photo prompt, although you’re not shot if you go over a tad. After last weeks despair I’ve gone lighter this week, however my humour may be so bad that I still make you cry………


Photo Copyright : Bjorn Rudberg

Simeon felt the corrosion in his ears before the singing fully reached his shack. He pulled a pillow round his head, trying to muffle the impact.

“High on a hill lives a lonely goat herder”

Lifting the pillow slightly, he shouted back “Down at the bottom lives a bloody frightened goat, Peter”

It took a few minutes before he realised the singing had stopped. Then suddenly an almighty crash flew the doors wide open.

Peter stood, hands on hips; a 6’4 wall of solid muscle wearing a long black habit and a set of wooden beads.

“I TOLD YOU TO CALL ME MARIA” he screamed.

Haibun Thinking Challenge – Reflection

This is written for the very  first Haibun Thinking challenge.

I have used the prompt below – 

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

– Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

She looks in the mirror not recognising the face that stares back. Oh, there’s a familiarity alright, a sense of something or someone long gone, but there’s no real connection to the profile looking back. An echo of laughter plays in her head, she smiles. The face in the mirror smiles too, blood red lips that glisten in anticipation. They’re full and rounded, pumping with life; lips to be kissed, to be plundered with passion. And a smile so wide it reaches her eyes. Where blue orbs of mystery are so deep even the water nymphs would drown.

The laughter fades away, replaced by a gentle sway of rhythm. The blue orbs darken into something more, something wild and untamed. Music fills the air and the reflection begins to move, a slow burning flame that dances in the fire. She watches as hands glide over smooth unblemished skin, touching, teasing, and claiming. She sighs, the reflection stalls.

Shadows ebb across the glass, a mist tinged veil colours the edges of the reflection looking back. Her lips become thin and pale against a grey pallid skin and those blue eyes now faded are hidden by the deep lines of age. The reflection recoils at the face looking in. For the reflection is no stranger, but the woman she used to be.


Yesterday is gone,

Today will follow swiftly,

Then tomorrow comes.