Original Photo :


Would you let someone in,

Anyone at all,

Just to know,

Or to see,

What it’s like to be warm,

Would you comfort a stranger,

Not knowing their name,

Just to be held,

To be wrapped in the flame,

Would you open yourself,

Your heart and your soul,

Knowing of the frost,

When the fire grows cold.

When The Music Comes

Another Wednesday, another Friday Fictioneers. We might all be singing the same notes but the beauty is they’re definitely not in the same order….


Something was different; the light was just that little bit darker, the air just that little bit thicker. It was nearly time.

Dust and neglect settled on her chest and a fit of coughing brought her forward. Pulling the tissue back from her mouth, the fresh blood rippled wide across the fabric. Soon, she thought.

For months she’d waited. Waited and listened for the music.

She closed the door and moved away. Maybe it was just her memories floating down the stairwell, or perhaps the wind.

As the footsteps faded, spectral fingers once more teased across the ebony. Death has a melody all its own.



Original Photo :

I catch a scent,

That floats in the air,

The lust,

The decadence,

The yearning despair,

The sweet hint of sweat,

And dark visceral musk,

A forbidden perfume,

Yet the essence of trust,

Your breath,

Your whisper,

The tease of your touch,

All prelude the falling,

The need is too much,

Awash with the fire,

In the demons own lair,

The wait,

The want,

The almost there.


Time again for Friday Fictioneers, my weekly fix of 100 words of fiction for the weekly changing photo prompt. The challenge is not only trying to keep within 100 words (although you’re not hung, drawn and quartered for going over) but also trying to alter /adapt / change your style each week. Well, God loves a trier, and I’ll try anything once (almost)….


Original Photo : Kent Bonham

What if you could hold a memory in your hand; you could touch it, taste it or catch the scent from where it came. Would it still catch you off guard, make you fall back into the past?

What if summer was a flower, a bloom upon your palm or a lover was a flavour, a taste of liquid balm. What if laughter was a scarf or guilt a tarnished chain, would a scent of forgotten perfume really make you feel the same? What if sorrow was a candy, with its blackness all congealed, would you look upon it hungrily or leave the pain concealed?