Dinner Time

Has anyone seen my marbles? …….. I’m teetering on the edge – marking, brief writing, assessments, housework, unpaid taxi service, sandwich maker, industrial volume laundry (teenagers, arghhh). But amidst the chaos my little bit of freedom, Friday Fictioneers, a 100 words of escapism. This weeks photo, supplied by Rachel Bjerke, seemed almost mystical, a bit Lewis Carroll’ish and I couldn’t shake the silliness of ‘Jabberwocky’ hence my bit of nonsense below.


Round the corner, quarter past three,

Below the sun, above the sea,

Hands move on, its quarter to four,

Somebodies knocking, open the door,


Stealing the minutes, its half past five,

Who’s in the oven, roasting alive,

Hearing the tap, the tic and the toc,

Dinner not ready, its seven o clock,


Out of the well, at eight forty six,

A wizened old crow licking her lips,

Rubbing her belly, nearly ten thirty,

Pulls out a fork, looks at me flirty,


Meat well done, the midnight hour,

Roasted soul with a parsnip tower.

Dream Stealer


castle 3

I built a castle out of dreams,

And I flew on gilded wings,

I soared above the eagles,

Amongst the pretty things,

I wove a trail of rainbows,

Amid the candied cloud,

And floated on the sunshine,

When e’er the breeze allowed,


 I watched the castle crumble,

And I saw the eagles fall,

I felt the earth beneath me,

And I heard the thunder call,

I couldn’t stem the hourglass,

Nor could I catch the time,

I couldn’t keep on dreaming,

When the morn began to climb.


Original Photo :  www.flickr.com/photos/44333718@N05/4139244462


This weeks contribution to the continually addictive Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words (give or take) of flash fiction based on the weekly photo prompt. Follow the link and join the party, I think there might be sausage rolls.



Somebody once told me that strength comes from knowing when to let go. I can’t remember who it was or where we were when they said it. I can’t remember the time or the place not even the voice or the face.

It’s funny how words can watermark your soul, forever imprinted, yet faces or voices can disappear into the ether. Like the early morning dew that fades with the sun or the cotton candy mist on a cold winter’s morn that seeps beneath the earth, forgotten and unnoticed.

I try to remember who it was, but I can’t. Perhaps they let me go.

Hidden Tears

Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word piece of fiction based on the photo provided. Its the most fun you can have with your clothes on. Follow the link and give it a go, you don’t know what you’re missing.


Photo Copyright : Erin Leary

One day she’d learn how to cry in the open. To let her tears stain her face and her sobs still the crowd, let the world see the hurt that she carried in her soul. She wouldn’t cry in the corners of darkly lit rooms, behind closed doors or in empty corridors. She wouldn’t hide behind indifference or bury herself in acceptance. She’d no longer be the victim or a canvas for rejection.

One day she’d let the tears free-fall until the ground was awash and the poison released. And beneath her feet the earth would flourish and flowers of hope would take seed and bloom.