I Saw

Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction based around the photo prompt provided. An oasis amidst the sand, pop on over and sample the wares.


Photo Copyright : ceayr

Some nights I still watch from the window. The almost light, chasing shadows over the road. Almost catching, almost touching, but they never do.

Sometimes I wonder if it ever happened at all. Memories are funny like that. One minute they’re so sharp, so vivid that the fear can steal the breath right out of your throat. Then the next just shades, like merging hues that float across your eyes.

They said that she’d left, closed the house and moved away. They said that I had dreamt it, that I was only seven and shouldn’t tell tales.

But I saw, I know I did…

Under The Bed

under the bed

I can curl as tight as a ball and make myself really, really small. Smaller than Buster, because he’s got four legs and smaller than James because he’s eight and he’s a boy and boys can’t curl. Me and Jemima are gonna stay under the bed. I think Jemima’s a bit scared. She doesn’t like the shouting.  I’m not scared.

I wrap my arms round Jemima and whisper in her ear. Her ear isn’t there anymore because James pulled it off, but I whisper in the hole a bit louder so she can hear me. I don’t think she’s scared now, because her good eye’s still open. James glued her other eye shut with that sticky stuff that looks like a lipstick. I wasn’t his friend then but he said he didn’t care because girls can’t be friends with boys, it’s not allowed.

The bedroom door opens. Jemima’s scared again so I hug her real tight. But I think I hug her too tight because her head comes off.  She doesn’t cry though, she’s good like that. Any hows it happens a lot so I think she’s used to it now. I can see brown shoes standing at the bed. Jemima can’t see them because she’s got no head. The brown shoes are just waiting. ‘brown shoes’ has laces so he must be very old. Mummy said I can have laces in my shoes when I’m a big girl. ‘brown Shoes’ comes nearer the bed. I can see Jemima’s head near his foot. Jemima gets scared again.

It’s all gone quiet now. Jemima doesn’t know what’s happening because ‘brown Shoes’ kicked her head under the dressing table and its dark under there. My knees are getting sorer and sorer and I want to go to the toilet.  But ‘brown Shoes’ is still there and I don’t know what to do. I want mummy to come and tell ‘brown Shoes’ to go away.

The door opens a bit more and I can see mummy’s feet. She doesn’t have any socks on but I know it’s her because her toes are red. Mummy says I can have red paint on my toes when I’m a big girl. You can have everything when you’re a big girl. Mummy stands next to ‘brown Shoes’ and they’re making slurping noises, I think they’re eating an apple.

Mummy and ‘brown Shoes’ must be tired because they’re lying down now. They’re still eating apples. Opps, naughty ‘brown Shoes’, he must have had a little accident, because mummy’s made him take his trousers off.  Mummy says you don’t have accidents in your pants when you’re a big girl. It must be just girls then, I’m glad I’m a girl.

Mummy’s started saying her prayers now and it’s not even bed time yet. She keeps saying “Oh God” and I’m getting a bit scared because she must have been really naughty.  Jemima says she’s hungry so I’m going to come out  and ask mummy for one of them apples. I bet she’ll be surprised to see me…

The Pit-Stop

Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction (or thereabouts) based around the weekly photo prompt. Too much fun to miss, follow the link and give it a go.


Photo Copyright : Jean L. Hayes

Thick sand covered the ground, but every now and again a snap of colour bit through the dirt. Reds and blues, hints of green, shades of life and hope.

A kaleidoscope of patterns distorting and reforming under a thousand different footsteps. Never the same, never repeating. Unique.

Tucumcar was like that. Unique.

A neon oasis in the endless dust. A pit-stop for the weary and the hungry. They all came. Used the restroom, filled their bellies and their tyres.

And while they ate, someone sucked the air right back outta them tyres.

Oh they all came, but they never left.

That’s what makes Tucumcar unique you see!

Cara Brown

I’ve written so little fiction lately, I thought I’d join in the fab Sunday Photo Fiction this morning. 200 words of fiction based around the prompt provided. Follow the link to join in.


Cara Brown knew who she was. You could tell by the way that she walked, the way she held her head, looked up at the sky and said bring it on.

I didn’t know where she lived, I don’t think anybody did. She was a bright star we worshipped from afar, never daring to get too close.

Perhaps we were frightened that she wasn’t real; that the dream of her could unravel and shatter into a thousand tiny fragments of disappointment and loss.

But then one day she was gone.

And life seemed that little bit duller. It was as though the main light had been switched off and we were only left with the afterglow.

It was months before the cave was found. Hidden behind large stone boulders, overlapping in such a way to look as if the cave was completely sealed. It wasn’t until you were stood right in front that you actually saw the opening.

Inside they found clothes, cooking pots and a large ornately framed mirror, mottled with age and cracked down the middle.

Charcoal drawings covered the walls, frantic and menacing, each one the face of Cara Brown.

If only the cliffs had eyes…


Another week, another Friday Fictioneers. 100 words of fiction based around the weekly changing photo prompt. I’m on a roll, 2 weeks on the trot, yeahh.

marie gail stratford

Photo Copyright : Marie Gail Stratford

On the 3rd floor, a young couple use storage boxes for a table and eat Noodles out of paper tubs.

Four floors up. A nervous mum picks wet towels up off the floor, stops at the mirror and dusts powder over her bruised cheek. A perfect tea awaits her husband.

The lift stops at the 10th floor, the retired teacher and his wife take the stairs up the next two floors. He carries the bags when her arthritis is bad.

In an office across town, the last eviction notice is sealed. The developer sits back and smirks “bricks and mortar, just bricks and mortar”.

Unexpected Colour

I feel like a prodigal child returning to the fold. This is my 1st piece for Friday Fictioneers for quite a while. I lost my mojo for a while and it seems so long since I’ve written for fun. Life & work are now easing and my mojo seems to be coming back, either that or it’s indigestion!!


Photo Copyright : Ted Strutz

Beyond the grime and peeling paintwork, beneath the faded walls and crumbling plaster, I can still hear you. I hear the laughter in your voice, see the smile in your eyes and I know that you’re there. Like a ghost running through the rooms; slipping back into the walls before I can catch you.

I see you in the little spots of colour that bloom in unlikely places. In unexpected shards of sunlight that dance across the gloom and it is then that I know. I know you’re there, the girl I used to be.

And then I’m not so lost.

The Town Of Wicked

A 100 words of fiction for the fabulous Friday Fictioneers. Follow the link and have a go. Let your imagination run riot, paint the town red or dance like a hippo in a tuto, where ever inspiration takes you.


Photo Copyright : Connie Gayer…..(Mrs.Russell)

They called the town Wicked. A rat infested cesspit, where despair lingered on the skin like the stench of stale sweat and cheap whiskey. It was a rotten town.

Men played hard and fought harder.

Women survived. As best they could. In the fields, in the bars, on their backs, anything to survive.

Then the missionaries came, bringing promises and hope. But hope was dangerous. Hope made you want more. Made you feel more, need more. It made the rotten, rottener.

So when the prospectors left and the missionaries moved on, the devil pulled Wicked back into the earth.

And hope caught the last wagon out.

Receding Waters

Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction (or thereabouts) loosely based around the photo prompt provided. It’s funny how imagination brings so many different takes on the photo. Get yourself over and drown in the creative waters of the 100 or so weekly swimmers.


Photo Copyright : Dale Rogerson

He was drowning inch by inch.

She knew.

Another bead of sweat pooled on his lip. His clammy hands rhythmically furled and unfurled, like a spasm or a tic. He couldn’t stop.

In their bedroom she was feverishly emptying drawers, cupboards, boxes and every second his heart expanding, till he could almost taste the palpitations.

All went quiet.

Then footsteps down the stairs.

Like a victory flag, she waved the silk scarf above her head. He sank.

The waters were suddenly receding. He’d been found out.

Looking back now, signing the divorce papers. He knew how stupid he’d been.

She would never have looked in the spare room!

Grandfather’s Smile

I haven’t written much prose lately and thought I’m ease myself back gently with the help of Al’s fabulous ‘Sunday Photo Fiction’. Around 200 words of fiction based as loosely as you like around the weekly photo prompt. Follow the link to give it a go.

bike (1)

“A penny for your thoughts” he’d say. And I’d see that questioning look in his eyes, the slight rise of his brow that pulled one eye up higher than the other and he’d smile. I remember that smile.

I remember other things too, his smell, his hair, the coolness of his skin. But it was his smile that I remember the most.

He’d sit and wait for me to answer. He knew I would, I always did. I might play with my hands or look over to the window, maybe even get up and walk over to it, as if the moonlit view outside could somehow answer for me. But I’d always sit back down, look at him and speak.

“I don’t know if I can do it” My grandfather looked at me and smiled. Always that smile.

“It’s like riding a bike” he said,

“You never forget”

I twisted my hands in my lap and nodded.

He stood up, walked over and put his hand on my shoulder.

“I taught you well, my little one, it’s time”

Later that night my teeth sank into the Inspectors throat. I drank my fill, till his body went limp, my ravenous tongue tracing greedily across my fangs.

My grandfather smiled!

Letting The Light Go Out

Wednesday already and time again for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 words of fiction created from a photo prompt and a spark of an idea.

Last week was manic and I didn’t get chance to catch up with everyone’s pieces, I promise to do better this week.


 Original Photo : Dawn Landau

The sun had reached its highest, smudging the tops of the ash trees along the track. Summer thunder rumbled in the distance. She felt the darkness seeping in, tunnel walls closing around her, feet dragging towards an escape she couldn’t find.

Then in the distance… light… bringing her back and once more grass beneath her feet.

Memories back and forth; scattered clothes… bodies writhing…. her husband… her sister, the taste of bile that rose from her throat as she turned and ran.

The train was coming, she felt its breath chasing at her back. She lay down and let the light fade into black.