Friday Fictioneers : Happy Hour


‘Happy Hour’. What a joke.

The wind is sharp as a papa’s razor, cutting through my shirt, grazing my ribs. The air’s coloured with urine. A dead pigeon lies pressed on the pavement, feathers still flapping, still keen to fly.

I close my eyes, imagine the tug of the wind on wide wings, the thrill in my chest as I lift, soar above the traffic stink, leave the rotting corpse of this city behind…

‘Hey!’ Tommy’s standing in the doorway. ‘Do some goddamn work!’ 

I take my cloth, go back to wiping tables. 

But the wind still tugs me.


Friday Fictioneers is run by the incomparable Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. One story, one hundred words – come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.


It’s been a while since I tried my hand at FF – hopefully, I can still write a drabble that’s comprehensible! I also now hang out at my website, , where you’ll find more stories and details of my critique services. Just come and hang. Could be fun.


The Devil of Moravia: The sound of feasting crows

Lightning bolt

Image: Pixabay

Previously, I published a story featuring the reprobate gambling Lord Edmund, who one storm tossed night was about to put a bullet through his head when he heard a knock at the door. I though it was about time we learned what happened next. Look here to read parts one and two.

Cursing myself for a coward, I turned the key and flung wide the door.

Rain and wind and cold, wet leaves pelted my face, stinging my eyes. I stood like a fool, spitting and coughing.

Then above the howl of the wind, a voice. It sounded neither male nor female, young nor old, but in it I heard those killing waves, the sound of feasting crows.

‘Lord Edmund Spencer,’ said the creature. ‘I have something for you.’

A cowled figure stood on the path before me.

I could see nothing of his face, nothing but the shadow of the man. He was a stranger, yet some base instinct told my arm to raise, to point the pistol at him and shoot. How many times, through all the horrors that have befallen me, have I wished I had listened to that animal nature that called to my reasoned self? What pain I could have saved the world if only I had listened to that still small voice.

‘Lord Edmund?’

And with those words I was undone. For the voice was neither demon nor monster, merely a man, storm tossed, soaked through with chilling rain. Still, I found I could say not a word, merely standing aside to let him pass. When he made no move to enter, I remembered myself.

‘Come in man,’ I said, the remnants of fear making my voice coarse.

And so he stepped inside Moorfield.

As he breached the threshold, a mighty crack of thunder broke the air directly above our heads, lightning turning that blackest night to day and as it did, he pushed back the hood and I saw my visitor for the first time. What I saw surprised me.

The face was thin, delicately boned, with full effeminate lips that shone red against his ice pale skin. His cheekbones were high, with deep hollows beneath, his face indeterminate of age, so I could not have sworn if he was twenty years or forty.

It was his eyes that struck me most deeply and it is they that haunt me now. In these long lonely hours, they still watch me from the shadows, always searching, looking inside me, seeing my dark heart. And yet, if asked to describe them I cannot say what colour or shape they were, what made them most distinctive or unsettling.

Only that I never once saw them blink.

For a moment, I watched my visitor and I could not be sure why I had come to the door at all, why I had given myself the inconvenience of entertaining a stranger when I had other tasks to complete. I cursed my foolishness, my own fear of the night. But now the man was inside and could not be put out again without a minimum of hospitality.

I slammed the door, cutting off the wind, the sound echoing through the empty hall.

‘Come,’ I said, retrieving the candlestick, leading the way back to the study, the comforts of fire and claret.

As I did so I wondered what the fellow thought of me, armed, answering my own door and in such a disordered state. The manor too, bore no close examination, ancestral paintings and furniture, wall hangings and silver long gone to pay for my gambling debts.

My home was a hollowed shell, as was I.

We reached the study without a word, where I retook my seat, placing the candle and the pistol close at hand on the floor beside me. I may have looked to end my life, but it would not be at another’s hand.

The stranger removed his dripping cloak. It dropped to the floor and in the dim light of the fire I saw a velvet coat the colour of holly leaves, braid shimmering gold, the whole an old fashioned cut but richly made. I  was pondering on the oddness of the man when he spoke again.

‘I have something for you, Lord Edmund.’

His lips curled into a broad smile and I had the strongest notion he knew I had been examining him.

‘So you say,’ I muttered. Those eyes bored into mine, causing me to look away into the dying fire. ‘Well, speak, man. Tell me what it is and leave me in peace.’

My desire to be alone had returned anew and I regretted inviting him in. If I had but ignored that insistent hammering, my troubles might now be at an end.

‘But your troubles are now at an end,’ said the creature, as if those eyes had read my very thoughts.

He gave a bow, so low, so deep, it seemed his chest would touch the floor and as he stood he said,

‘My name is Niccolo Vintila de la Slatina. And the gift I have for you is myself.’

Damon Wakes’ Flash Fiction Day: A scrap of something blue

Frosty woodland and stream

Image : Pixabay


We’ve been searching for twelve hours now.

The volunteers from the village have taken three hour shifts, but officers, friends, family have worked through.

I sent Baker away two hours ago. He’s got a six-month-old daughter so he can’t remember what a good night’s sleep feels like.

‘I wanna stay,’ he said, though even in full sun he looked green, pouches of grey under his eyes. ‘I know how I’d feel …’

‘I know, son,’ I said. ‘But you’re no use to me half dead. What if you miss something because your body’s moving but your brain’s asleep?’

That was what made him go. He’d hate to be the one that missed something important. Wouldn’t we all.

Still, I can’t take my own advice. Couldn’t sleep if I left now, anyway. May as well be useful.


Harris is standing three feet away. I can’t see his size 12 boots for snow. Flakes have gathered on his shoulders and I imagine the wind whipping drifts against his collar.

The look in his eyes snaps me alert.

‘Down there,’ he says, pointing to the trickle of water the locals call Shimmy’s Brook.

Choked with twigs and dead leaves, snarled in the ice is a scrap of something blue.

I inhale crisp, clean air, know this will be the last time these woods will feel clean.

‘Come on then, son,’ I say. ‘Show me what you’ve found.’



Written for Damon Wakes’ Flash Fiction Day. Take a look here to see what all the fuss is about.



three line Tales: The mail coach


three line tales week 16 – letterbox

photo by Kirsty TG – click here for full res version


Horns blast, hooves ring sharp and urgent on the cobbles. A blizzard of barks, shouts and calls has Tom jumping from his stool, sleep crusted lashes flicking as he reaches for his lamp, porter slopping from the jug to brighten the flagstones.

A mist rises from hot horse flanks, forming clouds dense enough to be a fog slunk up from the low marshes.

‘Ale’s sour,’ the coachman yells, emptying the tankard at his feet. Tom shrugs and runs on, leaving the dough-faced sot cussing.

Tom yearns for his bed by the stove, the familiar scratch of his straw mattress, the smell of wood smoke in his hair as he plummets into sleep.

Soon. Soon.


Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words Three Line Tales. See the pic prompt, write you tale. See here for full Ts and Cs.