Sunday Photo Fiction: Chop and change



When Vicky first met Adam, she thought he had potential.

Okay it was midnight at Frankie‘s nightclub and pre the smoking ban, so the fug was thick enough to cut and she was wearing beer goggles so strong they should’ve come on prescription. But Adam stood out from the crowd.

First off he didn’t seem to be sweating Carling like his mates and when he asked her to dance he didn’t talk to her fake tanned cleavage. He was well turned out too, shoes so polished she could see Stacey Burns being sick in the reflection.

It wasn’t until they started going out that Vicky realised how much work he needed. And the more they went out, the more imperfections seemed to float to his flawed surface – the more she reviewed her exes finer points.

If only I could give him Darren’s teeth. Swap his thighs for that cyclist I was dating back in uni. And if he had Stu the lifeguard’s chest …

The day she imagined Adam with her old English teacher’s head, she knew it was time they finished.

Plenty more Creatures out there to experiment with …


Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. See the pic and write up to 200 words to go along. See here to join in and to read the other tales.


All fur coat and no knickers : The Daily Prompt : Facade

Glamorous female model smoking

Image: Pixabay


Your facade reminds me of a country house – grand but stony. I wonder if there are other similarities.

Does your beautiful exterior hide decrepitude, hidden portions of yourself you’d rather others did not peek at? No doubting you are presentable when you’ve had fair warning of visitors, but if we look a little deeper, are there places – hidden behind a red silk rope – unavailable to the public? With an air of dusty neglect and just a whiff of rodent?

If I pulled aside the curtain of your respectablilty, would I find rotting waste, a thousand dirty, hidden little secrets swept out of sight of prying eyes?

Just tell me – are you all fur coat and no knickers?


Written for The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt – FACADE. Write a post to accompany the word and why not pop along here to read the other posts.

A lead feather boa

Rusty bicycle

Image: Pixabay


‘Okay. Run it by me again.’

‘Land’s End.’


‘To John O’Groats.’


‘For charity. To save pandas.’

‘Okay.’ Dave eyed the soggy tyres on the ‘reclaimed’ bike, the red brown rusty spokes, the chain draped over one pedal like a lead feather boa. ‘But on that?’

‘It’s for charity,’ repeated Sarah, voice brittle-cheerful as blown glass.

‘I know honey, but …’ He nearly didn’t say, but the words filled his mouth and had to come out. ‘Is this like the skydive you tried to do for dolphins? Or the sponsored swim for dung beetles? Or the sponsored silence for howler monkeys?’ Dave had loved the thought of that last one, the sweet, mute irony of it.

Sarah’s eye twitched. ‘They were all good ideas – ‘

‘Brilliant ideas,’ said Dave a little too quickly. ‘But – .’

‘I know! The skydive for dolphins was cancelled because the week before the plane crash landed into a SeaWorld, the swim was scuppered by millions of ladybirds invading the local pool -.’

‘Made the local news, that.’

‘I know, Dave. And the sponsored silence … Well, that was really unfair. Who gets disqualified for a sneezing fit? Bloody Gina should have been disqualified for wearing that mucky old gorilla suit.’

‘To be fair, she didn’t know you were allergic.’

‘So she said. It just seems everything I try to do is doomed to failure. And I love pandas so much.’ Fat round tears, heavy with mascara, began to ooze down her cheeks.

Dave fished a paper hanky from his pocket. ‘Well, I can see why you love pandas,’ he said, gesturing towards her eyes. ‘It’s cos you look like one.’

As she wiped her face, Dave stared at the drooping chain, at the slashed seat, green with moss and sighed. ‘Alright. I’ll take a look at it for you. I just hope those chubby bamboo eating bastards are grateful.’

She slipped her arm around his back, planting a kiss on his stubbly cheek. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said.


#tuesdayuseitinasentence: The revenge of the fur coat


Image: Pixabay

‘Wow,’ breathed Michael, staring at the carnage.

He had been the perfect host – pule and caviar canapes; Dom Perignon 2006; Charbonnel et Walker chocolates; an ice sculpture of himself, towering over the congregation, a frozen collosus complete with ridges of slick hair and rictus smile – a frighteningly close likeness, his PA Imogen had said; floral displays of strelitzia, orchid and gloriosa lilies that soared to the ceiling; a ten piece, tux-clad band (smooth jazz, classy but easy standards, nothing experimental or hard on the ear) and the finishing touch – a point of perfect irony – tame mink, necks wreathed in pure gold chains, walked through the chittering throng by supermodels wearing floor length coats of the same glossy brown fur.

An evening that would be remembered for decades to come – the oppulence of Michael Philip O’Connell.

But Michael discovered too late that mink are vicious creatures who resent the close proximity of their murdered and skinned brethren and aren’t afraid to lash out at the nearest bare-toed supermodel in pin sharp revenge. And supermodels become dangerously unsteady when they have expensive mustelidae (not rodents – Imogen had made a point of telling him) gnawing on their painted and polished extremities. And who knew that ice sculptures of billionaires are surprisingly top heavy, even when nudged by girls with rope-skinny arms (he thought Imogen had muttered something about it being the fault of his oversized head, but he’d been distracted by the caviar smeared across the floor like a bankrupting dirty protest, so he could have misheard). And who knew that jazz trumpeters bled so freely when a hundred weight of strelitzia fall on them?

As the screaming rose in pitch and the polished floor grew slick with melting ice, pule and blood, an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon rolled towards him, hitting the left toe of his Canali shoes. He picked up the bottle and a chunk of ice that had skidded along with it – the tip of his own nose if he wasn’t very much mistaken. He twisted the cork, easing out the last millimetres with his thumb and pushed the ice nose into the bottle.

As the champagne bubbles popped on the roof of his mouth, he was already planning his next birthday – perhaps a yoga retreat in Nepal? He’d ask Imogen to arrange it – once she’d stopped laughing.


Written for Stephanie at Word Adventures’ #tuesdayuseitinasentence. Use the prompt word – today it’s HOST – to write a post. See here to play along and to read the other stories.








Three Line Tales: For my daughter-in-law Julie

TLT week 33: a ball of orange wool

photo by Philip Estrada – you’ll find a bigger version here


Doreen’s knitting flowed over her knee in neat stitches the colour of regurgitated carrot, the yarn shimmering as if spun from finely shredded plastic bags.

She saw me looking and said, ‘For my daughter-in-law, Julie,’ her lip curled as she spoke the name, the smallest bead of spit glistening on her chin. ‘The one who had to have granite worktops in her kitchen and said my backside was shaped like a Space Hopper.’

I eyed a shapeless panel, scratchy as hessian. ‘You mean the one with the terrible psoriasis?’

She nodded and smiled. Revenge, it seems, is best knitted and purled.


Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales, though of course it isn’t three lines – and I’ve been doing so well recently! See here to join in the fun and to read the other stories.

FFfAW: Turn to stone

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Phylor. Thank you Phylor for our photo prompt!



‘He didn’t finish painting the house,’ she said as I walked up the path towards her.

‘Six months since we saw each other and that’s the first thing you say?’ I was tired from the four hour drive, from fighting with Jase before I left home. From worrying about spending my first ever weekend alone with my mother.

‘He didn’t finish,’ she said again, pointing to the feathery line of brown paint just above head height. ‘Always was slovenly.’

I bit my lip, reminded myself that even if she was behaving like a hatchet faced harpy, it was probably her way of grieving.

‘Dad didn’t plan to die, Mum …’ Then I saw it, a granite slab, the words Here Lies The Body just visible above a drift of golden leaves. ‘What the hell is that?’

She shot a look that should have turned me to rock. ‘The stonemason had a sale on when I went to buy your father’s. Are you coming inside?’

It was going to be a long weekend.


Written for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers weekly photo prompt. Write up to 175 words to go with the picture. See here to join in and to read the other stories.

Moral Mondays: Who put the us in victorious?


Muddy soccer boots

Image: Pixabay


‘There’s no “I” in “team”.’ Toby paced the changing room like a caged hamster. ‘But there is an “us” in err …’ Sweat prickled his top lip. ‘In err.’ Egregious? Platypus? Virus? What was that word?

Halftime talks were not one of his strengths as a coach. Right now – six nil down after the opening half of the season – he wasn’t sure he had any strengths.

As the players clumped back onto the pitch, the goalie squeezed his hand. ‘It’s okay, Dad.’

Toby looked down at his son’s smiling face. At least he was good at something.


Written for Nortina’s Moral Mondays prompt. See the moral – this week it’s There’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team’ – and write a story in 100 words to go along with it. See here to join in and to read the other stories.