Friday Fictioneers : What was here?

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll


Newt shuffled along the dusty tabletop so Mama could perch next to her.

‘And what was this bit?’ Newt traced the lines on the picture with her finger, the crosscross patterns, the dark bobbles with their raised paint.

‘That was grass, the brown lines are paths. That blue was a lake, the blobs are trees.’ Mama coughed, the sound rattling like dried beans caught in her chest. ‘Let’s go. Dark’s coming.’

As they hurried back to the tunnel and the oildrum fire, Newt tried to imagine Lake, Trees, Grass …

Tried to imagine a world coloured blue and green.



Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers, the finest flash writing prompt you’ll find. See here to join in and to read the other, wonderful tales.



#tuesdayuseitinasentence : If only

Bed sheets, linen

Image : Pixabay

His gaze fell upon the flower still clinging behind her ear. Its petals were flushed coral, curled back like lips parted in surprise. Her hair tumbled from its clip, curls lapping her neck. A tangle of sheets pillowed her head, exposed a shoulder, an arm thrown behind her, fingers still gripping the fabric even now.

If only she had said yes.


Well, that went creepier than I expected!

Written for Stephanie at Word Adventures’ #tuesdayuseitinasentence. Today the word is GAZE. Pop along here and join the fun.

Friday Fictioneers: Early morning coffee at the roadside diner

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot


It’s still early, indigo just crawling up the sky, eating the stars. The diner feels secluded still in its bubble of light, its coffee and pancake fug.

The door opens. Merv Klitschko, greasy trapper hat pulled low, ear flaps creased at his shoulders cos the guy’s got no neck. He’s at the counter, just gets coffee which is weird. Merv’s a man of habit – bacon, eggs, waffles, maple syrup, every morning for the last fifteen years.

I look to see if it’s raining, cos something’s dripping from Merv’s coat, puddling round his boots.

Then I see what that something is.



Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Write a story to go with the photo, but in no more than 100 words, please. See here to join in and to read the other, stunning tales.





Friday Fictioneers : Green, amber. Red

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

This set of lights is so slow. Red, red, nothing but red lights all the way home. His heel bounces impatiently, knee tapping the steering wheel.

He hates the colour red, always has. Something threatening about it, something he can never quite put his finger on. Trina says, ‘red wine, cosy fires – my hair. What’s not to like?’

But still …

Finally, the light shimmers amber, green. Home, then, and fast.

Something flickers in the wing mirror. A girl on a bike, scarlet coat flapping like a broken wing. She’s there then gone.

Horns blare. Red, red, nothing but red.


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. See the prompt pic and write a tale, but do visit here to read the other stories.

What pegman saw : Mystified Cottage




Mystified Cottage it was called, a stocky one storey building snuggled in the lap of the Dales.

In the parlour two Carver chairs scuffed their backs against a worn sideboard, in the kitchen a Welsh dresser wore a motley of grease from generations of braised brisket and pigs head pies, gifts from the blackened range.

Tom Dunty the coalman would chuckle under the slick collar of his backing hat that the cottage was so called because all were mystified as to how the Crofts raised seven children inside. Though as Tom signed the register on his wedding day with an X, I’d guess he was parroting his snippish wife Mary.

He was wrong of course.

The name was no riddle to any who stayed a night beneath its eaves, any who dreamed of oily black feathers, of straw dollies swinging from dusty beams. Who heard The Lady call their name …


Written for What pegman saw, a weekly prompt using Google Streetview as its inspiration. See here to join in and to read the other stories.

The ‘backing hat’ Tom Dunty wears was a cap with a strip of leather sewn to hang from the back in order to protect a coalman’s neck and shoulders. See here to learn more.

FFfAW : What Nanty said

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Yarnspinner. Thank you Yarnspinner!


The tree was a wild thing, Nanty said.

Neither good nor bad, friend nor foe, a creature that lived only for itself. Drawing mosses close as the world turned and cooled, making fresh sticky buds the colour of Angel Shades caterpillars when the sun wheeled high over the moors.

Tiddle Spence learned how wild the tree was, Gordy Prin too the day they went wassailing. Full of last blow’s cider they beat each branch and bough with walking canes and cricket bats, hallooing across the gorse like cattle under the slaughter man.

Tiddle they found plaited in the tree’s gnarly roots. Gordy was never found at all – except the middle finger of his right hand, discovered in a knot hole, wedded to the trunk.

Nanty just nodded when she heard. ‘Wild,’ she said.


Written for Priceless Joy’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. See here to join in and to read the other tales.

Although less popular than it once was, wassailing is still done here in the South West of England, in the cider making counties, such our own Somerset. I’ve been a wassailing myself, in a chill January, drinking warm cider, beating pots and making lots of noise to encourage the apple trees to wake up and give a good harvest. See here to learn more about wassailing.









What pegman saw : Yaya’s secret


My yaya’s house was the brightest spot in the whole colonia.

She painted the walls turquoise herself with a balding brush and though it had grills on the doors and windows like every other house, the gaps behind the iron were stuffed with pots of trailing vines and geraniums and spider plants that tickled my wrists when I reached up with the long necked watering can. Plaster toucans and parrots roosted on the first floor, nodding to smiling suns and moons.

Her living room was snug, cluttered with clasp-handed Virgins, candles and crucifixes, each object draped with cloths or doilies or tied with the florists bows she saved from bunches of gladioli and coxcombs Uncle Arturo brought her each Sunday.

Upstairs, though, behind knotted satin drapes the colour of cayenne pepper, was a mystery.

‘Es un secreto,’ she would say, kissing my forehead with feathery lips.

So it stayed until the day she passed away …


What do you think yaya’s secret was? Rude, lewd, romantic, violent or just plain bizarre? Let me know what you think and maybe we’ll get a sequel.

Written for What pegman saw, the hugely enjoyable writing prompt using Google Streetview – this week, we’re in Mexico City. See here to join in and to read the other tales.