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Post 1615. Sunday January 14

Sunday Photo Fiction

I froze. My blood ran cold. I would never see Mummy and Daddy again. I should have said sorry for breaking the head off my sister's doll and blaming it on her friend. I should have owned up to hiding my other brothers favourite toy soldier. I’d miss my rabbit. I’d miss seeing Bill and Ben on the television tonight and pizza for supper tomorrow. My teddy would miss me. Who would look after him?

I had this book about a jungle. There were pictures of scary animals and one was a huge leopard. I always rushed past it, it really frightened me. And there I was facing one in my own back garden. Daddy said they only lived in zoos here. Why did he tell me a fib? Why was I looking into the eyes of one now? Every night before bed, I had to say my prayers. Something about keeping me safe. So, surely Mr God would shoo the leopard away. But he didn’t. It came closer and closer.

Just then Daddy came out into the garden. “What are you doing here you big fat pussycat?” he laughed. “Mrs Thomas was wondering where you had gone to!”

Word count 199

This week's photo prompt.

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Post 1602. Sunday January 7

Sunday Photo Fiction

The Chief Inspector cleared his throat as he tapped his glass with a pen. “Here’s to a happy and well-earned retirement Bill” he shouted.

“Inspector Wise” his colleagues yelled banging together their tankards, showering themselves with beer.

“Good riddance!” yelled a jokester to rapturous applause.

William Wise built a career admired by those who worked with and above him. Hardly a case he took on was left unsolved; except of course the last one, his biggest yet which was to remain a mystery.

Later that night, he booked into a bed and breakfast in Dover. He sat with his new passport in one hand, a large malt whisky in the other and a satisfied smile on his face. “Welcome to the world Sam Smart” he muttered. Tomorrow he would head for the docks, the ferry and a new life.

Word count 123

The picture at this week's Sunday Photo Fiction features Castle Street in Dover.

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Post 1648. Sunday December 10

Sunday Photo Fiction

‘Look Daddy, the fairies are back! They are dancing round and round’ She often saw them, but all I could see was the little village I made for her at the bottom of the garden. 'They are waving to us Daddy, do you see?'

‘So they are’ I said, waving one hand whilst crossing the fingers of the other! Well, it was only a white lie.

Maria was born poorly. Unable to walk unaided, she would sit in her wheelchair for hours on end singing, laughing, and talking with the fairies. We knew her life would be short, but the end came far sooner than we expected. Just eight short years, but joyous ones nonetheless.

This morning when I opened the curtains I saw a ring of fairies dancing round and round in the little village at the bottom of the garden. They waved to me and I waved back The prettiest of them all was little Maria.

Word count 158

Thank you, Eric Wiklund for providing this week's inspirational photograph.

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Post 1642. Sunday December 3

Sunday Photo Fiction

‘And.....ACTION' shouted the director.

‘If anyone knows any reason why these two people should not….’

‘I do' echoed a voice from the back of the set.

The couple, the priest and guests turned to face the somberly dressed man standing in the church doorway.

Chalky, I thought you were……’

‘Dead? You thought I was dead?’ he yelled.

A dapper detective accompanied by two uniformed police officers marched down the aisle.

He removed his trilby hat.

‘Millie Malone, I’m arresting you for the attempted murder of Cliff White. Anything you say…’

‘...will be taken down as used in court. Yes, detective, I know. Do what you have to’ said Millie dropping her bouquet to the floor and holding out her wrists.

There was a stunned silence as everyone watched the officers march Millie away to an awaiting police car.

‘CUT!’ yelled the director.

The cast, crew, and extras of Soap Street started excitedly chattering.

‘This episode was meant to end with a cliffhanger' he said, 'but not like this. How the hell are we going to carry on without Millie Malone?’

Sometimes fantasy and reality collide.

Word count 183

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Post 1640. Sunday November 26

Sunday Photo Fiction

Each afternoon she walks down to the harbour, huddles in the corner of a wooden shelter and looks out at the ocean as the fishing boats come home laden with their glistening twitching cargo. One by one they glide towards the quay, the throbbing of their engines drowned by shrill shrieking from billowing clouds of ravenous gulls. She counts them in, whilst praying that one more boat will return than left that morning.

The fishing folk no longer notice her, but she is always there. Always watching, always waiting; praying that today will be the day he'll return.

Each evening after the catch has been landed, the boats moored for the night and the seagulls have finished scavenging for leftovers, she walks to the harbour's edge and lays her hand on the same rusting bollard she’s touched for thirty-two long years.

She looks down at the empty space in the row of bobbing boats, a space that once was his mooring; a space she keeps for him when he returns. He will return, of that she is certain. If not tomorrow, the day after. He will return, of that she’s sure.

Word count 192

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Post 1638. Sunday November 19

Sunday Photo Fiction

Little Johnny and his friend Maria were always together. They liked the same things; Mr Men books, glove puppets and spinning around until they were dizzy! Johnny quite liked Maria's dolls, but he didn’t tell his friends, and Maria loved playing with Johnny’s toy cars but she didn’t tell her sister. They weren’t frightened of anything. Johnny once crawled up the slide in the park, and last Christmas Maria even ate a sprout! Yuc!

The other day they played creepy-crawly dare. Johnny dared Maria to pick up a wriggly worm and she did. Maria dared Johnny to prod a grasshopper and he did. She let a caterpillar walk up her arm, and he sat a slimy slug on his nose! Ooh, nasty. Maria told Harry to shut his eyes and hold out his hand. She put a big hairy spider on his palm then told him to open them. Harry took one look, screamed and ran down the garden. He was not so fearless after all!

Word count 166

Thanks to whoever you are for the photo prompt!

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Post 1634. Sunday November 12

Sunday Photo Fiction

When bickering turned to bitterness they went their separate ways. Whilst she continued to enjoy their lavish lifestyle, he descended into a pit of deep depression. A shadow of his former self, he spent his empty days wandering the streets dependent upon the generosity of the caring few, yet invisible to most, his once stylish attire now frayed scruffy clothes and a filthy coat tied with a length of knotted cord.

No soft bed for him, not for years. At night he had a few hours restless sleep in a shop doorway, before shuffling off at sunrise. But the other morning he was still there when the shopkeeper arrived to open the store. Thinking him to be asleep, she gently nudged his frail body. He fell to one side, never again to wake. That evening a single red rose lay on the spot where he spent his final moments.

This morning a street cleaner swept up a limp flower as it tumbled along the pavement in the chill winter wind.

Word count 169

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Post 1630. Sunday November 5

Sunday Photo Fiction

What utter balderdash! That fellow would have me believe a machine will one day take the place of the portrait artist’s palette and brushes.

I reluctantly gave him a chance. He led into a darkened room where I was told to sit perfectly still on a chair. He then stood behind a tree legged mechanical contraption, flung a black sheet over his head and bent down. Then, my dear, another chap stood behind him holding a peculiar device on a stick. Would you believe it, the wretched thing flashed brightly and billowed smoke into the air.  I was near blinded and almost choked to death.

He wants me to return tomorrow to view the result of his endeavor. No, my dear, he is wrong, so wrong.  Next, he will suggest that a machine will one day replace my pen and ink! What absolute poppycock.


Word count 142

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Post 1626. Sunday October 29

Sunday Photo Fiction

On seeing J Hardy Carroll’s photo, my thoughts immediately turned toward Halloween. My tale takes us back to the early days of this ancient festival.

It was late October in the year of our Lord 1789. In the waning hours of Hallowmass Eve, urchins in rags, and sufferers from calamity marched through the cobbled streets of Bartonwick. Smoke curled skyward from the crooked chimneys of the thatched stone cottages. Banging on doors, the Soulers begged for food and money, offering songs and prayers in payment.

A soul cake, a soul cake,

Please good missus, a soul cake,

An apple, a pear, a plum or a cherry,

Any good thing to make us merry.

One for Peter, one for Paul,

And three for him that made us all

As old Harriet Wicklesmith opened her creaking oak door, a smile spread across her wrinkled face. All day she had mixed, stirred and baked her Soul Cakes. She proffered a glass bowl, filled with steaming cross-topped sweetmeats. One by one, the Soulers helped themselves.

‘May your souls be freed from Purgatory when these cakes are eaten’ she muttered.

'We shall eat the fruit of your labour. Blessings and prosperity will be yours’ they replied.

Photo: J Hardy Carroll

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Post 1621. Sunday October 22

Sunday Photo Fiction

As I'm pushed for time today I've taken the unprecedented step of revamping a story I wrote a couple of years ago which received just very few hits!

Just two minutes more and I would have caught that bus. I would have made it to the shop before it closed. I'd have bought some delicious wine, a microwave meal and some yummy chocolate then caught the bus home again. Right now I’d be enjoying my feast whilst watching the six-o-clock news.

As it is I’m drinking tepid skimmed milk and eating a tasteless curled up sandwich whilst watching the eight-o-clock news about someone who was running, tripped, fell in front of a bus and ended up in hospital.

Nurse, a bedpan, please!



Word count 101

The RV1 Hybrid bus from Tower Gateway Station to Covent Garden - I used it recently. I'm yet to float down the Thames on the Duck Tours amphibious bus though! 

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Post 1616. Sunday October 15

Sunday Photo Fiction

Between 1788 and 1868, approximately 162,000 convicts were transported from England to Australia by the British government. Many were deported for petty crimes; others were political prisoners. Most stayed in Australia with some rising to prominent positions in Australian society. Approximately twenty percent of modern Australians are descended from transported convicts.

It is the fifteenth day of October, in the year of our Lord eighteen seventeen. I am shackled below deck, just one of two hundred and eighty other pitiful souls. Through a gap in a hatch, I gaze at billowing sails as the wind of change transports me to a new life.  I see black clouds change to white; they no longer threaten me. My wretched existence thus far lays dead in the water. I am hungry for a future where the sins and wicked deeds of my past are left behind. A convict, yes, but a spirit freed.

Regrets? Yes. But I will never forget, for my memories will serve as a constant reminder of what is important to me in the years to come. 

A new day, a new life, a new me.

As you may have observed I have wound back the clock on this week's photo prompt at Sunday Photo Fiction!