The Collector

Kevin was a collector.

It had started when he was 7. His friends had amassed an impressive stack of baseball cards and whilst Kevin wasn’t sporty, the thought of collecting excited him.

Not wanting to become a sheep, Kevin chose his own road. It was unusual to collect discarded cigarette butts, sure, but to Kevin, each held a unique story.

Perhaps it was this sort of behaviour that led to Kevin living alone (or perhaps it was the ferocious addiction to pickled onions?) but he didn’t mind. These days he prefers spending time with his collection of bottled sunshine anyway.


This piece is submitted as part of the Friday Fictioneers group writing. I hope you’ve enjoyed it. If you did, make sure you go read the other entries this week! Or click this link to read more of my silly stories.

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The wooly tale of Dennis Snugtop

Dennis Snugtop wore the snazziest knitwear known to man. He was never happier than when the days grew shorter and the air turned colder. Whether he was sporting a cardigan, tank top, sweater or scarf, Dennis could be spotted a mile off.

“There goes Dennis,” people would say to other people that were unfamiliar with persons dressed in bright coloured winter wool all year long. During December, January and February his fashion sense made everybody smile.

In June 2012, Dennis Snugtop was suspicious by his absence. He was later found dead, having drowned in a pool of his own sweat.


Thank you to everyone that commented last week, sending well wishes. They were most appreciated and apologies that I didn’t get to thank you all individually. I’ll do that next – and hopefully make time to come read all your stories that I missed due to job hunting!

This piece is submitted as part of the wonderful Friday Fictioneers. You can find all the information you need at Rochelle’s blog, where you’ll also find 100 new stories from other talented writers every week.

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Not a whole grain.

Peter stared at the photo of Dijon whilst sitting at his table wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. It was humid already this morning, and sweat was beginning to form upon his brow. He breathed heavily and the photograph came alive. Memories of holidays and adventures. The blue skies, the wonderful new sights and the strange smells; they all seemed a million miles away from where he sat now.

Peter stared at the photo of Dijon whilst sitting at his table wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. Today was going to be the day he found a job.


A slightly self-indulgent piece this week as I try to find my feet again after being left jobless after 5 years. The chin, however, is up and I’ve been looking forward to Friday Fictioneers this week after a few weeks absence as I concentrated on CVs and letter writing! Now it’s time to get creative again (and no, my CV doesn’t count as creative – how dare you!)

dijon

Get a job

It’s not all fun and games sitting at home playing video games. Being at home all day creates this nagging sensation that perhaps one should actually do some of those jobs that one doesn’t normally get around to until the weekend and which, because it’s the weekend, one then doesn’t feel compelled to do.

All of which basically means washing up, washing clothes, cleaning the bathroom and constantly tidying up after children is drastically eating into my Xbox time.

In fact after the kids are dropped off, the morning chores are done and I’ve fired off enough job applications to sate my guilt glands, I normally have just the right amount of time to watch the loading screen for GTA before the kids are knocking on the door. I’ve tried closing the curtains. I’ve parked my car a few roads away. I’ve even put up a SOLD sign in the front garden but those little humans just keep returning.

The days don’t return though. They keep disappearing. One minute I think I’ve got all the time in the world. The next minute, the world is another week older and my inbox is a little bit fatter with “thanks for your interest,”s and “we’ll keep your CV on file,”s.

I should definitely get a job. Getting a job would slow the clock right down.

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Silenced

Ubinox was patient.
Ubinox was smart.
Ubinox was lithe, agile and keen.

High above the Grand Hall she waited; fingers and toes gripping the light fittings as she sank silently into nothingness.

Shadows stretched across the empty room as the wise old grandfather clock, standing as it always had by the ornate double doors, beat out a steady rhythm for them to dance.

Ubinox watched.
Ubinox waited.
Ubinox didn’t flinch, not even when the chimes signalled 8pm and the doors burst open with a surge of gay abandon and a chorus of cheers.

At 8.05 the cheers were silenced.


I have my doubts whether you’ll see what I see, but perhaps after reading and looking again you’ll find Ubinox lying in wait. This piece was written for Friday Fictioneers. 100 words per story, 100 stories per week.

hyde-hall-light

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