Monthly Archives: October 2013


Larry was a sheep.

At least, Larry thought he was a sheep. He’d read about them in books and was convinced he had all the hallmarks. He flocked with the others and the plural of his name was the same as the singular. What more proof did he need?

The other sheep didn’t like Larry. They thought he was weird. They constantly bashed him during the rush hour and last Friday a stranger had yelled “bbaaaaaaaa-stard” at him as he did his weekly shop.

Totally unprovoked.

Larry didn’t like being a sheep. Perhaps it was time to be something else.



This fishy tale was submitted as part of the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt weekly challenge.

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A Failed Handshake

A stroll, a glance, a little nod.
Reciprocated from, I think, it’s Bob.

A wave, a pass, a hand outstretched.
A reach, a miss, oh what a mess.

A head held low. Shoulders high.
Don’t stop. Don’t turn. It’s not that guy.


Head in Hands

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40 days and 40 nights

It had been raining inside the supermarket for 40 days and 40 nights and Percy, who had been sitting on a makeshift island constructed from tins of baked beans, was beginning to get more than a little cheesed off.

George, whilst floating by last Wednesday on a barge made from sardine cans and baguettes, had said that Margaret made it to the newspaper stand where Nigel had told her the weather was set to change this week.

It hadn’t and Percy’s island was rapidly shrinking.

Percy sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his trusty Swiss army knife.


Submitted for Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. See if you can write a piece of flash fiction in 100 words.



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Andy writes porn.

With the family tucked up in bed, Andy would take his laptop and sit in the big chair and tap away at the keys. The blue hue of the screen illuminated his face every Wednesday night and it would always be a race to finish the final chapter before the heat of the battery scorched the hairs on his thighs.

Spurred on by his ever-increasing following of slightly deranged, lusty housewives, he began to believe his own hype. The idea of making money from this venture (764 satisfied followers couldn’t be wrong) was second only to a much more devious thought.

One Wednesday night after saying goodnight, Andy snuck out the front door. He’d made the journey in his head over and over that week and was convinced he could make it to Withy Wood within 17 minutes, meet a mystery follower and be back before anyone knew he was gone.

He was right.

Week after week Andy’s self belief grew. The more followers he gained, the more he enjoyed the woods. The more people he met, the less his words began to make sense. If it wasn’t for the way he carried himself it would have been the perfect crime.

Jane was becoming suspicious. After 16 years of marriage it was easy to spot any slight differences, let alone a significant one like the way her husband walked. His head up high and shoulders back. The stride of a confident man. A world apart from the gait of the man she had married.

When Wednesday evening came around in the 2nd week of October, Andy said goodnight and snuck out the front door. The nights were darker than when he began and colder too but not, he had decided, brisk enough to stop. He quietly zipped up his jacket and set off.

Jane opened her eyes, slipped on her fluffy green dressing gown and tried not to wake the creaking floorboards upon the stairs.

Andy arrived at the usual spot. His mystery follower was already there, cigarette smoke drifting over from where they stood. He hadn’t realised that Sammy_2069 was a smoker, but the thought didn’t last too long as Sammy flicked it away, pulled up a hood, turned and dropped to bended knee.

As Jane stood in the front room her mind wasn’t on the missing Andy, but instead on the open laptop perched upon the cushion of the big chair. As she moved the cursor, the screen saver made way to a page with the header: Skin Deep. She read a while before scrolling through a folder entitled “Erotica for Women by S.Hallow”.

Andy’s knees began to weaken as his zip was undone and warm, wet lips enveloped him. Strong hands gripped at his buttocks as the rough feeling of stubble scratched at his thighs. Andy’s eyes widened. Stubble?! He reached down and removed Samantha’s hood. Reigate’s Bricklayer of the Year 2011 Samuel Smith looked up.

Andy writes porn.
He now writes it from a slightly smaller chair inside room 73 of the Holiday Inn just outside of Redhill.


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When the seagulls follow the trawler…

Written, once again, for Friday Fictioneers, A photo prompt each week designed to tease out some imagination using 100 words.


“Stand still, Colin” squawked Barry, “this isn’t going to work if you keep flapping around!”

“gggg bbllgggghhh cccoooorrrr” gargled Colin, ushering his friend down from on high.

“ugh, what now?” sighed Barry, as he flew down from Colin’s head and hopped restlessly across the pebbles.

“I can’t see, my SSQQUAAWW throat hurts from this sodding seashell and to top it off – you stink of fish! Tell me again SSQQUUAAAWW why we can’t use the Heimlich ma….”

“ssh ssh sssshhh!!” Barry whispered, wrapping a slippery, salty wing around Colin’s beak. “We can’t say that any more or they’ll sue us”.



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