Tag Archives: love


“What is it?”
“What do you mean, ‘what is it?’ Don’t you like it?”
“It’s… well, I mean it’s, erm… it’s unusual.”
“You don’t like it.”
“No, no. No I mean, I didn’t say that. It’s just… different is all.”
“You hate it. I should have known.”
“I don’t hate it. But I don’t not not-like it.”
“This is just like Christmas ‘08 all over again.”
“What is?”
“This is.”
“Is it?”
“It is. God, this is so you.”
“Wait, what? It’s supposed to be me?”
“What is?”
“Typical! Why do you always have to make everything about you?”


Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the freshly published Rochelle. Join in the 100 word flash fiction fun or simply go read the other entries here.

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Comfortable lives

Tis Friday once again, so time for Friday Fictioneers – hosted by the ever-present Rochelle.

This week, I have been mostly piggybacking the lovely Jessie Ansons and penned a response to her great story “Comfortable Footwear“.


It was soon our tenth anniversary, but if she kept banging on about it, I doubt very much that we’d see our eleventh.

She’d been leaving hints. Post-it notes with hearts, coupons for flowers, there were suddenly more candles around the place than before.

I‘d got the message.

She wanted to go to the club, which was cool. We had friends there.

As I got dressed, I’d given ‘Big Bouncing’ Barry a call.

I stood by the front door. Freshly ironed shirt and slacks, hair slicked back, and my best (worst) comfy slippers on my feet. “I’m ready,” I called.


PHOTO PROMPT Copyright - Douglas M. MacIlroy

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Forty Two

The gate squeaked, the gravel shuffled and the letterbox clattered as February 14th’s mail cascaded to the ground.

Mark grabbed his Spider-Man dressing gown and ran from the top of the stairs to the bottom. There he sat, crossed legged on the matt shuffling through the letters like a terrible dining room magician.

“Bill. Bill. Junk. Bill. Ugh. Booorrrrinnnggg” he sighed.

Just as he was giving up, a red envelope caught his eye. Dropping the others, he tore it open and pulled the card from within.

Mark smiled as he finally got dressed, text his mum and set-off to work.


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Come wake me.

Omit the dreams and start my day.

Forgive the grump, I’ll soon be with you.

Forever my morning drug of choice.

Ever long I hope you’ll last.

Enraptured each time you kiss my lips.


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Martyn was a lean man, both in appearance and with the truth. Though he was easy-going and approachable it was wise never to ask about or attempt to enter his garage.

The neighbours often spoke about his penchant for DIY, and in particular his wonderful patio. It was noted that he must be a perfectionist of sorts due to the number of times he had relaid it over the last year.

Martyn’s wife was a forgiving sort, her frizzy hair a metaphor for the way she approached her life. One morning at 2am, having broken the unwritten rule of never drinking orange squash before bed, she awoke to find Martyn in the bathroom on his knees meticulously scrubbing the floors and walls.

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