Friday Fictioneers – Old School Dirt

It has been a long time between now and my last Friday Fictioneers effort. I am more than a little over the word count so I may edit this again later on. If you want to play, head over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and have a go. Thanks to Rochelle and also thanks to Danny Bowman for the image.

As always, I am open to constructive criticism.

Old School Dirt

The truck hissed as it drew to a halt behind the long queue of traffic.  Tony adjusted his gaze to search for the accident over the never ending line of red lights.

He looked down at his mobile and pressed down hard on the power button. It had been dead for the past hour. Dashboard read 20.30. Late again. Cara would be waiting alone, on the evening of their anniversary, for the third year running. No making up for this one.

Tony turned off the ignition and hopped out onto the sidewalk. A beaten up payphone offered little hope before he could even dial her number. A handset broken in two, he could talk but not listen.

“About right” he mused, before returning to the cabin.


Friday Fictioneers – One Two Three Four Legged Friend

Copyright -Douglas M. MacIlroy

Copyright -Douglas M. MacIlroy

One Two Three Four Legged Friend

I unsaddled Mystic and felt around in my bag for an apple. One left, it was a little brown and bruised from the ride but otherwise perfect. I rubbed it on my thigh and fed it to Mystic. The sun was heating up, telling me to head back to the air conditioned truck waiting to take me home without my horse. I looked around the large paddock. It was more than I could ever offer. She would be happy here.

“We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?”

Mystic tossed her head with a snort.

“Yeah, I know, I’ll miss you too”

I found this one hard as there are so many lovely stories this week, I have found it hard to follow. In fact I was tempted not to post up as was struggling to put something together. Head over to Rochelle’s place if you want to have a go at Friday Fictioneers. Pop over to Doug’s to get the moving story behind the picture.

Friday Fictioneers – The Lighthouse

The Lighthouse

Sam rubbed his tired eyes and focussed on the blinking light. All was calm but winds from the dark ocean were starting to gain strength and rumbles from the sky spoke of a storm. He looked down at the net lying on deck and his heavy heart sank. Three days and only a few fish to show for it.  His skin was grainy from the salty air. He craved a shower and a cold beer. The beacon was getting brighter as the winds pushed his drifting boat towards the land.  Sam submitted to defeat and allowed his mind to think of Amy. She would be waiting and tonight, he could do with some comfort.


Here is my Friday Fictioneers. This picture instantly reminded me of a lighthouse. I have never actually been inside one but the spiralling staircase made me think of that. So loosely based on that interpretation  I came up with my story. I have been working on my short stories and editing and not really blogged in a while or taken part in this weekly tradition. Better late than never.

If you want to take part, head over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and have a go.


Friday Fictioneers – Nothing to Declare

Hands up, this isn’t my best. It was completed on my 30 minute lunch break. I was partly reminiscing about school, my partner in crime during the school days (who played the cello) and one of my favourite Bond moments. So I apologise to those who don’t get the vague reference, I hope you enjoy it anyway.

If you want to play along, head over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

2 Double bass in a locker

Copyright Roger Cohen

Nothing to Declare

“Which one?”

“The lighter one”

“Do you think they would notice it missing?”

“Nah, not if we’re quick”

Beth stood on the tips of her toes and peered out of the tiny window. “Snow is looking pretty thick at the moment, perfect conditions”

“You keep a watch whilst I get the case”

Jess dashed into the adjoining cupboard and fought through the various instruments to drag out the cello case. It was nearly the size of her.

“Psst” she heard from Beth “Mrs Newel is coming, get out of there”

Hearing her teacher’s heels walk down the hallway, Jess quickly put the case back and joined Beth back by the cellos.

“We’ll try again tomorrow” whispered Beth “I bet Bond never had this much trouble”

Friday Fictioneers – Bottled Explosions

Over a month since I have been on here and even longer since I have taken part in Friday Fictioneers. Well, it’s a new year and that means renewed goals and resolutions. Writing is at the top of my list once again and there is no better place to start than this weekly challenge.

Hop over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields if you wish to take part. Thank you for Lora Mitchell for the image.

Bottled Explosions

Lora Mitchell

copyright Lora Mitchell

Jennifer stared down into the plastic champagne flute and observed its glistening base.

“It’s empty” she intended to say but instead it came out as “Itssssay eamptee”

“Too many bubbles” Her husband gently took the flute from her grasp and placed it on the grass where they sat.

“Mark, it’s not eavin mignight”

“I have some orange juice, you’ve guzzled all the champagne”

Mark wrapped his arms around his wife, quietly amused at her inebriation. Easing into his embrace, Jennifer watched the fireworks whistle and shriek before casting an explosion of pink and purple across the sky.

“Wow, soooo maynaay of them” Jennifer murmured, captured by the moment.

Mark desperately wanted to be part of his wife’s enhanced reality instead of watching a solitary Catherine wheel struggle to entertain the dwindling crowd.

“Next year, you’re driving”

Friday Fictioneers – Sirens 3

This is rather late but I could not leave taking part this week. I would like to whole heartedly say thank you to Madison Woods for starting this group. I only started blogging in January, with the intention of developing my creative writing skills. Not only has this community helped me keep on track of writing something each week, but it has been wonderful sharing this with like-minded people who share a passion for flash fiction. This weekly exercise and subsequent feedback has been invaluable. So once again, thank you for making it happen. And thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for taking this on and keeping this weekly creative mission alive.

I have decided to make this part three of my Sirens stories, started here in the Friday Fictioneers community.

If you fancy reading the other two, here they are

Sirens 1

Sirens 2


Sarah dunked the plain biscuit into her bitter coffee and allowed the bottom half go soggy. She had arrived at the bus depot before sun rise, hungry and thirsty. The only other person in the cafe was man wearing a faded tag spelling out ‘Malcolm’. He served her coffee and swept the floors.

For days Jenny had been wandering from one town to another, chasing the ghost of Jenny Blake and the truth she took to her grave.

“Jefferson. 1863.” Jenny said before the answer machine clicked off, running out of tape.

Tony ‘the bus guy’ had helped decode the message, eventually leading her to the Sheridan bus depot. Sarah didn’t know who would be getting off at that stop, but whoever it was; they had a message and would be looking for her.  Sarah could all but hope that this time, she wouldn’t have to run.

Friday Fictioneers – Disorienteering

Here is my latest Friday Fictioneers installment thanks to Madison Woods and Jan Morrill for supplying the picture.

As usual I am not sure on what I’ve produced, but a little pressed on time roday and I know I won’t get to spend time perfecting it tomorrow. So here it is, in a raw state.

If you want to take part in Friday Fictioneers then head over here


The man gave each of us a map and a deadline of two o’clock sharp.  It was now one fifteen. I had misplaced my team an hour before and was completely lost. The blue sky and heavy sun teased my useless sense of direction and cast shadows against the white city walls. I looked down at the map littered with lines, discovering little correlation between where I was standing and where I needed to be.

My mouth felt parched and my head throbbed. I popped the tiny foil circle on top the carton of cranberry juice and cursed as the red liquid shot out of the straw and on to my light yellow top. Using the map to blot away the stain, all hope of completing the mission was lost.  I screwed up the ruined piece of paper and shoved it into my bag. The work’s annual team building exercise, yet another resounding failure.