When you reach this final bridge
pause a while
Take your time to cross.
From here there is
no way back.
So make your peace and
take the ultimate step.
The Unknown awaits.
Tread softly and walk on
with hope in your heart.
Might the best be
yet to come?
Written in response to Sadje’s What Do You See #19 photo prompt.
Image credit: Unsplash
Breathlessly I peddled up the hill. Jack loved the woods. We were going there anyway, but as soon as I’d reached for his collar he’d bolted out the back door.
I threw my bike down at the end of the lane. Sandals pounding over the dry earth, I called out, running this way and that.
No Jack.
I ran deeper into the woods.
‘Jack! Jack!’
Where would a little dog go? Suddenly the woods seemed huge.
Calling his name, I ran and ran until I could run no more. I leant against the nearest tree, fighting my rising panic.
Tears ran down my cheeks. I closed my eyes and began to howl.
Then I felt something rub against my leg. I opened my eyes.
It was Jack!
I crouched down and put my arms around my little dog. I’d gone to find him, but it was he who’d found me.
Written as a ‘two for one’ prompt response to:
1) Sadje’s What Do You See #18 photo prompt – photo credit: Hoi An, Unsplash.
2) Di‘s Three Things Challenge #155 – rub, howl, collar
I stare wide-eyed at my invitation. As if I wasn’t already the breaker of a thousand diets.
I do not need any more temptation in my life.
My fingers stomp on the keys like an over-weight middle-aged woman taking out the trash in which she’s concealed the evidence of her failure to stick to salad.
It’s virtual, a celebration for us girls, the ones who can only dream of those lithe bodies with which they once entwined.
Virtual chocolate cake? What’s the good of that?
Are you sure I can’t tempt you? Go on. See how many hits you get.
Written in response to a prompt from Susan T. Braithwaite
Genre Scribes Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #34
The challenge this week was celebration.
Author’s note: I was so taken with Violet Lentz’s response to this same challenge that this is what I found myself compelled to write. It’s also a little experiment about the magical pull of lust and chocolate!
A smile creeps around the corners of your face,
a faraway gaze mists your eyes,
remembering the hugs and tears
you shared
with each of the little ones.
They’ve long grown up
and fled the nest
But you hold on to those memories
Just in case
they need them again.
Written in response to Sadje’s What Do You See #17 photo prompt.
Image credit: Lisa Fotios – Pixabay
– When do I get my Button, Humphrey?
– Button, Prime Minister?
– You know, my Big Red Button. The important one! I want one like everyone else.
– Everyone else, Prime Minister?
– Yes, Putin’s got one, Trump’s got one, that slitty-eyed fellow in North Korea, even Monsieur Whatshisname in France has one.
– You mean the MAD button, Prime Minister?
– Oh no, this isn’t mad, it’s actually quite serious.
– MAD stands for Mutually Assured Destruction, it’s a mnemonic, Prime Minister.
– Never mind how it works, Humphrey, get me the person in charge of our Big Red Button.
– That would be the Chief of Defence, Prime Minister.
– All right then, get the army chappie over here and tell him to bring me my Button.
Later that day.
– The Chief of Defence is here to see you Prime Minister.
A man dressed in uniform with lots of gold braid enters the PM’s office. He places a metal briefcase on the desk and opens it. The Prime Minister rubs his hands together.
– Excellent. Now show me how it works
– Once all the protocols have been agreed, Prime Minister, you simply push that button in the centre of the control mechanism.
– Oh, that one? It’s not very big, is it? And it’s not very red.
– Nevertheless Prime Minister, that is Britain’s Big Red Button. Only to be used in the most dire of emergencies.
– But I’m the one who gets to push the Button?
– Yes, Prime Minister.
– Golly, isn’t politics exciting!
Sir Humphrey shows the Chief of Defence out, closing the door behind them both.
– Tell me that’s not the real thing, Nick?
– Good heavens no, Humphrey! We wouldn’t want something like that in the hands of a politician.
– Does it actually do anything?
– Well, it is armed. Otherwise it wouldn’t look authentic.
– Armed? Good Lord. What might he set off?
– Oh, nothing serious, just a few fireworks in the shrubbery.
Written in response to a prompt from Susan T. Braithwaite
Genre Scribes Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #33
The challenge this week was politics.
With sincerest apologies to everyone who was involved in that great BBC institution, the TV series ‘Yes, Prime Minister’. For anyone who’s never seen it, here’s a little taster:
My love, how did I come to lose you?
You, the one to whom
I cleaved my heart, my soul
for all time.
Just a trace of you remains:
a hint of your scent in the clothes
you left behind.
Come back my love, so I can hold you again.
Written in response to Sadje’s What Do You See #16 photo prompt.
Photo credit: ‘Reflections’ by Yunus Emre Uzun
Kitty Katz stared intently into Marvin’s special StudioSpyScope. Two men were gazing at a wide screen monitor. On the desk in front of them was her publicity file which her agent had recently distributed to his industry contacts.
‘Pretty little thing,’ said the first man, licking his lips lasciviously.
‘She sure is,’ the second man agreed, stroking the photograph which pictured Kitty posing coyly on a pink chaise-longue.
‘She’s very young; good for a few years before the sparkle wears off.’ The first man leered at the monitor where Kitty’s first screen test was playing. ‘I wouldn’t mind giving her the once over.’
‘Or the twice over,’ said the second man rubbing his thigh.
Kitty cringed and snapped the petals of the StudioSpyScope closed. She looked up at Marvin, with horrified eyes.
‘Well, Kitty,’ said Marvin, scratching his ragged ear with his back leg, ‘that’s the movie industry for you. D’you still want to be a part of that?’
Kitty screwed up her eyes. ‘I do not.’
‘Good call, Kitty!’ Marvin smiled kindly at her. ‘In any case, it’s not as if you don’t have other talents.’
Kitty’s cellphone beeped. Her whiskers twitched with excitement as she listened.
‘The news you were waiting for?’
Before Kitty had the chance to answer her cellphone beeped again. Marvin waited patiently for her to finish.
‘No, thank you, Jed, I don’t want to be a movie star. My publisher’s got me a large advance and a three book deal on my ‘Kitty Tails.’
Written in response to Sadje’s What Do You See #15 photo prompt.
Photo credit: Pinterest
That’s the second client that movie agent, Jed Talent’s lost already this year!
Read what happened in Casting Woes.
Mickey, the young mantis, poked his head out of the bougainvillea bush. There she was, the lovely Marula, sunning herself on the trellis by the stoep. He watched her in admiration as she stretched out her plump olive-skinned limbs. His ardour was rising. She was a gorgeous creature. If only he could get her to notice him.
He crawled down to the windowsill where Gerald the Gecko was snapping at flies. Gerald followed Mickey’s gaze. ‘That mantis-lady’s a tough cookie, Mickey. You should steer clear of her.’
‘But she’s…’
‘She’s too old for you, Mickey.’
Charlie the Chameleon slowly made his way up the lavender bush, his colour changing from a dusty grey to jade green. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you two,’ Charlie said, rolling his eyes so that one fell on Marula and the other fixed on Mickey. ‘Don’t grow up too fast, Mickey, she’ll eat you for breakfast.’
Written in response to a prompt from Susan T. Braithwaite
Genre Scribes Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #31
The challenge this week was cookie.
Photo credit: Laurette van der Merwe
Author’s note: the female praying mantis doesn’t always eat her mate, although if he irritates her or she’s a bit peckish, she often will.
– Hey bro’ what’s up with you?
– There’s a loada trouble goin’ down in the faerie ’hood.
– Like what?
– The Myco Boys are musclin’ in on our territory. Bringin’ in a whole bunch of new ’stools and ’shrooms. Stuff that’ll make your head explode.
– So, what we gonna do about it?
– We’re goin’ on the offensive.
– Doin’ what?
– Look here bro’, I got the seeds of a brand new product. Popweed from the Wealdan Woods. This stuff’s goin’ to blow their minds. It’s super-fast growing too. By next month’s Faerie-Fest we’re gonna have the pretty-wing girls’n’boys eatin’ right outta our hands.
Written in response to Sadje’s What Do You See #14 photo prompt.
Photo credit: Flickr
People thronged around the marquee which had been erected on the tennis courts. Nobody knew why their little Lancashire village had been picked, but who’d question the Office of the US President?
The Women’s Institute had been tasked with preparing the celebratory supper. Mrs. Doubtworthy had suggested that they pop down to Asda for a brace of Hall’s haggises, but the other members of the WI were resolute. The haggis would be made from scratch.
Mr. Greenwood was ready with the requisite musical accompaniment. Everyone was familiar with his bagpiperly skills which he regularly practiced of a Saturday morning, when most civilized people were still abed.
At precisely 7pm, the motorcade swept into the village. Besuited security men shepherded their charge into the marquee, where the Mrs. Duckinworth, chair-lady of the Parish Council, bid him sit at the head of the table.
Mr. Greenwood’s pipes heralded the haggis which was laid before the President. Miss Lynch, the former language teacher, began the address.
The President prodded his haggis with a fork. ‘You Scottish people eat this stuff?’
Mrs. Duckinworth frowned. ‘Sir, we’re not Scottish. This is Lancashire.’
The President’s advisers muttered amongst themselves.
Mr Davies, the Geography teacher intervened. ‘Perhaps you’d intended to visit Lanarkshire?’
‘Whatever,’ growled the President. ‘I’m here now and I’m hungry.’ He stabbed a piece of haggis and thrust it into his mouth.
The room fell silent as he chewed.
‘Ugh! What is this?’ the President spluttered. ‘Forget my Scottish roots. Go get me a burger.’
Written in response to a prompt from Susan T. Braithwaite
Genre Scribes Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #30
The challenge this week was tennis.
Author’s note: I strayed far from the word prompt, not wanting to pass up the opportunity of writing about something so topical and so appropriate to Susan’s proud Scottish heritage. Burns Night, 25th January.
I give you the ‘Address to a Haggis’ by Robert Burns:
The recipe for Haggis the WI ladies used
Hall’s haggis from British Supermarket, Asda – no relation, by the way!
Sadly for you US and Canadian folks, haggis has been illegal in your countries since 1971.
I shall be popping into our local Spar for mine tomorrow.
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