Thursday, 28 March 2013

A Policeman Calls
Image Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

A Policeman Calls

“Hello?... Ma’am?”
Smuts from the untrimmed lamps drifted upwards like dirty snowflakes, dancing briefly on the yellowed ceiling before falling onto the warped Formica work surface. None of the pots matched, the cups were chipped and faded, except a few old but pristine bone china relics in the glass cupboard - for visitors. The musty clutter in the kitchen had a stale sad smell, like the day before yesterday’s memories. Dated photos, in old but highly polished frames proudly displaying the laughing family, took pride of place beside the collapsed, sagging armchair. The old lady’s body lay next to it.

100 words

This story was written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers Challenge

Wednesday, 27 March 2013

What Lies Beneath

What Lies Beneath

“Control, This is Alpha One. Has the Strike Team responded?”


“Roger. The remotes we dropped below aren’t registering. We’re going in after them.”

“That’s not advised.”

“Raising the access panel..... Damn!”


“Control. The concrete panel has bizarre marks.”


“Wait one....Oh Jesus!”

“Steady Mister”

“Control... They’re teeth marks!.... What’s that?... “

“Alpha One?....”

55 words


This story was written for Lisa McCourt-Hollar's 55 Word Challenge and received an Honourable Mention from the judge

Tuesday, 26 March 2013



She knows the answer would be in his eyes.

Amid the frenzied rapture of the crowd’s roar, she harkens to the still small voice.

Incense and sweat clog her nostrils. The masses surge forward, eager, anticipating his passing; thrusting babies to the fore, baptising them in the waves of hysteria. They press against her, the impersonal contact of strangers, buffeting her, more urgent, rougher than the lover’s gentle embrace she would never know.

If it is him, she will save mankind.

She must look.

He is close. The red shoes stride up the aisle, the triregnum bobs. TV lights glint off the Fisherman’s ring as it dispenses blessings. She searches for certainty, but heavy lids guard his soul’s windows. Does dragon fire lie shrouded beneath those towering brows?

She calls to him.

He turns, smiling, his eyes widening.

She sees, and knows.

Calmly, serenely, she delivers her judgement.

Dei Gratia.

150 words


This story was written for Angela Goff's Visual Dare prompt 'Waiting'

Wednesday, 20 March 2013

Rare and Precious Things

Copyright - Lora Mitchell
Image by Lora Mitchell

Rare and Precious Things

I wiped the knife that had stabbed Julius Caesar meticulously on Sabre’s coat of human hair and stepped back to admire the view.

Despite months of scheming, manoeuvring and threats, and after bidding a sum of money even I regarded as obscene, I’d lost out.

Sabre had never taken my collecting seriously. He’d invited me here to gloat. His mistake.

I kicked out, cursing his cooling cadaver as it bruised my toe through the paper thin Italian leather loafers in which Berlusconi had been hanged.

I eased the last living lily on earth into Cleopatra’s asp box and left, smiling.

100 words


This story was written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers Challenge