#writespiration: Defeat

It’s a while since I’ve even seen Sacha’s #writespiration post. Love the photo. Here’s the story of what happened next in 52 words.


The drummer boy picked himself up and stumbled for the shore. A storm was brewing, but he still hoped the ships would be back for the remnants of the army. As he watched, the silence was broken by a sharp cry. He turned. The flash of the report exploded the bright moonlight.

Microfiction #Writespiration: Treasure

This is for Sacha Black’s writespiration challenge—52 words on the subject of: The secret you just discovered.


The letter slipped out of the book like a dry leaf veined with spidery writing of a bygone age. It was like unfolding a map to hidden treasure,

Forgive me, Gran,

treasure I was not intended to find.

Grandad. Written from his new life—the address obliterated by slashes of angry ink.



Microfiction #writespiration: All gone

Sacha wants us to explain, in 52 words, why this room is empty. I don’t think it is. Not quite.


He said he was leaving despite the dreams we shared, the home we had started to build, the family we planned. Didn’t think he could live with my ‘mood swings’. So I unleashed my anger, filling the apartment with fury and hatred and destruction—dreams obliterated. He won’t be leaving after all.

microfiction #writespiration: It stared at me…

For Sacha Black’s writespiration prompt, a 52 word story continuing from the intro words in bold.


It stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes through the gap between two planks of decking. We’d only been in the new house a week and already it was giving me the willies.

“I don’t know what it is, Jeff, just bring the crowbar, quick.”

The decking was old. The planks lifted easily.

“Oh my God!”

A room of one’s own

This, in 52 words is a description for Sacha Black of my ideal work place. With requested pics. In between the pics is a 52 word poem, added this minute as an afterthought. Two for the price of one.

I need a chair and a table and a laptop and an armchair for a dog and a window for light and a radiator for when it’s cold.

Birdsong beyond the window is nice and trees bending in the wind and at night a host of stars.

The last things aren’t necessary.

Room with laptop


There’s a dog in the chair by the window,

And a cat on the sill in the sun,

There’s a rose on the terrace in full bloom,

And the breeze sighs that summer’s begun.


All I need is enclosed in this still space,

My silence within makes it my place.


That’s all.


Room with dog


This is for Sacha Black’s 52 word story challenge. The theme this week is “choke”.

The photo ©Danielclauzier was taken in Agen, the nearest big town to where we’re going to live. Is that coincidence? I don’t think so.


There was a rose once,

beside the door,

a rose of welcome, they said,

pink and fragrant.

When you left

I watched the bindweed creep

over all we had planted.

White and virginal and so tough

it crept and climbed and tangled

through the rose,

so pink and fragrant,

and choked it.

Microfiction: Catering for all sorts

A bit of fun for Sacha Black’s 52 word story. This week the 52 words must include:

stack, juice, pigeon, time

It was time to make the pigeon juice and stack the crow nuggets in the back of the van with the stuffed sea gulls. The buffet was due to begin at noon, and I had at least an hour’s drive ahead of me. These themed lunch parties were getting weirder and weirder.

Microfction: 100

For Sacha Black’s writing prompt—52 words exactly on the theme, 100.


I wait to hear the door close, the sound of footsteps outside, moving away purposefully. Always the same, no matter what the situation. Not one to hesitate or change your mind. Ringing loud at first, they fade. I count slowly. When I reach a hundred I will stop. Then I will cry.





Lost things

For Sacha Black’s challenge to write about Lost Things using exactly 52 words.


All that slips behind

separated by a night,

time, words, loves,

the quality of the clouds,

is gone,

forever unattainable,

and pours over the edge of the world

in a flood of memory, fiery red,

cool blue and mysterious green,

gold as sunbeams on summer grass,

silver as fish scales in moonlight.


Microfiction: The last trump

For Sacha Black’s themed 52 word challenge, the only trump I care to think about. And it worked out at 52 words exactly with no editing.


Nellie had packed her trunk and turned her back on the circus. At last she was free. She trundled down the leafy lane with a song in her heart that exploded in a wild trumpety trump, trump, trump…

From the picnic site goggle-eyed children surged. “Look! The runaway elephant!”

Nellie was buggered.