Pure Insanity

It was all Alice’s fault, of course. If it hadn’t been for her, he would be back in his warm bed, head nestled slightly under the covers for warmth. That would have been his plan, but it hadn’t been up to him, not really.

I’m worried about our marriage, she’d said. I think we need to spend some time away together. It’ll help us.

He hadn’t been worried about anything until she’d pulled that one on him. What was he supposed to do, though, ignore her? Of course not, but he couldn’t afford a holiday, not after last Christmas.

Who goes camping in March, anyway? It was madness – pure insanity… then he remembered Alice’s face. I’m worried about our marriage, she’d said. Her eyes had been filling slightly with tears and her bottom lip had been quivering.

He sighed, and then continued to twist the tent peg into the ground.


Word Count: 150

This short piece of creative writing was written for the weekly prompt over at Ad Hoc Fiction. For this competition, you have only 150 words to tell a story that includes each week’s prompt word; this week, the word was “twist”! Thank you so much for reading.



The familiar, well-trodden path to the beach had become slick from the rain, and I slipped slightly as I descended, the icy wind knocking me back against the rocks. By the time I reached the stone-filled shore, my knees were bruised, and my ears and fingers were half-numb from the cold.IMG-2788.JPG

Any person with sense would have avoided the beach on such a day, but not me. I would make this journey in hail storms, amid thunder and lightning, and fog so thick I could hardly see my feet. It didn’t matter how treacherous the path, or how cold the wind; I would be here every single day, flowers in hand.

I closed my eyes, kneeling to feel the water before me. I let it flow softly through my fingers as I released my load, a tear rolling down my cheek.

“Hi mum,” I whispered.

Word Count: 145

Thank you for reading this piece of creative writing. It was written for the purposes of the flash fiction competition over at Ad Hoc Fiction, this week’s prompt word being “cold”. I hope you enjoyed it!

A Private Bay

This short story was written for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, which invites writers to interact with one another through weekly photo prompts. My word count for this piece is at 172. Enjoy!

The Storyteller's Abode

Credit: The Storyteller’s Abode

It’s not particularly unusual to catch the glimpse of a boat or two as they cruise past the bay. Yet this one, this sturdy little sailing boat, catches my eye. The bay isn’t far from the harbour so most boats that pass, power through the water towards it, their skippers barely sparing a glance for my private, little bay. This skipper, though, seems to stare right at me as he angles the boat towards the sand and docks right there, on the beach.

I rise to my feet, hesitating. I’m tempted to go down there and tell him about the harbour barely a mile off, but, for some reason, I can’t make myself do it. I can only watch him as he unloads his cargo, wondering what to do.

I’ve only just come to the conclusion that I should leave him to his work, when a sound makes me look round. The man is unloading bigger packages from the boat now – misshapen packages that wriggle about and scream whenever he kicks them.


Word Count: 172

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Spilling Over

Here’s another story for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt; each week, Rochelle Wisoff posts a photo, with the challenge of writing an associated story in 100 words or less. This is a very varied challenge that inspires authors to interact with each other, as much as it helps them to improve their writing. I hope you enjoy this story!

Credit: Kent Bonham

It was too soon; too sudden. I didn’t want to have to look at it. Yet, even as I decided that I wouldn’t, my eyes were opening all by themselves, sneaking a glance at the drive.

The car was remarkably unharmed; the windshield was gone, as was one of the doors, but, from the back, at least, the only damage to be seen had been committed by the gulls circling above.

I blinked hard, my emotions spilling over at last. How dare it come here, seemingly unharmed? I was screaming, beating my fists. I wanted it to feel my pain.

Click the blue froggy for more stories based on this prompt!


This short story was written for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, which invites writers to interact with one another through weekly photo prompts. My word count for this piece is at 175. Enjoy!

J. S. Brand.jpg

Credit: J. S. Brand

With each step I take, my feelings of unease seem to triple. I’ve walked this path a thousand times before, rushed through its thickets and meadows, but something’s different now. As I tread its familiar stones, my hairs stand on end and my hands grow pale and clammy.

It’s not the feeling of being watched – that’s an inaccurate clique – it’s the feeling of something being not quite right. The birds aren’t singing like they’re meant to, and the crickets and grasshoppers are strangely silent. It’s almost as if the animals have been hushed quiet by some silent, unknowable force.

I reach the top of the hill and look forward, heart racing. There’s something lying across my path, dark and unfamiliar. I want to run, but my legs no longer seem capable. Then, staring hard at the shadow, a jolt of realisation shoots through me. I didn’t recognise it at first because someone’s cut off its antlers, but, there it is. The king of the forest – a white stag – the bullet wound shining in its chest.

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Life Before Man #SoCS

Below is my first attempt at Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday, which, this week, asked me to write a story based only on the title of the book that I’m currently reading, which happens to be Margaret Atwood’s “Life Before Man”. I hope you enjoy my interpretation of this prompt!

I walk alone, a single silhouette against the dying light. My thoughts are fragmented – flawed – yet I fulfil my role. Today, my job has been completed, just as it has been for the hundred years proceeding it. I care for my garden, nurturing my friends and protecting them in our bubble of paradise. I do not complain; why would I complain? Our paradise is all we could ever need. We care for each other, growing and prospering together. I watch as the generations move on around me, my friends growing from children, to adults, and then withering away into nothing. They leave me with new friends and the cycle continues. A new friend is made, just as an old one dies. I am not sad; why would I be sad? I have everything I need.


Yet my thoughts are not complete; something is wrong with my mind – like a malfunction. When I think, I do not feel the emotion that I once did. I do not mourn my lost friends, and I do not rejoice when I meet new ones. My life has lost all meaning, and although I do not complain, and although I know that I am in paradise itself, there is something amiss. I function, but that is all. I cannot join in when my friends grow old and move on. I cannot join in when they start their own families. I am alone.

The crimson sunset causes me to squint as I walk, the colour transcending all beauty. Yet, still, I do not feel it. I cannot appreciate the beauty, because I am alone. I cannot share its wonder with anyone; I only watch, as the crimson darkens into a molten lava, scarring my eyelids as the sun disappears below the horizon. I blink, and it is gone. The beauty is so fleeting, much like the lives of my friends; whilst they walk this earth, they live so wonderfully, dancing in the light and celebrating in the evening. They are so glorious, but then I blink, and they are not there anymore. From the antelope to the fireflies, nothing lasts; nothing stays the same.


There is only me. I am the constant of this earth; the sole woman to watch over her children as they grow.

I do not complain, because I am in paradise, yet, as I think on it, I realise that I do feel, and that I have all this time, yet, before now, I have not recognised it for what it is, because it does not make sense here. I am surrounded by my friends, but, for as long as I can remember, one, single emotion has overpowered all others. I am alone, and I do not want to be. I do not like it. I cannot be alone anymore. I need a friend.


This is my second attempt at Sammi Cox’s weekly writing challenges! Each weekend, she posts both a word and a picture for writers to attempt either her prose or poetry prompt. This week, the word was “mimic” and the prose challenge was to tell a story in less than 50 words!

Credit: Sammi Cox

They dance and they play, rolling over one another as they rejoice in their freedom. I watch from below, my limbs heavy and eyes weary. How I wish I could mimic these clouds; how I wish that I, too, could be free, but I can’t. I’m trapped.