The Longest Journey

The old soldier sat up a little from his bench at the very end of the station, his weary eyes suddenly alert.

Nobody had taken much notice of him as they hurried up and down the platform’s edge, piling into their trains or else scurrying away down the stone steps. He was just another commuter – another lost soul on his way to another land.

Except that he wasn’t.

The old war soldier had only one destination, and it couldn’t be reached through train doors or down stone steps.

The station before him was now empty and, according to the voice booming out of the speakers overhead, the last train was due.

He sighed, pulling up his jeans as he wandered towards the platform edge. It had been a long time coming but, finally, his train had arrived.

He was smiling as he jumped in front of the fast-moving vehicle.

Word Count: 149

I wrote this piece of flash fiction for the prompt challenge over at Ad Hoc Fiction. If you liked this piece, and you have the time, you can vote for this entry simply by following the link to Ad Hoc Fiction, and clicking ‘read more’ until you reach the piece called “The Longest Journey”! As always, thanks for reading!


The Joy of the Game

Entombed in self-pity:
A sentiment of war
For no holy city,
Where duelling sides abhor
The white flag that they tore.

They’re fighting the system,
They’re fighting each other
And no one can miss them
When brother beats brother
Against one another.

Martyrs of history:
Tumbling for a name,
Falling for a mystery,
And yet no one’s to blame
But the joy of the game.

I don’t know why, but I’ve felt the strangest need to write poetry over the last few days, so here’s another one. Please do interpret it as you like, but, when I was writing it, I was thinking about how we complain all too often about things that are, when it comes down to it, meaningless. It just seems to me that the reason for fighting is quite often for the fight, itself… as if we enjoy being unhappy.

Please do leave me a comment; I would love to know what you think!

An Empty Bed

Heavy heartbeats
Inside my chest;
Across the sheets:
A living unrest
(I do detest).

And gasping sighs
Slip from my heart:
Endless goodbyes
That will never start
(Not on your part).

And fingertips
Wanting to feel,
Wanting those lips,
Wanting their steel
(You always conceal).

And an aching head
That can’t accept
This empty bed:
a cot unslept.
(And then I wept).


This little poem was written for the purposes of the prompt competition over at Creative Writing Ink, inspired by the above photo. Thank you for reading and please do leave a comment below – it’ll make my day!

Pryon #7 – Aftermath

This short story is part of a series of blog posts that I have been writing. To read part one of “Pryon”, please click here. Thanks for reading!

The fire reached Linyeve’s right hand first; she had left it jutting out in front of her as she had stood staring into the fire, and, as the flames begin to shoot up her arm, she was overwhelmed by a pain, the like of which she had never imagined. She stumbled backwards, a white-hot pain taking over all sense and reason, and collapsed onto the grass beside Kanalin.

10254173_215179525358930_210237196_nShe could hear Jakob crying from somewhere behind her, and felt her own screams join with his. Hot tears were streaming down her face, and as she glanced down her arm, she caught a glimpse of the blackened stub that had once been her right hand.

As each moment passed, she waited for the flames to consume them all, but the seconds ticked by and the shouts from the village died down. After a while, she chanced a glance back towards the houses, and then let out a staggered sigh of relief.

Just as when the flames had engulfed Little Bringleton, they had formed a dome around the village, and as Linyeve had stumbled backwards, she had passed out of their perimeters. They were safe.

She looked around and saw Jakob on his knees beside her, bawling his little eyes out. On her other side, Kanalin was lying perfectly unscathed. She took a few, deep breaths, steadying herself.

11232840_908935515839392_633609476_n“Kyla was at home,” sobbed Jakob, but Linyeve didn’t know how to respond. She had instinctively rubbed her blackened arm on the grass, hoping that the beginnings of morning dew would relieve her pain a little, but that had only seemed to intensify it.

The injury itself wasn’t as bad as she had first thought; her entire hand had not been burned away, but she had lost two fingers and her palm was shrivelled and peeling, a deep reddish liquid underpinning the black mesh of ash and dirt that coated her skin. It was a horrific sight, though, and Linyeve felt a small amount of vomit rising up in her chest as she looked away from the hand.

“Wha-what happened?” Kanalin had woken up.

The fury that Linyeve had suppressed as she had dragged her from the village returned as their eyes met. She watched coolly as Kanalin’s eyes found the ruin that had once been Wrenstead, and fought back her pity as she watched tears form in the young woman’s lined eyes. She stared mutely at the flames for a few seconds, and then whirled around, eyes wide. She saw Jakob and reached instinctively for him, whilst she continued to scan the area. Then she turned to Linyeve, angry.

“Where is my daughter? Where is Kyla?”

“She didn’t make it,” Linyeve said bluntly. She would feel sympathy for the woman, but she was too tired, and too angry, to let the emotion in. She knew Kanalin had only been trying to protect her children, but Linyeve had had enough. She wanted answers and, this time, she was going to get them.

Thanks for reading! You can follow this blog or subscribe by email to keep up to date with the story – just visit the links on the sidebar of my homepage!

Click here to read the next part of “Pryon”!

Spring Breeze

I’ll be right there, I’d said. Just a minute; I’ll be there in a minute.

That had been a minute too long, though, because then I’d turned around, and Danny wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t there, down the street, or anywhere. Not dead – I know he’s not dead – just gone.

I’ll be right there, sweetheart.

His scooter lay abandoned against the park gates, a wheel slowly turning, and I still clutched his little, knitted gloves in my hand.

Not dead. I know you’re not dead.

IMG_2486.JPGYou expect the world to stop; you expect everything to just pause, but it doesn’t. Nothing gets any easier, but it doesn’t stop, either, and, ten years on, I’m still here.

I’ll be right there.

There’s a Spring breeze behind me. Spring – a new start. I close my eyes, clutching those little, knitted gloves to my chest, and I jump.

I’m coming, sweetheart. I’m coming.

Word Count: 150

I hope you enjoyed this piece of creative writing that was inspired by the competition over at Ad Hoc Fiction. This is a weekly-run prompt that requires only 150 words and the inclusion of each week’s prompt word, which, this week, was “spring”.

Thanks for reading, and please feel free to comment below!


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!

Storm Clouds

Here’s my take on this week’s photo prompt challenge from Creative Writing Ink. Today, I had another go at a poem, whilst trying to be pretty experimental with its form. Thank you for reading and enjoy.

Ian Espinosa

Credit: Ian Espinosa

When storm clouds hide a gentle drip-
Drop of the most distant water-
Fall, and the raven silk of dark
Nights lets loose that rushing tidal-
Wave, the sweet lamb kneels at water’s
Edge, her head bent low, fists unclenched,
As charcoal rains from fingers drenched.

The darkest sighs met that sweet good-
Bye, stains of guilt a heavy hind-
Sight, as sweet lambs rock on icy
Paths, and streams run from that backward
Glance. She ducks her head as the rain-
Fall joins with those glassy tears:
The one price for her greatest fears.