The Sins – Five Sentence Fiction


“You’re just like your mother.”

My skin burned, with fear, with anger, but most of all, with the shard of white-hot hurt that found its target like an arrow, straight and true.

The one thing I never wanted to hear had come to pass; I had given this worry all of my attention and like a perverse lighthouse, I had shown the words the way, straight to my heart.

It didn’t help that it was intended as a compliment, the ultimate accolade; it just highlighted the fact that she had fooled yet another person, yet one more time.

I stroke my belly, picturing the small one growing within me; I will do everything in my power to be nothing like her, and if I just focus on that, it will all be OK – won’t it?


Here is my latest entry into the lovely Lillie’s Five Sentence Fiction, where she has provided this photo for our inspiration. Please take note, this really is fiction! I didn’t have a horrific childhood, thank goodness.

Please do visit here to read the entries from other writers who love to keep it short too.

Past Tense – Picture It & Write


‘Actions speak louder than words’. That’s what me dear old mum used to say, bless her. Everyone thought she was a right walk-over, letting people say one thing, and do another.

She wasn’t though. She’d sit back, let ’em all blather on about this thing and that thing, how they were gonna do this or that for her, and then just see if they made good on their words. And then she’d make her mind up. If you were a goodun, she’d be your friend for life. If your promises turned out to be no more than Scotch mist, you wouldn’t see her for dust.

Take me dad. Full of bluster, the big I Am, he was. Dropping promises like pennies, but they never amounted to much. She kicked him out in the end. And good on her, I say.

Pity I’m more like him than her, between you and me. Another thing she would say was ‘an apple never falls for from the tree’. Reckon his trees were bigger and stronger than hers, ‘cos I just can’t help meself. I mean well, honest I do, but you know how it is. Dontcha?

Take the drink. It’s got a right hold on me, it has. Can’t seem to shake it off. I promised over and over I’d give it a rest, walk past the pub rather than just drop in for a quick half on the way home. It never is a quick half, know what I mean?

What’s that? Me mum? God no, she ain’t dead. Alive and kicking she is. I see her in the street every now and again but she ain’t in my life any more, so it’s past tense all the way with me. It’s easier that way.

She cuts me dead, if you like.

I may as well be.

Fancy another one for the road, love?


Here’s my latest offering for Picture It & Write. Please take a look at Ermilia’s blog and why not take part in Picture It & Write yourself? She posts a new image for inspiration every Sunday.


The Feasting – Magpie Tales

image 101

He stalked the land.

Times such as these were glorious for him. Borders meant nothing, language was no barrier, he fed where he saw fit, feasting on awkward limbs of souls reduced to a parody of their former spirit.

He rejoiced in the ease of it all, striding along the metal tracks that had been so kindly, so helpfully laid out for him. A ragged column of smoke and cinders rising high towards the clouds, a solid brick archway, wrought iron gates and the legend ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ told him that he had arrived at his dining place once more.

His only regret, if it could be called that, was that his earth-bound compatriots were so very efficient at their own method of destruction. It robbed him of even more gluttony, if truth be told. Still, one had to be satisfied with what one received.

And anyway, time was on his side. He could wait for them to destroy themselves with their own greed.

It had happened before, aeons ago. It would happen again.

Hoist by their own petard.

History repeating itself.

His lips salivated at the thought.


Here’s this week’s entry into Magpie Tales. Yes, it’s morbid, I know. If you’re a long-time reader (thank you!) of mine, you’ll not be surprised. By way of background, I am Jewish, and the train tracks that lead into Auschwitz sprung to mind as soon as I saw the image above, hauntingly irresistible. Industrialised death is, unfortunately, no longer a shock to us, although it should be.

Please visit here for more creativity, and why not take part, if you feel the urge!