Even the sea – Friday Fictioneers


There is no water left here.

Well, that’s not strictly true. There is the sea, but of course, it’s not drinkable.

The bottom of the reservoir is still shining with watery residue, but it’s more silt than anything else. A desperate few are laying rags down, hoping to soak up the final puddle, to squeeze a few cloudy drops into mugs for later.

Others are still hunting for fruit of any kind, hoping to find The One that is still succulent after all this time. But the entire world is brown.

Even the sea. Even the sea.

It’s been a very long time, and I’m trying to get back in the swing of things. What better way than to dive into the ocean of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the lovely Rochelle? Do give her weekly fun a try – be inspired by the image she posts eery week to write 100 (ish) words on whatever comes to mind.

As for me, I will take a good nosey around at the other entries over the next few days – I’m so looking forward to it!



The weather lingers in these parts. The mountains tower over our village as it hunkers down, clinging to the foothills. In autumn, when the air is dank and the sodden leaves lie on the ground like dead fish stranded after high tide, mists loiter below the craggy peaks. If you are a Rare One like me, you venture out from the safety of the low-slung houses and meandering lanes, and haul yourself up by your fingertips to the granite summits. You pierce the mists like a bodkin through hessian and it is as if you have ascended to the heavens. If you stay below, you remain buried in the bowels of the earth. All light is stolen, all is shadow. But it is all you know, and so you stay.

Then, there are the Nights of Anger. Most hide their heads, mouse-dormant, most warn their children not to venture outside. For the white-hot shards that splinter the sky, the roaring air that shakes the centre of the earth as if it is but a child’s plaything, they do not leave our small world willingly. They are trapped by those dark peaks raised heavenwards, pointing to other-worldly forms of justice – they are subjecting us to the timpani of the gods and hell’s illumination to teach us all an unknowable lesson.

Some elders claim that long ago, a heinous crime tore the guts from the village. Others believe that the storms are a warning of devilry to come. All agree that something is foul in this valley, and that the village is the rotting carcass. The air is rancid butter, cloying and oily. I alone have stood above the clouds as the air borne battle rages. I have tasted the electricity, have felt the roiling air pummel my flesh. I alone know the truth of this land, and it is in my gift to rip it asunder. Nature’s storm clouds have nothing on me. Nothing.

SoCS March 26/16 – real


‘The truth of the matter is that there is no one reality. We all see and remember events through the filter of our own perception’.

Callie remembered when she heard that bald statement as a rookie, a wet behind the ears, oh so very green new recruit at the Security Force training college. It was far too many years ago now to even want to remember how young she had been then, but it still resonated every time she sat down in the windowless room to scrutinise the latest batch of security footage.

Once upon a time, the films had been grainy and only rendered in colour if you were lucky, with no sound at all. Many places were blind spots, with no security cameras in evidence for vast swathes of the country. Now, highly detailed sound and vision was the order of the day, every street, every field, every mountain recorded for posterity. Yes, actual posterity. There was no escape. The media lauded the fact that this sceptred isle was by far the most surveilled place on earth, that no crime would ever go unpunished again, for even the sacred space of home was on the record. All citizens were safe. Apparently.

Callie sighed, rubbing her gritty eyes in frustration. This wasn’t what she had trained for. This didn’t fit her admittedly naive idea of truth and justice.

Yes, the cameras filmed everyone, everywhere. But perception, reason, justification, reality meant nothing to these digital, soulless entities. They couldn’t understand or interpret human emotion. A camera was judge, jury and executioner these days. So much for innocent until proven guilty.

She took a deep breath, and turned off the camera scrutinising her as she worked. She had 3 minutes to destroy the footage she was analysing. Enough was enough. Their reality was no longer hers.


Here’s this week’s entry into Stream of Consciousness Saturday! Those who know my writing, will understand that often as not, I like to head to the dark side. I think that this qualifies!

Please head on over to Linda’s blog to read all the delicious creativity that can be found there.

Thank you once again to Linda for creating this vibrant community!