And The Winner Is…

I don’t do many competitions. It’s something to do with confidence and chutzpah and ego (a lack of the former and an instinct that tells me not to pander to the two latter imposters) but Dan Alatorre’s Word Weaver contest tickled something that an idea led to an entry led to a critique by Dan led to a re-submission led to…

Well, see for yourself. This is an unusual length for me – 3000 words – and a subject matter – scary, horror, thriller – that doesn’t normally trigger those grey cells.

And blimey, blow me over with a feather, clever trevor, I went and blew the bloody doors off…

I won. How good are those four letters? My new favourite ‘four letters in a  blog post’ category for an Oscar or Frederick or whatever.

I get prizes, too, which tickles my inner geek. I can boast and brag. Quite a few people entered and this wasn’t judged by Dog, so ‘award winning’ has some cachet.

I’m chuffed. If you do have time to read it, then let me know what you think (praise is good, natch).

ok, so I’m at a wedding and the packets of crisps are an in-joke but, hey, the textiliste and I know how to party, believe me and that smile could easily be for this little win….

via The FIRST PLACE WINNER in the March 2018 Word Weaver Writing Contest: Geoff Le Pard, “What If?”

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Is It Art? #carrotranch #flashfiction

This week’s prompt from Charli Mills is watery…

April 19, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about forest bathing. You can use the Japanese term, Shinrin Yoku, or you can make up your own ideas about the phrase. Go where the prompt leads.

‘Isn’t it a bit, you know, lewd?’

‘Lewd? How can one of the greatest paintings of the 18th century be lewd?’

‘A pre-pubescent girl, naked, bathing. Clearly surprised by the watcher…’

‘She’s a nymph…’

‘He’s a creep…’

‘It’s art…’

‘It’s paedo-porn…’

‘It’s in the National Gallery…’

‘It’s in-a-bloody-propiate…’

‘You can’t apply 21st century standards to 18th century art…’

‘Really? So if it’s categorised as ‘art’, whatever it is, it’s ok?’

‘No, but we mustn’t sanitise our cultural journey…’

‘Cultural journey?’

‘You know… art is a metaphor for social memes…’

‘You’re so full of shit…’

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Cruelty Dressed Up As Kindness #microcosms #flashfiction

Cruelty Dressed Up As Kindness

Not many opportunities to race, on the Front. The mud, the lack of a car. Not much enthusiasm either. But that’s what they wanted to talk about, racing. Brooklands, the championship decider. Their eyes,  I remember their eyes. Alive, there, living that moment when the flag dropped.

‘Lieutenant, we’ll let you know. Hope you get another chance.’ General Mathers smiled.

It took me a moment to understand he was talking about racing, not the transfer. Another chance. Didn’t he realise this transfer, joining the Royal Flying Corps, was that other chance. A reinvention?

Odd, isn’t it, how the mundanity of one life is the stuff of dreams for another. Racing was fine if you could be competitive but those last two years were gnawingly frustrating. 

‘Why do you want to fly?’

It felt like a trick. To get away, to breathe, to be on my own. I suppose that’s why they asked about the British Championship, the Monte Carlo Endurance. To be in that car, at that moment. To rely only on myself and my machine.

This bloody war is dehumanising but you know what? It’s the inability to be alone that we’ve lost. Crammed together, holding on to whatever space we can. We can no longer be ourselves. We are the machine now. 

‘To do my bit, sir. To use the skills I have, for the benefit of the Country.’

Did they realise it was my desertion they’d been asked to decide? My way out.

Mathers turned back, just then. ‘Brave, you know.’


‘Flying. Out here. But you chaps. Do you understand the risk?’

I watched him go, leaning into the track’s banking, imagining a reality that didn’t exist. Would he give me what I craved or was he cruel enough to save me from myself?’

This week’s microcosms prompts are Racing driver, WW1 France, Memoir

Posted in miscellany | 7 Comments

The Fatburg Busters #writephoto

Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt this week is

‘You think he’s happy?’

‘Course. It’s damn near perfect. From sclerotic to euphoric in a morning..’

You don’t think he’ll see the nick?’

‘Nah. He said he’s  got to do the capillaries too. Take him all day.’

‘Really? Where’s Jim? I thought he was on capillaries.’

‘Had a fall. Inspecting that clogged aorta last Thursday. Bloody thing blew, just as he was tweaking the valve. Send him cartwheeling. He should never have been there. Some admin mix up with the cholesterol crew. 


‘More like Diastolic. Come on, let’s get a cuppa and see where we go next.’

‘Oh sorry, forgot to stay. We’re to unblock his lower intestine. Seems he’s been on the eggs again.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘No, look. Here’s the worksheet.’

‘Sod that. Wait a mo…’

‘What are you doing? That’s the nick. If you…’

‘I know. It’ll bled. And when that happens…’

‘We have to run…’

‘True. But we also don’t have to spend the next four hours on constipation duty… first things first though.. when I get this plaster off…’



Posted in #timespast, flash fiction, miscellany | Tagged , | 16 Comments

A Peace Of Advice #poems #poetry

Sometimes poetry comes in the form of good advice, and you wonder where from…

Never pick your nose in public

Or roll it in a ball

And if you must pee outdoors,

Just not against the wall.

Your zits are not for squeezing

In any public place

And if you have the urge to cough

Just not in someone’s face.

Ear wax is not a toffee-sub

However it might seem

And if you need to let off a fart,

Just not at tea with the Queen.

When the idea of some alfresco sex

Takes hold of your befuddled noggin,

By all means treat your good selves

Just don’t indulge in dogging…

Posted in miscellany, poems, poetry | Tagged , , | 23 Comments

Molluscs Frolicks #poem #poetry


The constanza is a poem with a rhyming scheme of ABB, ACC, ADD etc. This poem describes a trial that sums up my world outdoors …

If at any point my life seems drab and stale
My head begins to ache, my heart to harden
I open up my backdoor and go into my garden.

My gaze casts wide and never seems to fail
To find some joy and hopefulness
Amongst the verdant fruitfulness

But then alas, I spot the glitch, the little silver trail
Whose pretty zigzag wanderings
Will start some morbid ponderings

Could it be the bugger’s back? It’s beyond the pale
When you’ve spent so long in eradication
To see that shell is pure vexation

A battle won is not the war, o stubborn little snail
Beating you is a complete lost cause
I’m giving up; I’m off indoors.

Posted in miscellany, poems, poetry | Tagged , | 15 Comments

Taking The Positives #gardening #shortstory

A glorious day, one for exploring the garden.

Spring is with us and temperatures will be up into the 20s centigrade this week.

Yet we still have standing water in the paths at the far end of the garden.

Next week the bottom lawn will be dry enough to cut; that or we designate it Dog’s Meadow and give up.   

While you contemplate these pictures, I offer you a little light gardening horror to contemplate….

For two years, dad toiled to have the garden perfect for Daisy’s wedding.

He spared no expense, no effort for her big day.

She knew what it meant; she couldn’t disappoint him, even after each revelation: Craig’s cheating, the two exes and four children.

The lying was inexorable. She’d go through with it.

Daisy held the knife against the cake and waited for Craig’s hand to relax.

Her first blow severed an artery but she didn’t stop.

As she waited to be led away Daisy noted her father collecting Craig’s gore.

‘What’s that for, dad?’

‘Shame to waste it, don’t you think?

All those nutriments

Meanwhile, I need to get back to writing…

Posted in flash fiction, gardening, gardens, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 31 Comments