Its feathered tentacles invaded his lungs.





On day four of this course I penned a tale of loss, which was the first instalment in a series of posts. In today’s second part, I have scribbled a tale of something found…



The stinging winced across Laura’s ankle every time she made contact with the concrete. The sapphire velvet chafed incessantly against skin that was now blushed pink, as pin pricks of rose red began assembling at the surface, ready to spill. A paper thin layer of skin cells started to get up and leave their quarters on the inside arch, exasperated at being continually hassled, they escaped in mounds, leaving droplets of red behind.

After untold strides, Laura liberated her feet from their evening of incarceration. Inside, the rich velvety fibres were seeped in scarlet, a prophecy to every foot that ever dared venture inside again.

When the world tells you there is no way back at six years old you believe it.



Today’s task is one of perspectives… “A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene from three different points of view.”

I’ve answered this with three separate stories of flash fiction, which also sit together as a whole…



His hand shuddered upon her touch.

Seeing red was his daily hell.

For the last time, she knitted.

Flash Fiction Friday. Tress.


Her blonde burned until it bled.

Flash Fiction Friday. Watery.


All malevolence vanished with every droplet.

Flash Fiction Friday. Unable to Find.


In losing himself, unabating angst ensued.

Flash Fiction Friday. In Deep.


His head bobbed… and vanished, rippling.

Flash Fiction Friday. Rendezvous.


The usual place. He lingered, hoping.

Flash Fiction Friday. Only the brave.


Her hand hovered. Did she dare?

Flash Fiction Friday. Florally Dead.


The flowers weren’t all that faded.