The Car Wash

The car is pretty clean as cars go. Except for some sauce on the back seat. I’m not sure why crazy Mr. Robinson was making such a big deal. ‘Everything. Don’t be slacking off at the crevices. I want it cleaned and disinfected. Wash the mats, the boot. Do you know how to lift the seats? Good, below the seats too. And oil the doors.

I have allergies,’ he had splutters when I’d stare at him confounded. ‘You disinfect everything. I’ll be paying you four times as much,’ he’d a added on, for possibly the fourth time.

Rumor was that Mrs. Robinson had left him. Perhaps that was making him loco. What do I care? Four times was good.

It was only when I was going to oil the door that things got a bit mucky, with hair and sticky stuff on the hinge. Hey! Wasn’t Mrs. Robinson a red head too?


Written in response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 30 November 2018.

What if?

What if I hurt you again?

I don’t want to. But what if?

You ask me to go with the flow. I’m scared. When ever I’ve gone with the flow, I’ve been met by a dam. Family, practicality, sentiment, you can call the dam anything you like, but it looms ahead, imposing, seemingly unsurmountable.

Thirty years and a marriage should have been enough to forget you. I thought I had. But you lingered in my subconscious, just out of reach, alive, pulsing, waiting for the tiniest of sparks to ignite.

Now the coals are simmering. Your every glance its fuel. Soon the embers will rise, the fire will seek, and the world as I know it will be set ablaze.

If I go with the flow, I may burst the dam.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 23 Nov 2018, based on a photo by Dale Rogerson.

The Lady Under The Bridge

You can’t tell from the clothes whose inside until they look up, but there is just something about the way she’s fussing with the pleats of her skirt that makes me pause.

Paper frail hands unwrap a headscarf, which is then neatly folded and placed atop a clean stone. She’s a lady.

Steel blue eyes meet mine. I’ve been staring too long.

We smile.

Ever so tantalizingly she tugs up the skirt, as knees move apart.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. The all too familiar twitching has started.

On another day perhaps; today she’s not selling what I’m looking for.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 16 Nov 2018, based on a photo prompt by, voila, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Retail Therapy

“The French Riviera is so beautiful. Be safe. Love u.” – mum

If looks could kill, Pia would have scorched the damn phone.

Be safe – Really!
If she actually cared she wouldn’t have dumped her off at her father’s place, knowing well that the man was never home. That was the reason for their divorce, wasn’t it!
But no. Now his workaholism is ok, cause it keeps the alimony rolling in.

There was nothing that she wanted from Guess or Boss or even damn Louis Vuitton. But she sure could max out the credit cards she had flicked from her father’s wallet.
Maybe that would get his attention.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 19 October, based on a photo prompt by Jilly Funell


Brick by brick he boxes himself in.

There is a hammer in my hand and I’m tempted to strike at those walls, but experience has taught me a lot. Hammers reinforce. For every strike, he builds up another layer.

I must be like flowing water. Calm, soothing, undemanding, persistent; wearing the walls down so gradually that even the brick doesn’t know.

His counselor and I have managed to open a few windows. The playful light beams dance about keeping him from plunging into the total dark.

But there are other hammers. Hammers that I neither wield nor control. My eyes do not hold enough water to sooth their blows away.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 12 October 2018, based on a photo prompt contributed by her.


I watch him watch me from the corner of my eyes.
He thinks I don’t see the subtle shake of his head, the disappointment in his eyes.

She’s cleaning those shells again,’ he whispers. Probably complaining to Dr. D!
Bless the good doctor. If it wasn’t for her, they would have tried to take these away too. She’s good people. She understands a mother’s responsibilities. When Annie comes back, she’s going to ask for her shells. They may say that she’s never coming back. But I know better. She never goes anywhere without her shells.

Oh Lordy, I missed a spot.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneer’s challenge based on a photo prompt submitted by Sandra Crook

La ville colorée

I stare at the map in my hand.

Photo Prompt © Dale Rogerson

This was the address.

After the miles of wilderness, I had driven through to get here, this entire town was a riot of colours. I could just as well have been in Legoland. All the houses were either Brick Red or Royal Blue or Crimson Yellow. The doors were decorated with ornaments and string lights.

I reach the fountain with its beautiful translucent corals and turn right. Even this narrow alley has colourful umbrellas flying above, as if the starless sky was much too bland.

Photo Prompt © Bikurgurl

I look around, wondering if I was on the set of some film, seeking out the hidden cameras. All I see are the pedestrians walking in pairs, always in pairs…

So I am cheating a little here, combining two prompts.
The first is
Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers prompt of 21 September 2018 based on a picture by Dale Rogerson, and the other, Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 89 prompt based on her picture taken at the Seattle Aquarium.

The unfortunate wait of Mr. Chron

JHC Clock

Mr. Chron’s mind travelled to the past, to when he was a gentleman of importance. When he stepped into the room, his arrival was marked by pomp and created quite a ripple. At Mr. Chron’s word, eager mothers would hush their little ones, while the gentlemen would set down their tea and get to pursuits of more imperative nature.

With automation, his role became more ceremonial. Yet heads turned, eyes shone, and little ones clapped in greeting.

Now, he’s just window dressing. He’s been staring at the room in silence, waiting for someone to wonder why he won’t retire to his chambers any more.

Its been a rather long wait.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 14 September 2018, based on a photo contributed by J Hardy Carroll.

The Mirror

I sit here, before it, wondering…

At first I thought it might be dirty. That could not be. That should not be. I clean every square inch of this house myself. An immaculate home and hearth are a woman’s pride.

I did not see it in the morning, but I dared not dwell. There were meals to be cooked, boys to be dressed, school runs to be made…

If I had the time to comb my hair then perhaps I might have wondered earlier, but who has time for vanity. Like he says, I’m just a store keeper, not the window dressing.

And now that the day is done I sit here wondering…

Why can I not see my reflection in the mirror? Has the light faded, or have I ceased to exist?

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge based on a photo prompt by Nathan Sowers

Sitting on Rooftops

I climbed onto my rooftop expecting to escape the crazy drama at home. I never expected you.

At first it was creepy, someone staring at me. Then it got annoying. Whatever made you think that I was going to jump, and even if I were, did you really think that some total stranger waving about wildly two streets over, could talk me out of it? But your attempt at sign language, and your face morphing through those million different expressions, that was really amusing.

Now I look forwards to our game of charades everyday.

Sitting on the roof, sharing silence and the occasional nod with my nameless companion, has become the most relaxing part of my day.

Thank you my friend.

In response to the Friday Fictioneers challenge of 20 July 2018, based on a photo by Dale Rogerson