A numismatic fledgling

Sometimes I find myself telling my son…

“Yes, there was actually a time before internet and 24/7 television, children were happy then too and spent time on things called hobbies.”

“Yes, I had hobbies. I collected stamps and coins.”

“No, it wouldn’t have been smarter to spend that money!”


In response to Frank’s Tuesday Photo Challenge – Nostalgia, I humbly present a part of my precious coin collection.

‘Threads in the Trunk’ Pop-up Vintage Market


There was a time when flash retailing implied illegal rip-offs or thrift sales, but not today.

There was a time when the very idea that a successful designer would meet her clients on a street corner would be considered preposterous, but not today.

Her generation was becoming obsolete, but ironically vintage clothes were so ‘in’.

A Three Line Tale inspired by a photo by Clem Onojehungo via Unsplash



Paralysing pain spreads through my body like icy, liquid metal, until my leaden legs barely move. Forcing one foot in front of the other, I fight the impulse to whirl around and sprint back, while a dagger twists deeper into my trembling heart. Leaving is killing me and if there was even an iota of hope that I could stay without bringing you harm, I would. I know that without your love I will cease to live. But it is for your safety that I must go.

My face smirks upward at the banner that mocks me. Laughter rises in my mouth like putrid bile. When that bus pulls away and this passenger goes, the economy may be happy, but my heart and my finances won’t only be broken, but shattered into fragments more numerous than the stars.

I draw my cap down lower and walk as inconspicuously as my unbalanced gait will permit, away from life, towards meaningless existence.

Witness protection might protect this witness’ body, but it cannot protect his soul.


Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers with photo prompt by Dawn Miller.

The long wait

They huddled together, stranded on rooftops due to the flash flood, the cold rain beating mercilessly down upon them, as hunger gnawed at their parched stomachs.

Suddenly a beam, the search light of the helicopters, and expectant arms reach up, seeking rescue, hoping at least for food.

Just the media, just vultures circling their prey!


In memory of the 500 plus people who lost their lives in the 2015 South Indian floods. A further 1.8 million plus were displaced. God be with them all.

Triggered by Sonya’s Three Line Tale challenge for a photo by Edwin Undrade via Unsplash

The reinvention of Sciville


It had taken five long years but the town of Sciville had finally opened its gates to the outside world, and as students of architecture we were more than eager to visit.

With its beautifully landscaped lush green lawns and space-age looking living spaces, it was as if the town had teleported itself into the future. Talk about extreme reinvention. Gone were the quaint cottages and the cheerful town square, in its stead stood perfect marvels of the fusion of art and technology.

“Is life pretty much back to normal?” we asked our gentle guide.

“Sort of,” she replied, “although we still have to spend at least 12 to 14 hours of each day indoors to purge ourselves of the toxins.”

The next question was awkward, but it was too obvious not to be asked. “Where are all the younger people? How come we can see only older people around?”

Her eyes took on a glazed look and I knew we had touched a raw nerve.

“We are the young people,” she said, “Didn’t you realise. This is what the bio-leak did. It aged everyone by decades. We are the young people. The elders didn’t make it.”


Written for Sunday Photo Fiction based on photo contributed by Sacha Darlington

Some kinda fishing

What is he planning to do out there?


What? There are no fish in such shallow waters, probably just some shells, crabs and a whole lotta crap. Seriously, what does he do?

He just sits out there holding his rod, with the waves occasionally lapping at his feet and the sound of the sea around him. Ever since he lost his vision, I don’t dare let him go out further. I guess he’s remembering all the summers he used to go out on his boat with his mates, the shared laughter and jokes. Sometimes I see him laughing. Sometimes he cries.

It’s not the fish that he’s after, it’s the memories.


Written for Friday Fictioneers based on photo prompt by Ted Strutz

I am

Some Devastations happen within…

I am my father’s cherished treasure
to him more precious than all other.

His heart it was not firing right
Serious matter that gave us a fright
So there we were in an alien city
in a pioneer hospital that was quite pretty
Tests tests tests galore
this rigmarole such a bore
When finally we were good to go
the administrator wanted to know
“Have you got with you anything valuable, sir?”
“Indeed,” said daddy, “my daughter here.”
They had a laugh, this joke the best.
But he and I knew, he meant no jest.

I am my father’s cherished treasure
to him more precious than all other.

The clock keeps ticking, we all get old
Another hospital sterile and cold
This time the tides against me flow
I know I must let daddy go.
Drowning out the repertoire
I will now sign the DNR.
The doctor frowns, the doctor asks
“Is there no other, a man perhaps?
Is there no son? Is there no brother?”
I stand before him tears held back tight
ripping my heart out to do what’s right
as he lashes me with his ignorance
This seemingly educated who has no sense.

I look at my daddy lying there
If you could speak they would not dare
Humiliate your only heir
All he sees is a woman standing
A projection of his own shortcoming
Knows not what a fool he’s being
But it’s ok daddy, the fools I can endure
Your love has made me most secure.
He may not, but I know for sure

I am my father’s cherished treasure
to him more precious than all other.



I miss the girl who found everything funny, who would squeal with delight, giggle at her own imagination, and burst out laughing, raining spittle and joy, and not be able to stop even when tears streamed down her face and snot gushed out of her nose.

I miss the girl who charged down the road and into a neighbour’s house because they had a cool swing or because the dandelions danced real pretty there, without ever having noticed the fence or the sign that says keep out.

I miss the girl who played hopscotch with stolen chalk and the sun beating down, oblivious of dust or decorum and impervious to tans, who didn’t care for time until her tummy started rumbling.

I miss the girl who splashed in the puddles, played ball with dirt, let the wind ruffle her tresses and sometimes screw up her face and stomped her feet even though tantrums don’t look pretty.

I miss the girl who never needed to read the signs, who gave hugs with abandon, who spontaneously professed love and who believed without a doubt that the prince and princess lived happily ever after.

I miss the girl who when given a choice between a gold coin and a kitten, chose the silly scruffy cat every single time.

I miss the girl who was me.

Image downloaded from pininterest.
An illustration by William Papas for a most charming book titled ‘Mr God This Is Anna’ by Fynn