A Bike Called Betsy

Copyright -Anelephantcant


I had a bike called Betsy when I was about six. Grandpa gave it to me about two years before he died. He never managed to teach me, so I taught myself; my knees and elbows were a mess for a while.  Once I learnt though, I used to ride all the time, and when no one was looking I even used to ride with my eyes closed, pretending I was flying. I was just returning from a ride when I found my mother in the tub.  After that, I never touched a bike again.

For Friday Fictioneers.  Hi all! I found it a bit hard to feel inspired this week, I must admit. But no matter, I came up with something in the end.

Thanks for reading.


Satanist for a Day


Copyright – Randy Mazie

When Boo decided to become a Satanist, Randy tagged along.  They bought themselves leather jackets and dog collars and prepared for the ritual. They had watched enough television to know how that went.

Full moon saw both youngsters at the cemetery dragging a bleating Sandy behind.  They found a marble tomb and took out the knife.  Then sat and stared at the goat.

‘I can’t do it, Boo! Me Pah’ll kill me!’

‘Grow some balls!’

‘Boo, I can’t!’

Boo gave out a grunt and snatched the knife, hiding his trembling fingers.

A twig snapped.

The young men were back at the barn faster than Sandy could bleat a reminder that she was still attached to the tree.

When I saw this picture on Friday Fictioneers, I went, ‘Oh shit! How can I explain this one away!’ Then I thought and thought, and an idea did come to me, but I must confess, I couldn’t keep to the hundred word deadline this week; which is a pity because I’ve missed quite a few challenges in the past weeks! If you can offer any suggestions they are very welcome and I’ll edit as the comments come in 🙂

The Trigger

It is a crude drawing, done in orange crayon – the kind with the tick tip and pasty wax that seeps into your fingers and leaves them sticky until someone comes along and stretches your hand into the basin to wash it all off.  The figures are clear; two adults and a child.  Not a family though, not even resembling one.

I remember drawing that picture.  I was four, sitting on a low red plastic chair.  Miss Jane was hustling like a nesting hen, yammering that we were going to be late for the Christmas play rehearsal.  It wasn’t the nativity that year, for a change.  I was to play a tree; I can’t remember what the rest of the act was about.

All the other children gathered their things, but I lingered on my picture.  There is an orange uneven line still, to the side of the left figure where Sammy, that little busybody, tore the paper away from me; ‘Miss Jane told us to stop drawing!’ Her piping voice still rings in my ear, as clear as the image of that pig-like nose she had.  I hated that girl!  I remember the fury that twisted my stomach into tiny moth balls when I saw my masterpiece ruined, and I remember the feel of the moist pig-like nose flattening against my fist.

‘That’s it!’ Miss Jane had screamed in my face, but then she paused when she saw the orange figures on the white page and her face changed.

It was all headmasters and social workers and foster parents after that.  They tried to help, of course, but I didn’t want them to, not for a very long time.  For years I didn’t even know what had started all the meddling and I resented it, all of it; we were happy, I thought, and they should have left us be.  Only now I remember why it all had changed.  Now as I hold this yellow, dog-eared drawing in my hand… I understand.


For Trifecta.  The word this week is CRUDE.  I am missing too many of these challenges lately, but work is like bitchy hag on hormone pills right now. I’ll try to keep up where I can though.

Have a good week!

A Moment

I stare vaguely out the window; passing shops, trees, faces, many faces.  One stands out.  The bus pauses at a stop and our eyes meet – one moment, one full second longer than a casual glance should have lasted – the bus moves on and the moment – that moment rich in possibilities – is gone.

Trifextra this week asked as to write a full story in three sentences.  Well, two of my sentences are bursting at the seams, but they are there, all three of them, nonetheless.

Have a nice weekend.

The Man who Wanted to Fly



mohammadali / Love Photos / CC BY-NC-SA


‘Why did you do it?’

‘So I could fly.’

‘But you can see everything from up here!’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Say that to yourself when you’re trying to type in those feathers!’

For Trifextra.  I think I was overwhelmed by this incredible picture this week because it took me quite a while to come up with this…and still I’m not happy. *sigh* Sometimes, it just happens!



Copyright – Sarah Ann Hall

I grew up in the shadow of that fence, wondering what might lie behind it.  I invented characters, created worlds.  I remember standing at its foot, calling out, hollering the names of my imaginary friends. No one ever answered of course, not in real life, but I heard their replies back then.  I made loads of friends like that; fairies, dwarves, elves.

Now, as I stand here, peering over the fence, it all comes back to me.  It turns out there’s nothing behind it; just a rusty shed and an overgrown garden; millions of dollars wasted away by decay.

For Friday Fictioneers.

I wanted to go for some fantasy this week, but it wouldn’t come to me! Hope you like the alternative.