All the fun of the fair.



He beckoned me to enter the wooden building.
“You have fun, missy.”
I paid.
I had nothing else to do. Most of my friends had an excuse to avoid the day out, I couldn’t stay at home.
The building was filled with mirrors. Mirrors to make you look thin, mirrors to make you fat, disembodied, big head with small body and vice versa.
In a dark corner I peered through a slat in the wall.
The reflection facing me half face, half skull, was me as a teenager. Fresh faced before it all went wrong.
As I stared, the half face morphed into a bitter, scowling face with sad eyes. Lost. Lonely.
I turned away.
At the exit the man handed me a photo.
It was me, a little older, but laughing.
The caption read; It is not too late to strip back to the bare bones and build anew.




It’s boxing day in heaven,
There’s confusion in the place,
For at the breakfast table
Has appeared a strangers face.
There’s Seraphim
and Cherubim
Archangels are there
and Bert

Where has tha’ come from young lad,
Said Michael, voice a sotto.
The lad stuttered in reply
‘Santa sent me from’t grotto.’
There’s Seraphim,
and Cherubim,
Archangels are there
and Bert.

The host of angels muttered.
Michael said its evident
The lad is suffering from
A speech impediment.
There’s Seraphim,
and Cherubim,
Archangels are there
and Bert.

I’ve been in touch with Santa,
He admits there’s been an error.
He’s a bit hard of hearing
and misheard the little fella.
There’s Seraphim,
and Cherubim,
Archangels are there
and Bert.

Lad’s request for one cd
of Englebert, was taken
as him asking to be here
as ‘Angel Bert’ in heaven!
There’s Seraphim,
and Cherubim,
Archangels are there
and … Bert.

So remember at Christmas,
This tale, and say a prayer,
To seraphims, cherubims
Archangels and Angel Bert !






Dear (write name here)

There were things I wanted to say to you but never did.
I hope you will forgive me.
I used your hard work; I used your time; I used your inspirational prompts and I fell foul of not telling you what you meant to me, and to many others in the country.
Through me, your work has inspired others to read and write.
Through me, your work has raised awareness for a disability and in doing so has changed some lives.
For those with short spells of concentration, or those blighted with mind fog, flash fiction brings new worlds and tales into their lives, and because of you I have filled a blog full of those short tales, and in doing so filled a gap in their lives.
This is my thank you, and these are your tales.

Until we meet again.

The Prompt Thief



My father used to say my brothers were born, charging out of mother’s vagina like the best Cossack trick riders, he’d swell his chest and tap his heart with pride
I slid out of mother, screaming, with thick black curls, fierce determination… And a disjointed hip.
My parents bound my hip to a stiff wood and bone casing , and chained my ankles to keep them still.
I couldn’t ride, until one day donkey nudged her foal towards me.
I wiggled and slid but the stiff hips wouldn’t sit properly on her back (I couldn’t sit astride due to the restraint on my ankles). Seeing my plight, Donkey tucked her head under my arm and lifted me, leaving my feet on the foals back.
I grasped the hairy body to steady myself until I was perfectly balanced.
My balance became stronger the more I practised, and I learnt to ride.

Today is another day.

A poem I wrote for mental health week.

Today is another day

Today is another day
Of fog, that blinds the mind
And suffocates the cells.
A carousel of words.
Constantly passing by
in ever turning circles
too fast to pick one out
and keep tight hold.
They dodge my grasp
like flies that buzz
Inside my ears,
around my head
On and on and on.
I can’t catch them.
I can’t grasp the words,
I can’t catch the meaning
I can’t make myself understood.
Then tired.
All perseverance battered,
I give in.
I can’t fight it.
Time has taught me
stress feeds the engine
that spews out
the sickly substance
that coats coherence
and becomes
my marshmallow brain.
I had nothing to say,
of importance,
Tomorrow is another day.

Around Ireland with a coffin.

A bit of levity after the last post…Works best if you read it thinking ‘Father Ted and Dougal!

Round Ireland with a coffin.

‘What’s that you’re reading, Francis O’Cleary?’
‘Round Ireland with a fridge, Mrs Kenny.’
‘Is it good? What’s it about?’
‘ It’s a guy who traveled with a fridge at his side for a month , because of a hundred pound bet. The fridge cost him one hundred and thirty! How ridiculous is that.’
‘I’m reading; The hundred year old man, who climbed out of a window and disappeared. Your book doesn’t sound ridiculous at all.’
‘You’ve never liked it here have you, Mrs Kenny?’
‘It’s not a home, it’s a prison. I’ll only get out of here in a coffin… How does one hundred and fifty pounds sound to you, Francis?’

A Voice .


A Voice
I see the violence every day.
I avoid, keep out the way.
If I lie low, be good and meek
I may survive another week.

I feel the tension, taste the fear.
My heart races when they’re near.
All it takes is a word out of place
A misunderstood order, a vague face.

I’m just a child, I have no voice.
I’m a nothing, have no choice.
Who can I turn to, wish I knew.
Who will help me, if not you.

Prompt was from #VisDare108
83 words.

I have been absent from the blog for a while due to family and health, but today’s prompt struck a chord and the poem came to me. It took minutes to write, but the background inspiration for it will always be around. Help stamp out violence and bullying inside and outside the home. Every child has the right to be happy and safe.