64 carefully chosen words …

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Cavalier and the limit just 64 words.

 

saucy-jack.italic (2)

 

Ladies and gentleman, The Laughing Cava….

‘He blew me a kiss!’

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Young lady, please …

‘He did it again!’

Madam!  As I was saying, Frans Hals …

‘He fancies me, look’.

Where was I?  Yes, in 1624 he painted …

‘Blimey, over 400 years old and he’s still sexy!’

Don’t be silly, you’ll say the Mona Lisa smiled at you next!

‘Funny you should mention that!’

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Deja vu!

for Friday Fictioneers

If today’s tale seems familiar it’s because I’ve based it on one from three years ago.  I’m a bit pushed for time today as any minute now, Amazon-person will be ringing my bell and handing me a new PC.  I’ll be off-line for a while getting it set up!

 

bubble-cute.bubble-cute

 

Last night my girlfriend bathed in champagne bath oil.  She climbed out all pink and shiny and I  couldn’t resist giving her hot little body a squeeze, but she went pop, shot from my arms and hit the ceiling!  (Only kidding, it was more of a squeak than a pop)

I fancy bathing in red wine, a cheeky little Claret with a hint of blackcurrant although I’d probably emerge looking like an enormous beetroot.  Perhaps a well-crafted beer would more sensible.

For now, I’ll make do with a squirt of citrus washing-up liquid, and pretend it’s gin and lime!

 

anonymous-kitchen-photoThanks to Rochelle for hosting and to Nonny Mouse for the photo.

Pop Froggie’s bubbles to join in the fun!

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Thirty words …

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Syzygy and the limit just 30 words which is a bit of a challenge for flash fiction writers such as I!

 

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‘Hello, Syzygy darlin’ slurred Bob.

‘You’ve been drinking’  said Suzie. 

‘Oh no I haven’t’.

‘Oh yes you have’.

‘Look, three moons all in a row!’

‘Oh yes, you definitely have!’

 

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Syzygy : the straight-line configuration of three celestial bodies such as the sun, moon, and earth

 

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A short story …

… for #writephoto

rutter.regular

 

‘Lucky heather mister?’ said the gipsy as she held out a little sprig bound with a bow.  I took it, passed her a couple of coins and went on my way.

Later that day, as I sat pinching it between my fingers, I began to remember.  It was many moons ago.  Her name was Heather.

We met at a gig,  or was it a party?  Yes, a party.  She always wore something purple, a blouse or sometimes a scarf.  And I always called her my little bunch of heather!

We would take long slow walks together in the countryside.  Miles, we’d walk.  We didn’t say much.   We’d just listen to the sounds of nature.

We went our separate ways after a while,  though I don’t recall why.  It could have been when she went off to university.   Whatever it was, we lost touch.

Lucky heather the gipsy called it.  Some people probably believe in it!  It’s still over there on the table.  I wonder, shall I make a wish?  Why not.  I know, I’ll wish to hear from Heather again!

I’ll let you know if my wish comes true, but I’m not holding out much hope!

You have a wish too! Catch!

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dream Thanks to Sue Vincent for hosting.

One hundred words …

for Friday Fictioneers

 

allesia.regular

 

I’m at a crossroads in my life.  Should I continue as I am or change direction?  What’s the right thing to do with what’s left of my days?

(See what I did there? Right, left!)

But I’ve had fun, even naughty fun, and I want more.

(What? Mind your own business!)

Or should I take life more seriously?  Maybe travel a bit.  I’ve read about yellow beaches and green valleys.

(Red, yellow, green, get it?)

Wakey-wakey, daydreaming again. I didn’t notice the lights go green.

“No need to hoot, I’m moving”.

Oh f***!

“Sorry mate”.

I selected reverse.  Seems nothing’s gonna change!

 

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delayed-green-naama-yehudaThanks to Rochelle for hosting and Na’ama Yehuda for the photo

 

Tap Froggie to see what others have made of it!

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Ninety-one words …

for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Unwelcome and the limit 91 words.

 

baldive.regular

 

With my feet planted on the unwelcome mat, I take a deep breath and press the bell.

Why me?  Why do such a soul-destroying job?

There’s a TV advert where a chap from the lottery knocks on a door and hands over a million pounds.

At Christmas, kids sing carols around doors.  Doors are for greeting friends.

The lock clunks.  I swallow.  The door inches open.

She didn’t intend getting into debt.  A single mum, no work, three hungry kids and I’m about to claim their few meagre possessions. Why me?

 

 

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