Not caught red-handed.

He dropped the knife. Blood trickled down the side of his hand but he felt no pain. It wasn’t his blood after all.

He expected he would feel more. That there would be some kind of physical impact on him but he had wanted this for so long all he felt was a sensation similar to that of lust.

The kitchen seemed to be growing warmer. It was as though the air was heating up around his throat, he loosened his tie and rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. Small spots of blood landed on the crisp pale blue shirt he so carefully ironed that morning before work.

The pan on top of the oven sizzled as he washed his hands twice just to be sure no evidence was left. He didn’t want his wife to know he had sneakily had a steak, after all they were meant to be going veggie for thirty days and it was only day five. He had failed and to top it all off he had ruined his shirt.

At least tomorrow is Friday.

Creative writing – part one

The air went cold. The kind of cold that makes you actually say “brrr” and rub your arms. It creeps up on you and wraps its frosty arms around you draining any heat from within and leaving you rushing for the nearest jumper.

She hadn’t expected it but I guess no one ever does.

A low mist seemed to be gathering on her kitchen floor and the wood floor that once was comfortingly cool under foot seemed as if it were warm and oozing.

She stepped back but there was no where to go other than forward. As she stepped in her bare feet suddenly reminded her she really needed to buy slippers. Now probably wasn’t the time to be concerning herself with that but she had seen a nice pair in Tesco the other day.

The floor seemed to be congealing between her toes but common sense told her not to look down. There were several things she had learnt from horror films over the years and she was failing to remember anything. Running her hands along the counter she found the meat tenderiser .. seemed as likely a weapon as anything she was going to find here.


She spent the day gathering flowers and when she was done she went home.

The flowers stood in a jam jar just below the glow of her lamp and she watched them die. Crying petals across the stained wood desk she gathered them daily in a small box. 

They were dry and less fragrant than she had hoped so she carefully let her perfume float over them a couple of times a day before closing the box and giving it pride of place in her bedside table drawer. She did this for a month. 

More flowers. More petals. More jam jars. 

Till the box was full of the petals of daisies and buttercups. 

Tear shaped symbols of happiness and her childhood. Hours spent making crowns of daisies with buttercups held to her chin. 

On Thursday morning she took the box and walked for hours holding it in her hands, rain began to fall yet she didn’t feel it as she walked on into the green and fresh smelling world around her.

She reached the river. Rain distorted the surface. She stared intently at the patterns before her. 

The last thing she saw were the petals tumbling out the box and dancing in the water, a sickly smell trickled past her as her eyes seemed to dim. 

They floated down the river. Swirling and diving as the rain lessened and stopped. 

Writing 101, Day Twenty: The Things We Treasure

Nestled between the tarnished change in my purse that is often forgotten about is something I treasure with all my heart. It is about the same size as a fifty pence coin and gold in colour. It is almost as tarnished as the change yet seems to glow with a strange warmth that only memories can bring.

It is a tiny turtle.

To most people it is nothing important. An insignificant knick-knack that wouldn’t go amiss at a car boot show but to me it is one of the most important things I have. For two long weeks I thought I had lost it as it was in my coat pocket then it wasn’t. I must have moved it without really realising and put it in a pocket in my bag but the relief I felt when I finally was reunited with it was overwhelming.

I have always loved turtles .. and in stressful times will often be found focusing on my “positive anchor” of forming a turtle out of my hands and making it swim .. hey don’t judge me! It helps!

Yet there is one reason this particular turtle means so much.

It belonged to my great auntie and she was pretty cool and not just because she liked turtles too!

Writing 101, Day Nineteen: Don’t Stop the Rockin’

We fell about laughing when you said you loved me. It seemed totally preposterous to us both yet at the same time we knew it was true. The air was full of awkwardness and for once I didn’t run from the three words that normally strike fear into me. No I didn’t run. Yes we dismissed it with laughter and repetitions of yeah you love me but not in that way and yes it was awkwardly amusing but it was a sign of things to come.

And so we carried on to live in one another’s pockets despite my internal protests at the situation. I wanted to run away but all I could do was run towards you. I was terrified by the behaviour of myself. I was terrified of falling in love and I was falling quicker than I realised.

We had both been in love before and as we lay entangled in each others arms, my hair irritating your nose, it felt like this was the first time my heart had ever loved before. It felt new and natural so I stopped trying to hide from it and I opened my arms to it and my heart to you and we both made silly mistakes, didn’t take into account each others feelings in how we handled certain situations but we got through it when normally I would have walked away I decided to stay.

And now? Well, now, I don’t see me ever deciding to leave. I’ve found a cure for my fear of commitment and it seems to be you. Granted at times all I want to do are pack my bag and disappear off to somewhere new but I couldn’t leave you behind. It wouldn’t be an adventure if you weren’t there to share it with me and I can’t imagine waking up without you.

I never thought this would be me. I never pictured me happily cooking dinner for a man, never imagined I would want to stay home every evening and just watch someone watch tv out the corner of my. I never considered I could trust someone again and let myself be in the situation where I could get hurt yet here we are.

You have changed my life, my plans and put the shards of me back together and you don’t even realise it .

I am so grateful for this preposterous love.


Writing 101, Day Eighteen: Hone Your Point of View

Mr Smith from number twelve should be leaving any minute now.

My arm twitches as I check my watch.

“Mum, it’s 8:26 .. Mr Smith is going to be late!”

She doesn’t understand my distress and instead closes the door to the kitchen. I’m unsure whether the door is closed to silence my narration of the street or to disguise her and my Dad’s heated discussion about the bills this month.

I hear people say that times are hard. I’m not totally sure on what they mean but I have this sinking feeling that I might just find out.

“It’s 8:29 .. 1 minute till you’re late ..” I sigh into my knees as the front door on number twelve crashes open and shakes within its frame. With red cheeks Mr Smith bounds down the pavement casting a glance over his shoulder to check the door has slammed itself shut.

Phew. 8:30. Well done Mr Smith.

What’s next. I glance down the street. Number ten stands alone. The porch is crowded with pot plants that are withered and the paint round the windows has turned from crisp white to a sooty grey over the last year. Mum always tells me not to stare at number ten. Apparently Mrs Pauley wouldn’t like it.I got shouted at three months ago when I sat here and watched two men turn up in black suits and shuffle into her house.  Mum told me Mr Pauley wouldn’t be leaving the house at 8:37 anymore. Mr Pauley was dead. My fish died so I know how hard it must be for Mrs Pauley.

A police car.

“Mum there’s a police car”

She’s not listening. Stamping my feet on the step beneath my feet she appears in the doorway growling at me.

I just point.


The car rolls slowly towards the driveway to number ten and a van follows behind it. Both stop. Two police officers step out the police car and a friendly looking man in jeans and a shirt jumps out the van.


“I don’t want to come back into the house. It’s 8:42. Mum .. please.”

She’s pointing at the kitchen and beckoning me in as my Dad appears in the hallway.

I run indoors and the front door is swiftly shut. Mum and Dad stand in the living room watching out the window as I sit on the stairs in front of the grandfather clock listening to it tick. I hear Mum saying how this will happen to us and Dad laugh and say not to be so dramatic. He explains Mrs Pauley hasn’t paid rent since Mr Pauley died and that is why they are evicting her. I’m not sure what evicting her means but it can’t be good. Mum is sighing a lot and shaking her head. I can see her dark brown curls moving through the crack in the door as she tells Dad how her mum remembers Mrs Pauley moving in to that house about forty years ago and that it is so sad that her boys don’t help her out.


“Dad you’re going to be late ..”

Weekly Writing Challenge: In the beginning.

Small beads of sweat ran down the back of his neck as he dragged bales of hay across the driveway. The sun seemed to have woken everyone up exceptionally early that day and the heat was already building up. Wandering into the yard he assessed his work for the day and tried to mentally prioritise the tasks that lay ahead of him.

There were bales to move, fences to fix, animals to feed and the chicken coop urgently needed sorting. He would start with the chickens because that wasn’t going to take very long and he was growing tired of chasing them about the yard in the midday heat. With that he picked up his tools and wandered towards the chicken coop just as a blur of brown and red shot out from the side clucking so loudly he jumped in fright.


He began to jog after the chicken whilst contemplating all the ways he could cook it if it tested his patience too much. He didn’t mean it, he hadn’t eaten one of his own animals yet and he didn’t intend to start just yet. The chicken bolted under the fence and he threw himself through the gate leaving it swinging behind him.

The chicken stopped at the road and looked almost knowingly at him as if he was mocking him. His patience was wearing thin.  He stood still, aware that one movement and the chicken would be off again.

Almost as he thought to grab the chicken a car appeared roaring down the road as if it were a race track. The chicken in its panic seemed to hurl itself into the road.

Feathers of brown and red danced in the breeze and landed on the warm tarmac before his feet. With a sigh he dropped his head down and said “why did the chicken cross the road?”


Weekly Writing Challenge.


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