Category Archives: flash fiction

Two sides of the same coin


This last week has been a tale of two halves, I finished editing my book on Marie Antoinette, uploaded it to go on sale on 1st May and then I started to plan my next writing project. All good.

I realised that I haven’t done a lot of reading lately while I’ve been writing like a ninja and I felt that I had missed the lovely process of reading and being absorbed in another world with characters that you can learn to love or loathe as the pages pass by.


You know what? I set aside the writing and dedicated myself to reading, in the last few days I have happily devoured a book on creative writing – OK, that’s a bit workish, half of a historical biography on Queen Mary, wife of King George V and I tried to read Glenarvon by Lady Caroline Lamb, one time love of Lord Byron the notorious poet.

I say tried because her writing style suggested that her mind was on fire, it was so overwritten that it made simple melodrama look dull! Glenarvon was the novel she wrote about their affair so perhaps there was a lot of emotion to fire from her pen.

I may return to it on a day when I have energy to spare, it’s not a relaxing read. One day, perhaps.

Tomorrow, I start my next writing project, today you’ll find me luxuriating in a book. I love to do both and I often miss one when I do the other exclusively.

It’s true, they’re two sides of the same coin. One can’t thrive without the other.

The London Marathon was held today – big respect and congratulations to anyone who even contemplates running 26 miles – I quickly penned this tanka this morning…

I confess I’m pooped

In my sleep I’ve somehow run 

The great marathon 

Tortured for twenty six miles

Finished first, collapsed in style.



Have a great week.



Tornado and the weekend



Here we are at another weekend, another cold one here in the UK and I’m yearning for Spring, I love to see nature coming back to life and to feel the sun getting warmer.

It’s a hibernating weekend for me, reading fab books by the fireside and indulging in some edible treats.

I won’t be wearing a snowman onesie though, that would be a step too far!

I’ve spent most of today placing my recent books on to online retailers. I can only hope that the right cover has been uploaded with the correct text each time. Fingers crossed or I may get an e-mail asking why my Charles Dickens book only contains information on Tolstoy. Uh oh:-)

I’ve also taken a piece of flash fiction and turned it into a poem. It’s not based on reality, thankfully, although someone who read it did suggest an appropriate place to stick the door handle if it was real – Cheeky!

I hope you enjoy it.


In my head structures torn down, a tornado

Monoliths had been embedded moments ago

He’s not dedicated to us, a lost cause, no hope found

Twenty odd years of history razed to the ground

With his cologne filled air of self satisfied finality

I’m stunned, powerless, cut down cruelly


He tells me that I can rebuild my new life with zeal

Find love with someone who has more appeal

I try to believe that I’ll be better without him

As he insists it will be so I try to submit to his whim

He opens the door and goes without looking back

My name isn’t etched on his heart, it’s on the rack

He worships and loves her, Helen.

I’m the discarded ruin, Katherine.

Have a great weekend.


Bit excited!



As the title says I’m a bit excited!

I pitched an idea to a local publication and they are mulling that over for their website.

I was pleasantly surprised and grateful when the editor suggested that I write an article about myself and life with O.C.D./P.T.S.D. for inclusion in their print magazine in a couple of months time.

I realised as I was writing the short piece that:

1. It means a lot to be living my writing dream.

2. The mental disorders didn’t hijack my life or my goals forever and I’ve come a long way in the last year or so.

3. It’s an opportunity to write about my life as I do on my blog, reach and inform even more people which can only help to banish the misconceptions about mental issues.

I’d call it a fabulously welcome early Christmas present!

I  feel amazed when my work is accepted or gets published somewhere and I don’t ever want to lose that astonishment, it’s good for my soul!

A flash fiction piece made the grade the other day too!

I wrote this poem recently for my anthology It’s Christmas!  I hope that you enjoy it.


Tommy Turkey: Legend

Scared Thanksgiving Turkey

Farmer Jones had once had a kindly look

About his cheery self when they’d first met

But frankly, he’d blotted his copybook

When he’d mentioned their weights to the vet


This morning he’d told Tommy and his friends

That they were wonderfully plump, fat enough to go

As they had no pocket money for a day out to spend

They reasoned it was to Old Grisly Gobble & Co.


Tommy thought no chance! They’d taken a vote

Agreed to a mass exodus, they wouldn’t be Christmas dinners

Tommy had written Farmer Jones a firm farewell note

He was sure that hats would be doffed to the great turkey winners


In his turkey crown and cape Tommy had left the farm

He’d seen The Great Escape he well knew what to do

That night he started an “Eat Sprouts and do turkey’s no harm!”

Campaign with pigs in blankets on the evening news

Poor old newsreaders looked utterly bemused.



The note read:

Dear Farmer Jones,

Ho ho ho and off we go! With the ‘snips and sprouts we’ll not pout

With free flowing gravy fresh from the spout

Love (Yeah right) Tommy and  his turkey heroes! 



Happy “it’s nearly Christmas!”

Have a fab rest of the week.











Microfiction Monday – 26th Edition

Some fab stories on here, mine is at the bottom, 100 words maximum limit…glad to be included. Thanks! 🙂

Microfiction Monday Magazine

Special thanks to Jessica Standifird for her editorial assistance. This week’s artwork is by Kate Salvi.


Leaving on a Ghost Train
by Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

The ghost train came to take me, the night after the dead took over. It came through the kitchen, blinding my sister and me with its melting light.
“Bugger off,” Margaret said, wrapping an arm around me. “You can’t have him.”
“All twelve-year olds work for the dead,” the train said in a Yorkshire accent. “They’re the most fit to serve the new order.”
“I’m not going,” I said. “Take the neighbors.”
The train plunged into my sister, wheels grinding up strands of red hair, eyes, spinning like hypnotic Ferris wheels. She waved and smiled, her smile turning to crinkled stardust, falling away.

The Staircase
by Joey To

Jane slipped her shoes off, then glanced at the longcase clock and sighed: 10 p.m. and unsurprisingly…

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