And A Voice To Sing With


FF picture 260619 copyright Ted Strutz

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Ted Strutz

When I asked what’s a box office, Mum shook her head and said “Just a rotten dream dealer.” She still bought our tickets though. Then she chucked her ciggie butt on the ground and trod it to death.

Inside the theatre, a beautiful lady sang to me: Little one, I have dreams to sell.

She was all blonde and sea-blue with sparkly bits. She looked nothing like rotten sounded.

What will your purchase be?

That night I prayed for a sea-blue dress. Not a selfish prayer. In my child’s way, I prayed for a voice to heal my mother’s heart.


The Hireling

This terrific photograph is here courtesy and copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.



I’m trying not to think about the amazing curve of the innocent neck, because it’s a target not a woman. I hope it doesn’t turn around, but actually, if it did, I doubt it would see me. I’m not that kind of bloke and that’s why they chose me. Main thing is, the money’s going to transfer soon and a credit balance is a bit of a new experience for bland, faceless me. If she, sorry – if it does turn around, I won’t make eye contact. The one they call Red Dog told me you should never make eye contact.

These Boots Are Made For Walkin’


100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Adam Ickes

I’m just a girl who can’t say no. So my dream lover had me at hello. What’s love got to do with it, you may ask. Well, listen, do you want to know a secret? Love’s a many splendoured thing. And a must to avoid.  But I slipped, I stumbled, I fell. I thought he was my guy until Sally told me he was under the bridge with the other woman. I don’t look back in anger though.  While I did have to become the funny girl when he told me these boots are made for walkin’, I will survive.

From Hand to Hand

copyright Douglas M MacIlroy

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Douglas M MacIlroy

I watch you pass the ball from hand to hand, adrenaline spilling from your adorable edges in your excitement at getting on the team. You call it a battle you must win.

In that moment you are gone.

You message me when you land. And once more. Now nothing for three days. All I have left is the knife-blade of scent on your faded old fleece. How I wish I were a hundred years ago, soothed by you beside me on something you touched and folded and kissed. Strange. These days we call that kind of thing a hard copy.

Slow Train


100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Dawn M Miller

A handful of hearts and the time of our lives
There’s something so wasted about it
The high in the sky where you promised we’d fly
and I had no reason to doubt it
But there’s a way and will to waste precious time
You win or you lose and to you that’s just fine
but no matter how many tears you deny,
a promise that’s broken is just a lie
And you made love a tear stain
You made love a closed lane
and you made a love a slow train
that leaves
and won't come back again

Look! Dorothy’s On TV

Dorothy on TV

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Nick Allen

I’m supposed to pick one from three hidden behind a screen. Based entirely on their replies to my questions and whatever crumb of a hint the host drops.
Number 1 stammers that his s-s-s-star sign’s Leo then they say he’s run clean away.
Number 2 has a squeaky voice, like he’s a tin can that needs oiling.
Number 3 says he’s known round here for being a right scruff bag.
“Ah,” says the host. “It’s a no brainer.”
I’d rather stay on the shelf. Honestly, the more men I meet, the more I love my dog.

C’mon Toto! We’re going back to Kansas.

He’s Wandering Lonely As A Cloud This Week


Willy from Windmere

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photograph ©Dale Rogerson

The good news is I am still avoiding the Grim Reaper
As I write I am comfortably caffeined in a Parisian coffee house
while GR has taken the train to the Lake District

He really does make work for himself,
still searching for me in a zillion wrong places
He hangs around a lot of mountains. This week’s is Skiddaw

He may well wish I’d been born in a different era
when Willy from Cockermouth was wandering about, overtalking his sister
Willy never said a single word where two hundred would do

That could have successfully bored me to death