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



Fit For A Prince


100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Princess insisted Daddy would love to spend his seventieth doing jaegerbombs and posting selfies. His nephews argued for an E-Type Jag. An equerry pointed out the Prince already had three.

The Prince’s brothers suggested the usual: cognac and a porn movie.

The Queen rejected everything.

The family were dressed and driven to view her chosen gift.

“Your new permanent residence, son,” she said. “Grade 1 Listed. No renovation. By Royal Proclamation. Hope it’s not too modern for you.”

“Just what I wanted, Mummy,” lied the Prince, eyeballing her crown.

“Aren’t we just under a bridge though?” said the Princess.

Last Day For The Retreat Guide


Last Day For The Retreat Guide
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © J S Brand

We’ve almost finished our tour and there’s gallons more thistleberry cordial. Please do have another.

So this is the Mindlessness Garden, where our installation’s single dense eye signifies waste in plain sight. Chef chose to add it because guests can be very careless with their garnishes. FYI, Chef never knowingly poisoned anybody.

Ah, you noticed the accessories. Our Head Housekeeper added those. She says dirty guests who leave debris and worse in and under the beds get tidier once she produces that funny little axe of hers. FYI, she was cleared of all charges.

Enjoy your lunch. Sleep well tonight.

Warning: Do Not Defrost


100 fearsome words for Friday Fictioneers

Photoprompt © Jeff Arnold – thank you for the extraordinary picture, Jeff

Lynne had her own ideas about stepson Stephen’s hobbies on the outside.

His father refused to accompany her to the prison.

Years ago she’d been pleased to have the boy mistaken for her own child. Now she thanked God he wasn’t. The dead mother had obviously been fatally infected with the screw-up gene.

Bad bugs breed bad baby bugs.

At home Lynne avoided the cellar freezer. Dissection of dead birds was one thing. What Stephen had done was something else.

Stephen’s cell mate was teaching him to play chess. God help the guy if he made a wrong move.

To The Queen, A Daughter

rogers-skylightTO THE QUEEN, A DAUGHTER
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Roger Bultot


As soon as I gave him the glad news, he joyously commissioned the creation of a glittering dome.

Still learning the ways of my new country, I was delighted to feel the quickening in my belly, knowing I would soon have a companion of my heart for ever more. But I was mistaken in my optimism.

My King did not doubt the outcome would be a son, to sustain and perpetuate his ways. Accordingly I see the English servant on the terrace, the vile servant I so hate, his hand upon the shoulder of my petite fille. Leading her away.

Discount Day At The Towers




Thank you very much to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for picking my photograph this week and thanks also to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers so patiently, diligently and efficiently every week, along with allowing us the welcome opportunity to read her own fabulous stories. Hats off, Rochelle, you are the Princess in the Tower of Storytelling. My story for this week follows here:

Discount Day At The Towers

100 words for Friday Fictioneers – Photo copyright Jilly Funnell

Embarrassed about “Senior” on her ticket, she hadn’t made eye contact with him.

The attendant gently pressed his entry stamp on her hand. She looked at the inky dark print that gave her access to Mid and Top Towers. As if he could read minds, the attendant said “I’m in your club too. See you in the disco at eight”.

She laughed. “My mum won’t let me go to discos,” she said, still looking at her hand.

Later he served her in the ground-floor gift shop.

“How about the pizza place then?” he asked.

This time she made eye contact.

Carrying the Crown

100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Carrying the Crown

I am here alone and I would not be. I see rough walls of stone, grey-drab with unfamiliar light. I am a prisoner of duty, a bride-in-waiting for her marriage to a stranger. What if I forget the taste of boudin noir aux pommes, the scent of juniper, a fresh fig’s sweetness? I reach up and trace the narrow window with my finger. I ache for my mother, my dolls, the purring warmth of Felix on my bed.

I see the English servant on the terrace, a velvet cushion held aloft and upon that blood-red plush, ready for the ceremony, my crown.