Beyond The Window

His father always called the darkness outside their home Wasteland. When they fought, his father would drag him to an open window by the scruff of his collar and force his face into the emptiness.

“Look! Look at what there is outside this house! Outside my house! Nothing!”

Leaning into the darkness with his father’s hands pressing him forwards he would shiver and squint, forcing himself to try and see something other than nothingness.

“Learn your place,” his father warned. “Nothing survives out there my son.”

Curling his hands around the window frame he would nod, allowing the same hands that pushed to pull him back inside.

“You stay you hear. You stay put and behave.”

He would nod again. Simple, silent, agreeable.

Later, his father would give him apples. The fruit curled in his hand he would return to the window to eat. He let the cores drop, listening for a thud or splash to tell him what lay outside his home beneath the darkness, but he heard no sounds.

When his father grew old there were no apples, only bent fingers, and threats of Wasteland.

He wondered though, with eyes burning, opened wide… could he see apple trees?

My entry for Flash!Friday this week.

The Story Of Eleanor Green

Grandma travelled the Sahara at eighteen,

all she needed packed in two suitcases

the one

almost forgotten


on at an airport  in Ciaro

when a young man asked her name.

At twenty-five she saw India,

found a husband on the roads

took her father’s disapproval,

wrote a book

Love In India

Then lost him to the army

and swore against rings on fingers

till her last breath.

Paris was calmer in her words.

Less heat

more classical sheik

in restaurants, and a cafe.

Sipping champagne on the Siene

but thinking still in India

of a man and a smile,

of spices and music.

Beirut was exciting.

Claimed she met Philby,

under the cover of darkness

in a little bar off a corner.

Claimed she kissed him,

took his stutter in her mouth

thought him very proper.

In England she tried to settle,

never married

but lived

with a man her father favoured once.

A friend who thought her beautiful,

gave her children

and ears to tell stories.

At ninety she left

with a will naming India

as her home

where she wanted

to return.

They took her ashes,

scattered them across

all the roads that they took

and watched for a man

waiting by the crossroads.



Thighs tangled they lay twisted,

parched by stars

and too long nights

drawing into too long days.

He spoke of candy.

Called her sugar, sweet.

Made her feel brittle,

caramel cooked too long.

He was slick,

slipping in with ease

to find a core,

something central

to nibble,


She fought.



Then glued the broken pieces back.

This is my response for the second prompt list by Inspiration Call: Creative Talents Unleashed and could almost be a follow up to my response ‘Three Exits Past Memory Lane’ for the third prompt list.

Three Exits Past Memory Lane

We parked up three exits pasts Memory Lane,

you pushing keys on an old Nokia brick,

waving it across my seat for signal

while I sipped water,

bottled and lukewarm.

I didn’t say this was a waste,

though it was

of something.


You and your chase

for old conversations,

old moments,

an old haunt

you forgot and then remembered.

I stayed silent,

sipping water

and watching you wave.

Written for Inspiration Call: Creative Talents Unleashed list three.

Darkness On Newmarket Highstreet

“Darkness is simply the absence of light, and what is light if not love!”

Esmee watched as the short, little man with black hair and an orange beard preached his sermon from his wooden crate halfway up Newmarket High Street. 

“What a nutter,” said the woman beside her on the bench, stabbing a plastic fork into a pasta-pot before drawing both fork and container as close to her mouth as she could.


No, Esmee thought, sliding her hand into her pocket, playing in the darkness was much more fun.