Wordle #135 – His Last Cigarette.


This week’s words: Eye Socket Atmosphere Sculpture  Bemoan Whoosh 24 hours Glance Lethargic Instinct Categorize Draw Tootle (v))make a series of sounds by blowing a horn, trumpet, or similar instrument: travel or go in a leisurely way) or (n)) an act or sound of blowing a horn, trumpet, or similar instrument: a leisurely journey)

It had been 24 hours since he had given himself permission to move. His eyes were burning inside his eye sockets as he’d not given himself permission to glance sideways for fear of missing his target.

He knew any giving into lethargy could be fatal. As a professional assassin, his instinct for survival and desire to complete his mission overrode any thoughts of lethargy.

There were times when he bemoaned his mother’s request, he become an accountant, but then would he have been able to draw on his natural instincts in a profession such as this.

As the dawn approached, he could feel the atmosphere tighten as he knew his target would appear soon, walk across the square to the sculpture of the towns founding father, light a cigarette and at that point, his life would come to an end. The target was categorised as a low-level target but one that was necessary to be removed and who was he to argue otherwise. A job was a job.

Away in the distance, he could hear the whoosh of the morning traffic and the occasional tootle of car horns as the city wound up for another day.

Looking down the sights on his high powered rifle, he watched as his target lit his last cigarette.


Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/05/27/wordle-135/


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Sunday Writing Prompt “Wacky and Weird”

The family gathered, and as always it was a dicey event. So many personalities and so many skeletons to be uncovered.

Cousins Hugo and Nessa came dressed in their best gothic black, both looking their usual vacuous selves, staring ahead as if trying hard not to be noticed.

Aunt Sally, with the voluminous red hair and eccentric personality, came swanning into the room, making sure she made the necessary noise to attract everyone’s attention.

Grandad in his bow tie, always askew, sat at the end of the table scowling in his particular way as the lunch was being served watching the small ones, his great-grandchildren run around the room as if it was a playground. Not like in his day where children and seen and not heard.

Uncle Albert, Antarctic explorer, and earthly wanderer had turned up this year to grace us with his presence and regale us with stories that were so far-fetched we were convinced they could not be possibly true.

This year mum’s sister Agnes Mary had prepared the lunch. Agnes Mary was an introverted woman, given to bouts of high anxiety and today was no different. She’d taken on the job of preparing the food as a way of her to deal with her anxiety issues, but sadly the task did little more than exacerbate everything for her. As a result, we were constantly subjected to her apologizing for every little thing. In truth, we were all pleased someone else was doing the prep as it was a big job and I’d seen mum, usually a confident and in control woman reduced to a mumbling mess by the time everyone arrived.

Agnes Mary asked Grandad to say grace which was not the wisest thing to ask as by the time lunch was ready grandad had had more than his fair share of beer and so took on the role of saying grace with a gusto that left all of us embarrassed, to say the least. In a family who prided itself on its Christian morals, hearing Grandad boisterously announce: “Around the gums and through the teeth, look out guts here it comes” was hardly what his sisters, the very reserved Aunts, Ethel and Maud, were expecting to hear from their brother. Both rolled their eyes but refrained from comment, mumbling their own grace before sitting down.

Despite everything the lunch went well, conversation was polite until my older sister’s husband, the business man, Randolph, raised the question of inheritance and who was handling Grandmother’s estate as there was a considerable amount of money tied up in it.

There was a silence around the table, then Grandad spoke up, sounding soberer than at any earlier time, “None of your business, it’s all being taken care of.”

With that, silence descended once again. It was broken by a whinging child who announced he didn’t like broccoli and was placated by his mother who promised him dessert if he ate one mouthful.

Cousins Hugo and Nessa picked at their food, as if afraid it might attack them if they didn’t, they said nothing more and once finished left the table.

Grandad watched them go and remarked, “Families are funny things, they never say anything, but we’d miss them if they weren’t here.”

With that said, he reached for the wine and poured himself a generous amount.


Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/05/26/sunday-writing-prompt-wacky-and-weird/

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Reena’s Exploration Challenge #88 – The Visitor from Number 22.



This week’s prompt moves around two points

  1. A sudden event that feels magical in its impact
  2. Significance of numbers or any superstition if you find it interesting

I wasn’t sure if it was the flash of light, the rumbling in the sky or the shaking of the house that frightened me the most.

My mind was conflicted by fleeing or hiding. I opted for the latter and slid under the bed, hoping I’d made the right decision.

Once there, I found everything was silent. It was like the lull before the storm, that moment when you realise you are in the eye of the storm and any second now the wind will roar back from the opposite direction.

After a moment, came the whirr. Softly at first and growing in intensity as it seemed to be coming down on top of me. It was deafening with a rotating light reflecting off the walls of my room, I was under the bed, but the light was so intense as to appear to be coming through the mattress above me.

Then that too ceased and silence descended.

I crawled out from under the bed all the time aware something was not right. The street out front looked its normal self, nothing out of the ordinary there. I ventured to the back room, and that is when I saw it. Settled on my back lawn was a tiny space ship. Its perimeter was lit up by a circle of lights and on the front of it was a light and a flashing light through which shone the number 22.

I thought this convenient as my house is number 22, though I don’t have reason to have a light flashing that information. Under the craft, the heat from the landing had scorched the grass, and I thought that was an inconvenience in itself. But I shouldn’t be whinging as it wasn’t every day a craft of this kind landed in one’s back yard.

I had longed for the day when a space ship would pull up in my back yard and as if something magical had occurred here was and for the moment posing no threat just doing what it did, minding its own business though it did have some explaining to do about the state of my lawn.

I stood on the veranda taking it all in when a door opened and out stepped a very well dressed young man carrying an umbrella even though the day was cloudless and sunny. He put the umbrella up to shade himself and stepped down the gangway of the ship and walked across the lawn to where I was standing.

“We aren’t much for the sun,” he explained as he drew near, “Orlan Shrug from the Planet Siffence, pleased to make your acquaintance, mind if I come inside out of the sun?”

He said this as he basically walked past me and into my kitchen. I followed him in and found him seated at the kitchen table, he was looking about taking in all that I had.

“Any chance of a cup of tea?” he asked.

I nodded and flicked the kettle on, found some tea bags and a couple of clean cups.

With the tea made, he nodded his appreciation and proceeded to tell me why he was here.

“You’ve been wanting to meet me for some time. Don’t worry, we have ways of knowing this if I explained it would simply fry your brain. Needless to say, we are a friendly lot, the Planet Siffence is a lot cooler than your earth, though your summer is a tough go I have to say. We like to make people’s wishes come true, so here is yours granted. Sorry, I’m a lot looking like you, but we do have a significant difference we don’t reproduce like you. Your method is far too messy for us. Our females lay what you’d call eggs and we males fertilise them. We sit on the eggs for a day or two, and it all happens from there. Babies are born three months later, both mother and father care for the young, at six weeks they are fully grown and leave the nest, and away they go. None of this maternal and paternal time off, our species has evolved a more practical reproduction system. Plus, our babies never cry at night, so we are always alert and happy when it comes to parenting.”

I listened fascinated to his account of their life style, taking in as much as I could. He finished his tea and gave me a small medallion with the number 22 on it. It was his calling card, so he said.

My head was still in a whirl as he got up to leave and as he did so he told me that his visit would stay in my mind, but I’d never be able to recount it to another person.

As his space ship lifted off, I watched it disappear into the sky, and the thought struck me of what it was I had just witnessed.


Written for: https://reinventionsreena.wordpress.com/2019/05/23/reenas-exploration-challenge-88/

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Tale Weaver # 224 – Estrangement – May 23rd.- My Blog and I.


The man sat opposite his counsellor, awaiting the opportunity to discuss his issue.

“So,” asked the counsellor, “what brings you to see me?”

“I’m having a problem with my blog. I think it hates me. I think we’ve become estranged from each other,” said the man in a tone suggesting he was serious.

The counsellor thought for a moment and concluded he had not heard of this happening before. Curious as he was, he asked: “What makes you think you are estranged from your blog?”

“We no longer communicate like we used to. My blog and I were as one, we encouraged each other, we shared my muses, I supplied the words, and my blog helped to shape the meaning and purpose. Now it’s all gone to pot. Nothing seems to be working, and I fear my blog is no longer interested in me.”

“Is there a way your blog tells you this?”

“It’s as clear as the nose on your face. I sense it’s laughing at me. I can hear it telling me to write something different and not the same old day in and day out. But you see there are something’s that I like to write and though they are similar its what makes me feel fulfilled.”

“You hear you blog speaking to you?”

“Of course. I used to write poetry because it insisted I do so, but I never felt comfortable with poetry, so I avoid it as often as I can. Once to prove to myself anyone could write poetry, I threw a bunch of random words onto my blog, which it ate up and once published, there were lots of comments about how good it was. The blog was happy beyond words, but I wasn’t.”

“What else does it tell you?”

It complains when I write story. It says I’m verbose and should take editing lessons. But I tell it its what I want to say and it’s my blog, and I can write what I want. But it says I’m being self-centred and not taking its feelings into consideration. It’s all very depressing.”

“What do you want from your blog?”

“Acceptance, understanding and cooperation. I figure it exists because of me. Before I came along, it was nothing, just space, and my words have helped to fill it and give it purpose.”

“I think that is a good answer, so might the solution lie in some sort of compromise?”

“I’m happy to try for a compromise. I like my blog; I’ve become very attached to it. I think it’s become attached to me despite the current situation.”

“Why not, as you say, listen to it and see what happens if you go along with what it may be suggesting?”

“That’s a big ask. You mean, give in to it?”

“No, just listen and see if anything it says is something you can act on.”

“I could give it a go, I guess.”

“Good. I’d like to see you in a week to see if there has been any progress.”

The man thanked the counsellor and left, and he departed his office he found himself circling the man’s name and printing beside it, “Deranged.”

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/05/23/tale-weaver-224-estrangement-may-23rd/

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100 Word Wednesday: Week 122 – The Valley House Brewery.


It had been a long tiring day and seeing the sign offering beer and food we accepted the invitation to visit the Valley House brewery.

The place was crowded which is always a good indication of the quality of the fare. We were shown to a table in the rear of the restaurant and looked over the menu. Being a brewery beer did figure prominently on the menu.

My youthful travelling companion, Manes, opted for the fish while I took on the chicken. The food was magnificent, expertly cooked and washed down with the best beer we had ever tasted.


Written for: https://bikurgurl.com/2019/05/22/100-word-wednesday-week-122/


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Crimson’s Creative Challenge #28 – Kempler’s Old Dairy and Cheese Factory.


My aged companion Crisp took several days to recover from her encounter with the Wee Wee Folk. She didn’t talk about it and whenever it was raised she’d scoff and change the subject.

She did though, pour herself into reading more and more brochures about the surrounding area.

“Look here,” she announced holding up a glossy brochure. “Let’s go here, Kempler’s Old Dairy and Cheese Factory. Should be interesting and it’s in a part of the district we haven’t been to yet.”

So soon after, loaded up with food for the day we set off. The number 36 bus delivered us to a stop where we could walk to the farm.

Crisp had a most enjoyable day, the old farm was indeed educational and best of all Crisp came home with enough cheese samples to last us the rest of the week.


Written for: https://crimsonprose.wordpress.com/2019/05/22/crimsons-creative-challenge-28/

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Photo Challenge #264 – The Soul Medusa.


She looked no different to anyone else

That was until you ventured near.

She was attractive there was no doubt

But that attraction harboured evil.

She would lure you in,

Make you believe you were her one great love,

But her agenda was not to turn you to stone

But to break you down, bit by bit.

It was your heart you realised she went for first

Hardened it so outside of her no one existed.

Your attention was only for her

For if you strayed, her venom would strike

You’d be paralysed with fear and loathing

Promising the world for relief.

With your heart firmly in her grasp,

It was your soul she wanted next.


Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/05/21/photo-challenge-264/

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