the little poet in my head has withdrawn


she says. read. hide.

go wallow outside

can’t be bothered with you

you’re making me blue


and she leaves

taking the miniature library

a bottle of vodka

and cake


a poet without a little poet

chatting away inside

is a sad creature indeed




I’ve set up a go-word-me fund

please send words, ideas and love

addressed to the little poet inside

and me



Copyright July 2019





In my bathroom, directly under the exhaust fan switch, lived Bobbie, a Daddy-long-legs. We would converse when I went to wash my hands or clean my teeth. He became quite agitated whenever I turned on the fan, twirling around in a fit and, I imagine, hurling curses my way. He lived happily for a couple of weeks in this prime position.

One morning I awoke early and entered the bathroom to find that Bobbie had been eaten, only the legs were left.

{See bottom Daddy-long-legs above}

There were two cannibal culprits. One was of a similar size as Bobbie and the other was huge…mega daddy-long-legs.

Now my money was on the mega-daddy but the smaller one was closer to Bobbie. It was hard for me to deduce just who the cannibal was. Until I could charge the culprit with murder/cannibalism I had to watch them closely and see who would benefit.

For two days they stayed in the position I found them. Like many a detective before me I began to question my reasoning and turned to drink…tea.

Finally, the hierarchy changed. Mega-daddy moved into prime position {see above} and tiny-daddy hung down lower, halfway between the switch and the floor. And so they will remain until tomorrow, when I clean the bathroom, and remove them both outdoors.

In the meantime I’ve called mega-daddy, Blake, and if you’ve read Jack Heath’s Timothy Blake books, you will know why.

The End.



Copyright July 2019


furious fiction story that did not make the cut {but I’m proud I wrote it anyway}


The air was thick with magic. Not the mealy mouthed, wrinkle your nose, white kind of magic but the down and dirty, dark-minded, we’re going to stir up the world kind. With a little violence on the side, if you want it, and can afford to pay. I pull my hat down a little further, walk through the shimmering crowds as if I own the party, praying I’ll remain unnoticed.

“Well! Well! Well! You have a nerve coming to MY party!”

Music stops and so does the chatter. All eyes are upon me.


I turn around to face the changeling, Susannah.

Despite her long misshapen legs and the permanent sneer etched on her prematurely aged face she is considered a beauty in Faux-Georgian circles. Today she affects a sweet, maiden style. High waisted muslin dress, sprigged with tiny bows, in contrasting shades of blue. Her brother, Percival, stands at her side, sneering and pudgy in his frocked coat and tights. He took snuff, but was not really up to it.

For a moment I forget my lines. Just as the panic begins to rise, I remember and make a deep bow.

“Greetings Miz Susannah”

I follow up with a perfunctory curtsey in Percival’s direction.

“And to you, Duke”

He nods in boredom and signals to the orchestra to commence the next berceuse. The crowds begin to loll and dream dance, helped along by the misty atmosphere of deepest desire.

Susannah glares. I try not to blanche for I know it is dangerous to show fear in front of her. She is my faerie twin; she knows me better than I know myself.  She hates me.

“I told you not to come here”, she says, fingering a knife which has appeared out of nowhere. It is long and thin and looks insanely sharp. “There is nothing for you here, or didn’t I make that clear last time!”

My heart leaps and I feel the place where my left arm used to be. In the depths of my mind it is still there. Feeling brave, and a little desperate, I straighten my spine and tell her straight to her face, “I only want one little button. To complete my collection, you know.”

She looks unconvinced so I continue, trying not to babble, “Yours is the last Button Party of the year. And I only need the one. Please Susannah, I’ll never come here again if you’ll only let me buy the button I need. It’s only one…” my words trail off and I feel tears flowing down my cheeks.

“Oh! For Oberon’s sake! Get your damned button and leave!!”

I bow, smiling underneath my tears.

I buy my button and retire to the belvedere, where my warlock and lover, Aidan, awaits.

“I have it”, I say, handing over the twelfth button.

He smiles, grasps my hand.

“We’ll bring your arm back, then leave.”

Not before revenge, I think, not before I get my revenge.



Copyright June 2019




30-word stories

Way back in April, Writers Victoria had a group flash fiction project which stretched throughout the whole month. 30 days of 30-word stories to celebrate 30 yrs of being.  Even though none of my stories was picked as story of the day {insert sad face} I was given lots of encouragement from people. I am now sharing my stories with you all.


Here are stories 26-30


April 26th – iridescent


Frantic dancing, an iridescent fluttering against the chandelier.

White. Pink. Red. Purple. Blue. Green. White again.

Mustn’t fly too high.


Wax softens in the flames.

And colours crash.

To earth.


April 27th – nacreous


“A word in your shell-like?”

Tentacles ooze around my throne.

As if I, Mother of Pearls, would grant a squid a boon.

“Calamari!” I order.

He dissolves in cloudy ink.


April 28th – treasure


In the crisper, cucumbers aside, under the wilting lettuce, my fingers map the route to the hidden treasure of chocolate teddy bear biscuits.

Off with his head.

He’ll never tell.


April 29th – perfectionism


Each letter I choose has meaning.

Each word I spell has power.

Precise words from my poisoned pen upon the parchment and hey presto, you are gone from my life.


April 30th – pearl


Mum said we will make a fortune. She also said it wouldn’t hurt. She lied. Nine months of agony as my eyes create pearls. Rich, yet blind, a fateful dowry.


Copyright June 2019