Little Miss Jone’s Eviction (100 Word Flash)

 Little Miss Jone’s Eviction 

By Sis Unsworth

Little Miss Jones was feeling extremely anxious. It seemed

her life was changing as she was about to be evicted

after living there a short time. She loved her own space

and had everything she needed. Without warning they wanted her out. 

What had she done? She hadn’t bothered anyone

and now they were physically evicting her. Where could she find

another place like this? She began to get extremely angry

and gave out a large screaming sob, in desperation

then found herself pushed into a strange environment…

Where a voice said, “Mrs Jones it’s a beautiful baby girl!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Sandcastles 02

 Sandcastles 02

By John Abbott

Pretty little things created on the beach

Almost out of reach

Decorated with shells

The stories that relate to those moments, it dwells

And a moat surrounding

with all the noises sounding

Of the gentle flow of waves

Is often all that one craves

 

Like life, it is constant, never-ending

Always in the winds, bending

Build, create, decorate, the children imagining stories

And delighting in great glories

You grow from there to imagine dreams and futures

For you to think about experiences

However, it often deals with disappearances

The waves on the sand causing ripples

Maybe you need to realise

That this often ends, destined to capsize

As the tide gets heavier

Maybe its just a little merrier

It is after all, an epiphany

You go along with the ride

And as we all know, it all washes away with the tide

 

Copyright John Abbott

PETRIFIED

 PETRIFIED

Peter Woodgate

“Where on earth has it gone?” Mary fumbled around in her pockets searching for for the tickets she had bought just 5 minutes earlier. Suddenly a feeling of de ja vu overcame her. 

“Can I help you?” a mysterious stranger appeared from nowhere. 

“No thank you,” Mary replied abruptly.

“Are you sure, you look so distressed,” the strangers voice had an air of calmness in it and Mary felt rather embarrassed as she continued to search in the pockets of her overcoat and jacket. She had agreed to meet her friend

but she had not turned up, hence the reason for Mary’s distress. 

“Perhaps this is what you are looking for?” 

Mary glanced at the outstretched gloved hand and, there they were, the admission tickets for Madam Tussauds. 

Feeling rather stupid Mary mumbled a “thank you” adding “I must have dropped them, how silly of me.” 

She found herself gazing into the eyes of the stranger,

They were dark, very dark and, as she studied his clothing,

the feeling of de ja vu crept up on her once again. 

He was wearing a top hat, a bow tie with a dress shirt, a dinner jacket with tails and striped trousers. How odd, she thought, as she retrieved the tickets from the gloved hand of the unusual looking stranger that stood before her. 

Mary thanked him again and was about to enter the exhibition when she felt his hand on her shoulder.

She spun around quickly as he spoke. 

“Allow me to accompany you, I can be your personal guide.

I am an expert on everything there is to know about all the exhibits. I am practically part of the furniture.” 

Although feeling awkward Mary thought she owed him something for finding her tickets and stammered an OK. 

As they wandered around the stranger, who had now introduced himself as Albert, clearly had vast knowledge of all the figurines they encountered. He was able to convey every last detail of each exhibit and, it appeared, before too long they had visited all but the Chamber of Horrors. 

Mary had not intended visiting this part and when she looked at her watch, she was aware that the exhibition would shortly be closing. Albert, however, insisted they visit this famous old section and she found herself gazing through bars at grisly scenes of murder and debauchery.

Suddenly, Mary Was aware that they were alone in what was now becoming a very spooky place. “I think we ought to be making our way back,”

she spoke nervously, “it will be closing shortly.” 

“There is just one more exhibit I need to show you,”

Albert ushered Mary along the corridor until they reached the final enclosure.

“ But there’s nothing in there,” Mary exclaimed, and was about to turn around when she felt herself being pushed

through the unlocked enclosure door. 

“What the Hell,” Mary had no time to finish her sentence before she felt the knife as it was thrust into her abdomen.

The feeling of de ja vu again swept over her as she slumped to the floor catching sight of Albert leaning over her before she passed out.

She came to and looked up at the figure still crouched over her, she recognized the clothes as those worn by Albert but she couldn’t see his face.

There was a spotlight shining down on Mary but his face was turned away toward the shadows. 

He didn’t move, she tried to, but couldn’t. She screamed

but no sound came out of her mouth, she was rigid. 

It was the following day and some early visitors had made their way to the Chamber of Horrors. Helen and her boyfriend Tom had been excited but shuddered at some of the exhibits on view. They were regular visitors to Madam Tussauds and for some reason loved the horror of squeamish scenes.

“Look Tom,” Helen turned to her boyfriend in excitement,

There’s a new exhibit.

They looked at the board which showed the details. 

JACK THE RIPPER WITH ONE OF HIS VICTIMS

MARY JANE KELLY 9th NOVEMBER 1888

“But you can’t see his face” Helen remarked disappointedly

“That’s because they don’t know for sure who he was,” Tom replied rather smugly.

 “Oh look at that poor woman’s face,” Helen sighed,

“It looks so real, there’s even a tear in her eye.”

 

A Scream was heard throughout the corridors of Hell…

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  

26.2 (500 Words Flash)

 

26.2

By Jane Scoggins 

 I didn’t feel fit. I was anxious, and nervous. I took deep breaths. I felt sick.  I put one foot in front of the other and hoped for the best. I was jostled, surrounded by noise from thousands. I began to move forward. I got into a rhythm. Blue sky. I kept going. People around me still jostling. Some running, some jogging, some dressed weirdly attracting attention. I jogged on. Right and left people behind barriers shouting and calling, hundreds of them. Banners and waving arms. I jogged on. People passed me by, running. It was a warm day, my mouth was dry. I jogged on and on and on. An hour gone. I can see the Cutty Sark. More people passed me, some older, some younger. I slowed to a walk. Ahead a table with bottled water, I took one. I carried on.  Over the river Thames, and a sign saying HALF WAY. Towards Docklands I was so weary. I ate a protein bar. My legs were tired. I walked on. I wished it was over. I carried on in a dreamlike state, willing myself  to continue. I found mental strength from somewhere in my depths. It kept me going. I shut my mind to everything, including tiredness. It was hard but I was determined now. I stopped for another drink of water, must keep hydrated. I sucked on a barley sugar. I looked at my watch. Three hours had passed. I was surprised I had survived this far. It gave me incentive to believe I could carry on. My feet were tired as well as my legs, but no blisters. I was pleased with myself. I found myself smiling back at people. I was determined. Four hours passed. My legs were heavy. I often slowed to a walk or stopped altogether. I was hot, There were others around me dawdling same as me, we gave each other encouragement with a smile or kind word. It felt good. Eventually I saw a huge sign ahead that read WELL DONE, ONLY 5 MORE MILES TO GO. I felt rejuvenated. I was determined to enjoy those last five miles. I was going to make it after all. Tower Bridge and the roar of the crowd was amazing and incredibly loud After more than six hours I was approaching Buckingham Palace, The Mall and the finish line. So happy to have made it, I shed a few tears as I received my medal from a smiling official who saw my exhausted happy face and gave me a little hug of congratulation. My legs were weak, my spirits high. Putting the surprisingly heavy medal around my neck I gave it a kiss and held it up to the sky and whispered ‘For you Max’. Max was a fit twenty six year old when he died suddenly from a heat attack. He will be forever missed and loved. I was running for him in aid of Cardiac Risk in Young Adults. CRY.

Copyright Jane Scoggins 

Castles in the Sand

 Castles in the Sand

By Sis Unsworth 

A young lad on a sunny beach, builds a castle with such pride,

So mesmerized he plays all day, his pleasure he can’t hide.

Alas he has to leave it there, he’s filled with deep regret.

He felt he had abandoned it, like a playful special pet.

Sand castles like forgotten dreams, washed away by the tide

But can return in memories, that can’t be brushed aside

Good times give us pleasure, and pleasure can’t be wrong

So enjoy your castles while they last, they may not be there long.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

THE LONDON MARATHON ESCAPE

THE LONDON MARATHON ESCAPE

By Bob French

          As a boy, Daniel had always felt something missing; an edge, a hardness he couldn’t quite define. While others drifted through life, he wanted to understand it, to test himself against it. That hunger for maturity drove him to the Merchant Navy and eventually to South Africa. It was there, on what would be his final trip that everything changed.

          What began as another reckless venture ended in violence. He was ambushed; beaten so badly he was left for dead. Broken ribs, shattered confidence, and months of slow, painful recovery followed. It took nearly a year before he could stand tall again. But the man who rose from that year was not the same boy who had fallen.  He made himself a promise: never again.

          Revenge, at first, was a vague idea; more feeling than plan. But over time it sharpened into purpose. He returned to Britain and enlisted in the Royal Marines. If he was going to survive in a brutal world, he would do it properly. He would learn discipline. He would learn control. And, if necessary, he would learn how to kill.

          The Marines gave him structure, but they also revealed something darker within him; a talent for strategy, for reading people, for anticipating weakness. When he left the service, that talent found its natural home in the shadows.

          For the next ten years, Daniel moved through the underworld like a ghost. He didn’t lead gangs or make any noise. He observed, waited, and exploited. Petty criminals with sloppy plans became his targets. He let them do the work, then quietly took their rewards. A botched robbery here, a poorly executed con there, he refined his craft until it became almost effortless.

          Eventually, he returned to South Africa, not as a victim this time, but as a man in control. With the wealth he had accumulated, he bought an old fishing boat. It was modest at first, but it gave him something he hadn’t had in years: a cover, a routine, a semblance of peace.

          He hired himself and the boat out for deep-sea fishing charters. After each lucrative contract, he upgraded—selling the old vessel, buying a bigger one. The progression mirrored his life: always moving forward, always expanding.

          Years passed. Then, one morning, standing on the deck as the sun rose over the horizon, Daniel realised something. He was tired. Not physically, but deeply, fundamentally tired of living for other people’s expectations, other people’s plans, even if he was the one exploiting them. He wanted one last job. Something clean. Something decisive. That decision took him to Amsterdam and for six months, he kept his ear to the ground; bars, docks, backroom conversations. He listened more than he spoke, invisible as ever. Eventually, he heard whispers of something big: a gang planning to steal a massive diamond consignment from the heart of London and traffic them back to Amsterdam.  It was at this point he decided to move to London, closer to the action.

          Daniel didn’t approach them. He didn’t need to. He simply listened and learned. The plan was ambitious but flawed. Their surveillance was sloppy, their timing predictable, their escape route amateurish. Daniel smiled the first time he mapped it all out. They weren’t professionals; they were opportunists, which made them perfect.

          He followed the details carefully, identifying the weak point: their getaway plan. On the day of the heist, London buzzed with the chaos of the marathon. Streets were closed, crowds thick, police stretched thin. It was the perfect cover, not just for the gang, but for him.

          He watched from a distance as they moved into position, each step confirming his assessment of their incompetence. Daniel already had their getaway van under surveillance and when the driver left the van to buy some cigarettes, He slipped into the back of the van and waited. On his return Daniel quickly took out the driver and Minutes later, Daniel sat behind the wheel, wearing the man’s mask. Beneath it, concealed, was a lightweight military gas mask of his own.

          The robbery went exactly as he expected—loud, clumsy, alarms blaring. The gang came running, adrenaline high, unaware that their plan had already been compromised. They piled into the van laughing and screaming, no one took any notice of Daniel who drove calmly away, merging into traffic with practiced ease. No sudden movements, no panic; just another vehicle in the chaos of the East End. Then he triggered the gas which spread silently throughout the van. Within minutes, the euphoria gradually stopped as one by one the men collapsed into unconsciousness.

          Daniel didn’t rush. He drove to a quiet, deserted car park near Liverpool Street Station. There, he tied up the three men, sprinkled a few of the stolen diamonds around so that when the Police found the van and the diamonds, the search would be called off. then packed the rest of his newly found wealth into a common sports bag; left the van behind with its sleeping passengers. Once he had deposited the sports bag into one of the numerous deposit boxes he went to the Men’s and changed into his running gear throwing his shoes and clothes into a rucksack.

          A taxi took him to the start point where thousands of runners had already started to stream past the start line. Before he joined the throng, he called the police and gave them directions and descriptions of the thieves who had just robbed the Diamond Store.  Then he threw the burn-phone into a nearby bin and slipped into the crowd unnoticed, just another late participant. Hours later, he crossed the finish line with the stragglers, collected his medal, and disappeared into the city.

          He waited for a few days to make sure things had died down.  During this period, he arranged for the sale of his boat and requested that the proceeds be transferred back to his account in South Africa. He then caught the ferry over to Amsterdam and agreed to meet with the diamond merchant who had agreed to buy the diamonds from the gang in the first place.  Once the sale of the stolen diamonds had been made, Daniel asked the dealer to transfer his proceeds back to South Africa.  Once that was done, he caught a train to Zurich in Switzerland and made an appointment with one of the more famous banks.  Here he transferred all his money he had made in South Africa and from the sale of his boat and the diamonds into the Swiss Bank account.  The day after that, he bought a first-class ticket to the Bahamas and vanished.

Copyright Bob French

  

DYLAN

                                                

 DYLAN   

By Peter Woodgate

When the day has been a grind

And there’s a problem on my mind

I know his love I’ll find.

 

When I’m feeling kind of blue

And I’m waiting in a queue

He’ll be waiting too.

 

He’ll be waiting there at home

To ensure I’m not alone

And in his eye sincerity and trust.

 

For although I may be weary

And the weather wet and dreary

He’ll spread a ray of sunshine through the dust.

 

He keeps a beady eye on me

Not two, he has just one you see

The other was a loss to glaucoma

 

But with one eye he can see

Just as good as you and me

And has a soft congenial persona.

 

With his head upon my knee

He will look with sympathy

Into my eyes and I will get the plot

 

For without a sound he’ll show

That I must up and go

And open a tin of Winalot.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate