White Knight

Hello Hello, and welcome to the event that will be Genre Flashfiction February. Yes, I am a little early on this one, but week one launched on Romance. This is the response to round one prompt: Write a piece under 300 words about the moment the character realizes they are in love. Follow Dan, as she realizes that Clive is a keeper. Enjoy!


He cringed when he heard the knock on the door, not looking forward to telling Clive that dinner was off, and that he had forgotten to call him to tell Clive dinner was off before he had schlepped all the across town to meet him.

He opened the door, and before he could say a word, Clive was in, waving a bag of what looked like takeout as he spoke. “I come bearing sustenance, for what I assume is going to be two hours of watching you try and finish your paper. Take five, eat this,” Clive jammed a sub into his hand, “and I will start looking over what your have so far.”

Dan gaped, looking down at the sub, from his favourite shop, a 45-minute detour at least by bus, then back at Clive who didn’t seem the least bit bothered to spend his only night off reviewing Dan’s homework and he knew, in that moment, that he was in love with this man.

The Tale of the Travelling Bard – Part Two

Welcome to part two of the Tale of the Travelling Bard, though it stands alone. This is the story of the bard’s Father, as he finds out what his son has made of himself out on the road, and how his son’s profession has changed the way he interacts with the bards that pass through town.


“Sir, please, I promise to weave a tale that will keep your patrons here drinking late into the night. All I ask in return is a spot of soup, and, of course, if you can spare it a room, is that really too much to ask?”

Really, yes, it was far too much to ask. These damn bards would wander into town and just expect free food and lodging until they felt like moving on. The merchants at least had a service, offered something in trade, but a story, a story!

Ie took one look at the furrowed brow of his wife, and he gave the bard a room, a bowl of soup, a biscuit and a cup of mead ignoring the mans profuse thanks, and instead looking at his dear Louisa who is glowing at the show of kindness.

“Do you think Danny is getting enough to eat?” She asked when I walked by.

“Of course,” he lied. “He is twice the story teller as this bloke, and a with a merchant he is sure to see a pretty penny. He’s probably having the time of his life. Don’t worry dear, just focus on remembering the story for next time he visits.” And she lit up at the idea of being the one to tell Danny a story for a change and focused intently on the bard, who true to his word had quite a story to tell.

The longer I listened the more, with a sinking feeling, I began to realize, he was talking about my Danny. Though I wouldnt’a called him of flaxen hair, he met the rest of the criteria, and I prayed to the gods that my wife didn’t realize that the idiot bard following around a monster hunter was our boy.

After that I was a little freer with my lodging for bards, and at least 4-5 times a year someone would come in with a take owing bard to Danny and I prayed all the more.

It’s why I was so surprised the day that Danny walked back into the tavern, taller, broder, fuller, a man. A man that anyone would be proud to call son. He hugged him Mum, took his bath, and came down and started to tell a tale.

I knew he had a gift, but gods, this was more than that, they were enthralled, ensnared by it, and drinking by the tankard unknowingly. The next night the tavern of the was so full I had to turn people away, and I knew my son’s ridiculous story inn was going to become a reality.

Danny had money now, or Daniel as he so liked to be called, and hired folks to build onto inn, making a stage, to tell tales and songs upon, and it didn’t take many months before we were adding rooms to the inn, getting another building, hiring staff. Our little middle nowhere town exploded as people came round from all parts to listen to Danny’s stories, and I couldn’t blame them, they were magnificent, the best I had ever heard.

He started teaching, my boy teaching, the art of story telling, and I couldn’t help but think back to the useless waif we had taken in all those years ago, and feel pride for being the one to keep him. My boy, the bard.

Cleaning House

Hello Hello, the word of the week is Mess, and this week I am using it in the cleaning up a mess sense of the word.  Follow the story of Heidi, who hates the smell of bleach, and is cleaning up someone else’s mess.  There is a lot implied here, but not much said outright, so I suspect triggers are off the table this week, but let me know if I am wrong. Thanks. Also this is in thiller/horror because while it is not suspenseful, it has that creepy vibe


The smell of bleach was so thick in the air that she could almost taste it, as it burned it’s way down her throat with every breath she took.

This was the part of cleaning that Heidi hated the most, the smell of it, and while every bit of her hurt from two hours on her hand and knees scrubbing the floor, it was taste in her mouth that made her angry.

This wasn’t her mess, she shouldn’t have to be the one the clean it up, but if Olga had the kind of control that was needed to do clean-up, there wouldn’t be a mess to clean up in the first place.

It should have been their mother here doing this, after all it was her decision to let Olga out, even though Heidi had begged her not to, and less than two days later here she was on her knees trying to scrub every bit of evidence from the grout on the kitchen floor.

It wasn’t perfect, this much bleach would let anyone with a nose know that something had happened here, and that alone would bring suspicion upon them, but there would be no forensic evidence to tie to them to it, not if she could help it.

Heidi had liked it here, had liked being Heidi, but that was over now, as once things settled, they would be moving on, lest they be suspects when the next missing happened, and she longed for the day they got to stay somewhere long enough to call it her home.

Try, Try Again

Hello, and welcome to this weeks response to The Writer’s Mess’s Friday Picture Prompt Challenge. This week t there was a book, some used candles, and dirt to draw from, and at first I thought I would skip it. Then I started to worked what kind of spilled would involve so much dirt, and well, we get the story of our narrator, trying to perform a ritual, and running out of time.


The first time made sense, she had interpreted the moon phase wrong, she didn’t have a good enough offering, but this time it should have worked.  Why didn’t it work?

Maybe it was the hour?  She had tried midnight, but maybe, just maybe nonsense from that witch show on TV had been right, and it was really three am that was the true witching hour. 

She could do this, she would do this she had to.

She looked down at the book, still open to the appointed page, half used candles strewn around it in the dirt covering the grave.

She had on more chance at this, and if she wasn’t successful, it was over, she would be too late, and Kennedy would stay dead.

She had two and a half hours to prepare, to get another sacrifice, and if this was her last shot, she would have to make it count.

She pulled the knife from her bag, and headed towards the living space behind the church.  After all, in for a penny, in for a pound.