Tag Archives: #shortstory

Continue the Story …. the party guest ( flash fiction)

She knew she had to leave. Quickly. She should never have come. She should have politely declined the invitation. She didn’t belong here. This all felt so wrong.

Scanning the room, she searched for an escape route. One door led to the kitchen and judging from the laughter coming from there, it was full of guests. The only other door was the one to the hallway. If she could get to the hallway, she could slip out of the front door unnoticed with a bit of luck.

Between her and the door though was her host. He was chatting animatedly, beer in hand, with several guys that she didn’t know. He kept glancing over though as if to check that she was still there. Looking round, she realised that she didn’t know anyone. How had she been talked into this party? She hated house parties. Too many ghosts from her past where she’d been left trying to make polite conversations with wives she didn’t know and had little in common with.

If she left too soon though he’d be offended and that was the last thing she wanted to do. He was the only reason she’s agreed to come.

She had taken great care with her appearance. Now though she felt stupid. He wasn’t going to care about how she looked while he was surrounded by all his friends.

Eventually she saw him excuse himself and head into the kitchen, presumably for another beer. Seizing her chance, she slipped from the room into the hall then out the door.

The cool night air soothed her as it caressed her bare arms. Fortunately, her car hadn’t been blocked in.  As she started the engine, she saw light spilling from the open front door.

His gaze followed her as she drove away.

The Measly Jar of Motivation – An Odd Shoe

Birds were singing in the trees as she made her way through the labyrinth of paths to reach her grandmother’s grave. She smiled when she spotted it basking in the warm sunshine with its gorgeous view of the surrounding countryside.

Kneeling down in the lush grass, she removed the dead flowers from the vase at the base of the headstone and replaced them with the fresh wildflower bouquet she had picked that morning. Carefully she arranged them so that they sat evenly in the vase.

“Oh, Grandma,” she sighed. “I miss you. Miss your words of wisdom. Miss your smile. I wish you were here.”

Her eyes filled with tears, “Alex left me. He’s been having an affair with a woman from work. She’s pregnant with his baby.”

A small bird came to sit on the headstone, its head cocked to one side as if it was listening.

“He told me he never wanted kids!” The words were spoken with the taste of bitterness that she felt inside echoing through them. “I want kids!”

The bird looked at her.

Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed, letting out all the hurt and anger, rage and disappointment. In her mind, she could visualise her grandmother placing her hand on her shoulder and saying, “These things happen for a reason, Ruby. If you’d been meant to be a pair for life, he wouldn’t have been the odd shoe.”

“Odd shoe?” she whispered the words as she held onto the image of her grandmother.

“Never liked that boy. Didn’t make any effort to fit in. He wasn’t a good match for you. I told your mother that.”

“Mum did say you’d be relieved. She told me you weren’t Alex’s biggest fan.”

“He’s a selfish arrogant…” a bird screeching nearby drowned out a string of profanities.

“Grandma!”

“You need someone unique. Someone whose odd shoe matches yours. Don’t waste your time with Alex. You’re too good for the likes of him, girl.”

“Mum said the same thing,” sighed Ruby, drawing comfort from the ghostly conversation in her head.

“Odd shoe, Ruby. Mark my words.”

As she sat by her grandmother’s grave, Ruby dried her tears and reflected on the five years she had spent with Alex. His shoes had always been perfect…as had his clothes and hair and even his nails. He had been the well-polished Gucci loafer to her colourful Converse. In the early days of their relationship, he had adored her quirky sense of style but as he had climbed the career ladder, he had become increasingly critical of her clothes, her hair and her figure…and her job…in fact as she sat in the sun, Ruby recognised that he had found fault with everything that made her who she was.

“You’re better off without him, Ruby.”

She heard her grandmother’s voice clear as a bell.

“I need to go, Grandma,” she apologised as she got to her feet. “I’ll be back next week.”

“Watch out for odd shoes, angel.”

Smiling at the ghostly advice, Ruby headed back to her car. Checking the time, she realised she’d be late to meet her friend at the new coffee shop in town. As she reached her car, a beaten-up vintage VW beetle, she sent her friend a message, “Running late. Be with you in ten, X”.

There was only one parking space left outside the coffee shop. It was beside a red 1970’s VW camper van. As a teenager, Ruby had always dreamed of touring the country, living like a gypsy, in a red VW van. Every time she saw one, she regretted not following that dream.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologised as she slipped into the booth to sit opposite her friend.

“You say that every time, Ruby,” laughed her friend, used to her tardiness.

“Have you ordered?”

“Not yet. I was waiting for you.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter.

“Ladies, what can I tempt you to today?”

Looking up, Ruby found herself gazing into a pair of twinkling hazel eyes. He smiled. Without taking her eyes off him, Ruby placed her order.

As he walked away, she noticed he was wearing odd shoes.

The Measly Jar of Motivation – Someone Else’s Secret (flash fiction)

Gentle waves lapped at the pillars beneath the fishing pier. The pier stretched out in front of her, reaching out towards the watery horizon. As was her want, she had climbed up onto one of the concrete blocks at the base of one of the pillars, choosing one free from seaweed that was catching the early morning sun. The first hour after sunrise was her favourite time of day. All around her the world was wakening up. Off to her left, she could see a heron, wading leisurely through the shallows. The beach was virtually deserted, only the occasional fisherman standing on the shoreline.

It was a peaceful scene. A perfect picture of tranquillity.

With her sketchpad balanced on her knee and two spare pencils skewered through her messy hair bun, she worked swiftly to capture an image of the heron before it took flight.

A voice, an irate voice, shattered her concentration. Looking up from her drawing, she spotted a guy with shoulder length tousled blonde hair, wearing a dark suit with the trousers rolled up, wading through the water between the pillars. His black leather shoes were sticking out of his suit jacket pockets.

“It was our fucking wedding night, and you fucked my best man!” he ranted as he walked between two pillars a few metres from where she sat unseen.

He paused his stride while the other person, his bride, replied.

Slamming his fist off one of the pillars, he fumed, “Screw you! I’ll be speaking to my lawyer to get this farce of a marriage annulled. Have a nice life, Elizabeth.”

Ending the call, he hurled his phone out into the ocean.

Sitting in stunned silence, she watched as the rejected bridegroom headed off down the beach away from her. His aura was screaming hurt and anger around him.

A strange feeling crept over her. She felt as though she had intruded on a private moment for the stranger, a life changing moment. A moment that had left her with the feeling of carrying someone else’s secret. Part of her wanted to run after him and tell him it would all work out, but would it?…

While she had been distracted, the heron had flown away.

The scene from the beach was still eating at her as she opened up her coffee shop an hour later. Her overactive imagination had woven all sorts of scenarios around the snippet of conversation, but she still felt guilty about accidentally overhearing it in the first place. Telling herself that it was just a moment in time, and she’d never see the guy again, she flipped the closed sign over to open before opening the door to let the ocean air waft in.

Soon her morning regulars began to fill the tables. The coffee shop hummed around her with the buzz of conversation.

“Americano with an extra shot to go please.”

The voice sounded familiar.

Looking up she found herself face to face with the guy from the beach….

The Measly Jar of Motivation – The Tin (flash fiction)

So many years had passed since she had last seen “the tin”. When had it even last been opened? The old shortbread tin was beginning to show its age. The tartan sides and border on the lid were faded. The image of snowcapped Scottish mountains on the lid was growing faint with age, almost as though a veil of mist was hanging over their peaks. The tin was older than she was. In fact, it might even be older than her mother.

Holding it in her hands, memories of playing with it as a little girl came rushing back. She had spent many hours sorting through the contents, plaguing her gran to tell her the stories that went with them. Her gran had happily gone wandering down memory lane as she reminisced about where each item had come from.

When she had been a child, the tin had seemed huge and heavy. Now, as she held it in her hands, it was the weight of the memories within that she felt.

Taking great care, she eased off the lid. As she glimpsed inside it, everything looked exactly the same as it had done over forty years before.

The tin was filled with buttons.

There were buttons in all shapes and sizes; there were buttons of every colour.

Lost in her memories, she ran her fingers through the buttons.

She spotted the large dark green buttons that had belonged to her grandfather’s army coat from during the war. There were small round pearl buttons from one of her mother’s summer cardigans from the 1950’s. Big round purple buttons caught her eye. Those came from the wool coat her aunt had bought with her first wage packet. She could see some bone toggles that had been snipped from her father’s duffel coat. One still had its leather loop attached. Several small pearly white buttons with a star in the centre made her smile. They were from her own handknitted baby cardigans. In one of the corners, she saw four or five grey buttons clustered together that had come from one of her primary school cardigans.

Reaching into her jeans pocket, she pulled out four navy blue buttons about the size of a two pence piece. With a wistful smile, she added the buttons from her gran’s favourite cardigan to the tin.

Her whole family history could be told using the buttons from the tin. In her hands, she held several lifetimes of memories. If only those buttons could talk. The tales they would tell!

She was now the custodian of “the tin”. Silently, she promised her gran that she would keep up the family tradition and add her buttons and her children’s buttons to the tin. In time, the tin would pass down to the next generation but for now it was hers to cherish.

A teardrop fell, landing on a red button in the heart of the tin.

The Measly Jar of Motivation – Inside Out

Night had long since descended. As she gazed out of the tenth-floor window, she could see the lights from the town twinkling below. Tiny cars were making their way along the roads. Everything looked so normal. It all looked the same. Nothing had changed yet at the same time, everything had changed. A huge crushing weight of responsibility had settled on her slender shoulders. Although this was a moment she had dreamt of and longed for, now that it was real, she was scared. Could she really do this? What if she failed? What if she wasn’t good enough? What if she couldn’t cope?

Behind her, the baby began to cry loud piercing wails as he squirmed in his clear plastic hospital crib.

Without hesitation, she scooped him up and cradled him in her arms, swaying gently from side to side to rock him back to sleep. Could she really do this alone?

She glanced down at his head covered in downy white, blonde hair, his angry red face, his tiny, clenched fists.

Her eyes caught sight of a label. His tiny white vest was on inside out. What kind of mother was she going to make if she couldn’t even put his first vest on the right way round?

Suddenly the familiar world outside the window seemed dark and scary and completely overwhelming.

“What are you doing out of bed? It’s late. You should try to get some rest,” scolded the midwife softly.

“But he was crying…”

“Let me settle him tonight. You need to rest. You’ve had a long emotional day,” stated the midwife stepping closer.

Wearily, she handed the fractious baby, her three-hours old son, to the midwife.

“Now, do we have a name yet?” asked the midwife, accepting the baby into her arms.

“Oliver,” she replied quietly as she smiled at her son. Allowing her mind to remember her late partner momentarily as she wrestled with her grief, then she added, “After his dad.”

“It’s a good name,” nodded the midwife as baby Oliver’s cries began to subside. “Now, bed. Sleep. Rest. The world will look less daunting in the morning.”

“I hope so…”

Once Upon A Time (adult fiction)

In the wee small hours of the morning, Anna sat at her desk, her writing in full flow. The desk in front of her was littered with post it notes with phrases, names and key parts of the storyline scribbled on them. Earlier in the evening, she had reached the part of the tale where her male and female protagonists kissed for the first time. Caught up in the moment, the scene she initially envisaged spiralled and her “chaste kiss” became more passionate and as she wrote had evolved into something way sexier than she had first intended… but it worked, her characters were having fun, so she went with it.

Her male lead had given the female lead a ride home after her car had broken down…corny but true. In fact, her own car had broken down on the way home from work that afternoon and as she had walked the three miles home, she had dreamt of a “knight in shining armour” rocking up to give her a lift.

The tale emerging in front of her had seen her female lead invite her “knight in shining armour” in for coffee. They’d shared that first not so chaste kiss in the kitchen.

A noise from the kitchen behind her startled her back to reality. It sounded like footsteps. It also sounded like someone was making a pot of coffee, but she was home alone…

Quietly, Anna got up from her desk and tip toed across to the door which stood slightly ajar. As she peeked through the narrow gap, she caught sight of a man in her kitchen. She paused, a scream half-formed on her lips. He looked familiar. Long sun-bleached blonde hair caught back in a ponytail. Skinny black jeans. Black boots worn down at the heel. Slim fitting black V-neck tee. Tattoos visible from under the short sleeves.

She sniffed the air as a whiff of aftershave teased her sense of smell.

With a glance back at her notebook, Anna shook her head. She had to be hallucinating. The man making coffee in her kitchen matched the description of her male lead to perfection. Even the aftershave was the same scent.

Deciding that logically this couldn’t be real, she opened the door and walked through to the kitchen. At the sound of her feet on the tiled floor, he turned to smile at her. Oh, it was that dazzling smile she had written about a few hours earlier when he had stopped to rescue her female character.

“Hey,” he greeted her casually. “Where do you keep the coffee mugs?”

“Top cupboard on the left of the sink,” she heard herself reply as she took two small steps towards him.

“Black? Right?” he checked as he set two mugs down on the countertop.

“Milk and two for you?” she replied.

“Spot on.”

“I’ll get the milk,” she offered, reaching for the fridge door handle.

As she gazed into its brightly lit depths, Anna’s heart was pounding. Whatever was going on here, he was hot! That smile! Those eyes!

Lifting the carton of milk from its place on the door, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves then closed the door over. With trembling hands, she took the milk over to where he stood beside the two mugs of coffee.

“Which one’s yours?” she asked, unscrewing the lid.

“One on the right,” he replied as he spooned in some sugar.

As she stepped in to pour the milk, she felt his hand on the small of her back. Little ripples of excitement scooted up her spine at his touch. Setting the carton of milk down, she turned to face him. Their eyes met as he reached his hand out to tip her face up towards his. As their lips met, he drew her close, their kiss deepening with unspoken desire. Her hands were running up and down his back as she relished the taste of him. When she felt his hand move to caress her breast, she sighed.

“I want to make love to you, Anna,” he declared between kisses. “Right here. Right now.”

“Not here,” she whispered.

“Where then?”

“Family room,” she suggested. “Through here.”

Taking his hand, she led him into the adjacent family room. A small table lamp was still lit and offered enough light to create a more intimate atmosphere. Without a word, he scooped her into his arms and gently laid her down on the couch. Straddling her, he began to unbutton her blouse, exposing the swell of her ample breasts. He ran his tongue over their curves while his fingers continued to deal with the remaining buttons. Not wanting to be the only one undressed, Anna tugged his t-shirt from the waistband of his jeans before reaching up under the soft cotton, feeling his skin smooth and warm under her cool fingers.

Within moments their clothes lay discarded on the rug. Naked, they explored each other’s body with a combination of gentle caresses and soft tender kisses. Anna ran her finger over the reddish birthmark on his hip. He traced his fingertip around her areola before biting each nipple sharply. She gasped at the thrill of the bites. He slid his hand up between her thighs, his thumb instinctively finding her sensitive nub. A small groan of ecstasy escaped from her as sparks of electricity fired through her at his every touch. Reaching down, her hand found his hard length. As she wrapped her fingers around him, it was his turn to let out a small growl of pleasure. Slowly, she massaged his erection while his fingers explored her wet feminine folds.

“I’m going to make love to you,” he said, his voice warm and husky. “I need to feel you around me.”

Parting her thighs, he entered her with one confident thrust. Her hips bucked in response. Still kissing her neck, he began to stroke her slowly, languidly, teasing her towards orgasm.

“Harder,” she breather as their bodies moved together as one. “Deeper.”

“As you desire,” he said, thrusting hard and fast.

Her orgasm shattered around him a split second before his own hot creamy load filled her in a few frantic thrusts.

“Mark,” she purred as she felt herself sink back into the soft cushions of the couch.

“Sh, Anna,” he said, putting his finger to her lips. “That was…”

“Perfect,” she finished for him.

Again, she was rewarded with one of his dazzling smiles.

Gently, he eased out of her then he spooned around her, cupping her exposed breast with one hand. Stirring purring with contentment, Anna savoured the warmth of his slender muscular body around her.

She felt her eyelids grow heavy…

A sudden chill wakened her minute…hours…later.

He was gone.

Gathering her discarded clothing into her arms, Anna wandered back through the kitchen, barely noticing the two mugs of cold coffee sitting forgotten on the counter. Her mind was focused on one thing. She needed to keep writing until she wrote Mark back out of the story…

Cinnamon Girl (short story)

Being back in the small fishing town after eighteen years felt surreal to Freya as she walked down through the narrow winding streets towards the harbour. In her jeans pocket, her hand was wrapped around a set of keys. The keys to her new shop. Everyone had told her she was insane to open her dream business in such a small tourist orientated location but something deep inside her told her that the location was perfect and that this was exactly where she was meant to be.

The place had captured her heart when she had spent the summer there. It had been her first experience of living and working away from home and had set her on the path to follow her dreams. That summer, she had worked in the town’s only hotel as a receptionist. Home for the summer season had been a tiny sweltering caravan at the campsite on the edge of town. It had been a long hot summer; it had been almost the perfect summer.

As she drew closer to the harbour front, the street grew busier with tourists meandering through town, browsing in the shop windows. “Busy’s good,” she thought as she reached the door to her own shop. It was located on the corner of the main thoroughfare with an oblique view of the harbour. Despite its prime spot, the shop had lain empty for several years. The estate agent had explained that it used to be a book shop and when the owner died, there had been a lengthy dispute over settling the estate. With the legalities agreed in the background, the shop had been put on the market. Immediately she saw the sale notice ping into her emails, Freya knew this was the place she had been searching for. Decision made, she had sealed the deal within days then spent another few weeks negotiating to buy a small cottage on the outskirts of town.

A glance at her phone told her she still had about an hour before she was due to meet the joiner who was going to re-fit the shop for her. “Time for a coffee,” she thought with a smile to herself. Coffee was something else she associated with that summer from the past.

When she had stayed in town before, Freya had fallen into the habit of walking to work via a small coffee shop hidden in one of the myriad of tiny side streets. The barista was a summer worker just like herself and he quickly sussed out her routine. By the time summer was drawing to a close, he knew it so well that her morning coffee was just being placed on the counter ready for her as she walked in the door. They’d flirted outrageously with each other but both were working long shifts with little free time. They did eventually manage one memorable date shortly before they both left to resume university life at opposite ends of the country.

She smiled at the memory as she set off to see if the coffee shop was still there.

It was! And it was exactly as she remembered it. The delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with freshly baked pastries brought back sweet memories. Behind the counter, a tall dark-haired barista was busily wiping down the coffee machine after the last order. His long hair was pulled up into a man bun, but a couple of tendrils had escaped and were curling down at the name of his neck.

“Good morning,” he greeted her as he turned round to take her order.

“Morning,” said Freya politely. “Large cappuccino with cinnamon not chocolate and an extra shot.” She paused, “Oh, and I’ll have a cinnamon apple Danish too please.”

“Sit in or take away?”

“Sit in, please.”

Their eyes met as she paid for her order, a spark of familiarity instantly re-igniting deep inside her.

“Grab a seat and I’ll bring it over.”

“Thanks,” she said, fumbling to put her change in her purse.

Stumbling into an empty table en route, Freya scurried across to the empty corner table by the window. It was him! How? Why? He hadn’t even been from here so why was he back? A voice in her head whispered, “Why not? You’re back, aren’t you?”

In an effort to calm her nerves, Freya pulled her project book out of her canvas tote and tried to focus on the list of things she needed to speak to the shopfitter about in order to ensure the place was ready for her grand opening in two weeks’ time. Turning to the next section where she’d noted down all the colour options for the interior décor, Freya caught sight of the small, frayed napkin tucked into the plastic envelope section of the section divider. She fingered the delicate edge of it as memories flooded through her.

He’d written his phone number on it and passed it to her with her coffee the last day that she had come into the shop on her way for her final shift at the hotel. She’d never called the number. Coffee had dripped onto the napkin by the time she reached work, smudging the ink and rendering the two middle numbers illegible but she’d kept it. That tiny napkin had been her only link to him for all those years….

Sensing him approaching with her order, she turned the page over so that by the time he reached the table, all that was visible was various paint colour sample cards that she had pasted into the notebook.

“I like the bottom one,” he commented as he sat the mug down, followed by a white plate with her Danish pastry on it. Next, he placed a small square napkin down with several sachets of brown sugar and a wooden stirrer on top.

“Me too,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even.

“Would look great as a feature wall,” he continued casually.

Gazing at the teal green square of colour, Freya heard herself saying, “I’m thinking of painting the whole shop that colour.”

“Shop?” he quizzed. “Hey, are you the new owner of the old book shop? I heard it was due to re-open but no one in town seems to know much. It’s been quite the local mystery this week.”

There was no backing out now. Taking a deep breath, Freya revealed, “I’m opening in two weeks hopefully. Tattoo parlour.”

“Tattoo parlour? It’ll be the only one for miles. You could be onto a winner there.”

“I hope so,” she said, looking up into his dark brown eyes for the first time in eighteen years.

“Enjoy your coffee,” he said as he turned to walk back to the counter to serve his next customer.

Had he recognised her? Had she got away with this? It had been eighteen years so why would he remember her?

She lifted two of the long skinny sugar sachets and the stirrer. Something caught her eye. There was writing on the napkin. Pushing the remaining sugar sachets aside, she revealed the whole message. “Call me, Cinnamon Girl followed by a mobile number. Been a long time.”

Cinnamon Girl….his old nickname for her from all those years ago.

Not taking any chances this time, Freya tucked the napkin into the project book. She felt something inside her shift. A calm feeling washed through her. Her heart lightened. Suddenly she knew this was all going to work out ok. They had a lot of catching up to do.

As she took her first bite of her Danish, her phone buzzed. It was a What’s App message. “Hi Mum. Will be down on Saturday. See you about 4.”

Yes… there was a lot of catching up to be done…

Continue the Story – That Bridge

Without thinking, I took the first tentative step. It had finally happened. I had reached the point of no return…. or was I dreaming?

For months I’d been saying “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” dismissing future challenge after future challenge instead of facing up to them there and then.

Clutched in my hand was a well-worn piece of paper. It was the list I had written… the list of many of those future challenges that needed to be faced.

As I stared straight ahead, it looked as though each and every one of them had their own bridge.

Glancing down, all I could see were swirling mists. Just how high up was this rickety old bridge?

Carefully, I took a second step. The bridge shook but it held. Taking a deep breath, I took another small step then another.

In the dark recesses of my mind, I heard a voice say “It’s alright. I’ve got you.” Those words offered just enough reassurance to give me the strength to take the next step…and the next…

Eventually, I made it across the bridge. My hands were trembling. My heart was pounding. I had done it.

I glanced down at the list. The item at top had been scored through. How? Who? Did it matter? I’d crossed that first bridge when I came to it.

Step by step, bridge by bridge, I kept going. Challenge after challenge was scored off the list. I took my time, taking care not to rush the journey.

When I stepped off the final bridge, I stepped onto warm soft sand. The sun was shining, and I could hear the ocean waves crashing ashore just ahead of me.

The Measly Jar of Motivation – Margarita Promises (flash fiction)

As it was her last night in town, she had taken her time getting ready, making an effort with her make-up. Two weeks in the sunshine had added natural blonde highlights to her long hair. Her skin glowed, the strained dark shadows long gone from under her eyes. Glancing in the mirror one last time, she smiled. The reflection smiling back finally looked familiar.

With a swish of her long flowing cotton skirt, she left her Airbnb apartment, walked carefully down the stairs, reaching the boardwalk within a minute, just as the website had promised. Down on the beach, the last of the day’s sunworshippers were packing up. Further along she could see a group of teenagers playing volleyball and beyond that some fishermen with their rods sunk into the sand and their lines cast out into the ocean.

Unable to resist the lure of the sand, she kicked off her sandals, scooped them up by their straps and set off barefoot across the sand, it’s soft grains still warm underfoot from the day’s sun. To her right, ocean waves crashed ashore.

Her heart wasn’t ready to leave; her mind told her it was time to head back to reality.

When she had booked the trip that she’d dreamt of for so long, she’d told everyone “What I really want to experience is sunrise and sunset on the beach.” And she had…every day since she’d arrived.

Tonight would be her last sunset for a while; tomorrow her last sunrise before the Uber picked her up at lunchtime for the first leg of her journey home.

During the long dark months at home, she had checked the beachcam images of the beach and boardwalk daily. As she’d gazed at her laptop screen, she had promised herself when she finally made the trip that she would visit the bar in the foreground of the webcam view and enjoy a drink gazing out over the ocean.

The first night when she’d walked in there alone, her heart had been pounding, her anxieties crashing through her like one of the powerful ocean breakers that were breaking on the shore behind her. Walking into a bar alone was way outside her comfort zone but she knew she had a promise to herself to keep so, taking a deep breath, she walked across the room to the bar. She took a seat on a tall cocktail stool at the bar and ordered a margarita.

She’d done it. Another promise from the list honoured.

Around the same time the following evening, she’d returned to the bar for another margarita. This time it felt less daunting.

On her third night when she’d walked in feeling confident, the bartender had smiled as he saw her approach and began to mix her cocktail. When she went to pay for the drink, he told her the check had been taken care of.

There was someone sitting on the stool next to her usual spot when she entered on her fourth night.

“Chris, mix the lady’s margarita,” the stranger had instructed then turning to smile at her, said, “Good day on the beach?”

“Perfect,” she’d replied feeling a little flutter of nerves.

“Been beautiful today,” he’d agreed before introducing himself.

And so, her holiday margarita ritual had begun.

Each evening he was there waiting for her. A couple of nights they had gone for a walk along the boardwalk; a couple of nights the following week they had gone for dinner. He had been the perfect gentleman, proving to be easy to talk to and a good listener. Gradually, through casual conversation, they got to know each other, the first seeds of friendship sown over their margaritas.

When she stepped up onto the boardwalk from the beach, she found him standing watching her.

“Hi,” she called as she brushed sand from her feet before slipping them back into her sandals.

“Hi,” he greeted her as she walked towards him. “The lure of another walk on the sand too much to resist?”

“Always,” she laughed. “Going to be hard leaving here tomorrow.”

“Then don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“Stay,” he suggested simply, slipping his hand into hers. The fit instantly felt natural to her.

“I can’t….” she began.

Gazing down at her, he said, “What if you gave yourself permission to say yes?”

The next promise on the list waiting to be honoured was “be happy”.

The Measly Jar of Motivation – Writer’s Block (flash fiction)

 Staring at the writing prompts lying on the desk in front of her, the writer’s mind was blank…totally blank. No stories. No paragraphs. No sentences. No words. Not even any letters. Blank…totally blank.

Was this what writer’s block felt like?

The silence in her mind was eerie. None of her imaginary friends, her characters, were whispering to her.

Had she done something to upset them?

Tiptoeing slowly, she explored the dark corridors of her mind, searching in all the dusty corners for any signs of inspiration.

Nothing….

A noise behind her caused her to turn round. It was the sound of a door closing. There were footsteps scurrying through the dark.

Then she spotted it. Inspiration was hurrying back to her along with two new faces. New characters? As they approached, she could hear them chatting animatedly.

When they reached her, she wrapped them in a huge welcoming hug.

Smiling, the writer picked up her pen and began to write.