50 Word Stories: The Flood

It began as a trickling like rain on a summer’s night running down a window. Without noticeable change, the water gurgled and giggled as though a river building to the sea. When it roared through every sense, a bestial thing, a god, I knew the truth: the flood had come.


She’s heard in every heartbeat,

Seen in the depths of a mind’s eye,

A constant portrait of unblemished perfection.

Felt in the static that prickles the skin,

She’s no illusion, but reality made intangible,

A ghost so true as to tease corporeality.

Though her presence is not required

To be imagined, it is longed for,

Hoped for with every atom of self.

She’s sensory, no mirage nor optical trick,

A perfect most beautiful dream.

She’s you,

Just you,

And ever shall be.

She’s you, though as yet we’ve never met.

50 Word Stories: Senseless

“So, you’re here for a sight test?”
“Ah, hearing test?”
“Who said that?”
“Double cheeseburger please.”
“This is an opticians, sir.”
“I thought it was a florists?”
“You’d smell the roses.”
“Never have.”
“Ah, now I see, you’re totally senseless?”
“Not at these prices I’m not.”

Rosa (Finale)

I caught the scent of Chanel No 5.

The familiar perfume wafted across the restaurant 

Kissing my wine glass,

Parting my senses with ease.

She was there, beautiful, brunette,

Eyes like moonbeams, lips of ruby grace.

If ever a goddess had crossed my path,

Shared the same room,

Touched me,

It was she.

Such a perfect vision infused,

Warmed the core,

Stirred the Venetian canals of my heart.

Still, she wasn’t Rosa, 

Nobody was.

Italy seemed so far away: a lifetime.

I finished my lasagna and left.


We swim, awash in the world’s perfume.
The subtle scent of beckoning Spring
fills olfactory organs with renewed hope
that Winter’s stark essence passes.
Daffodils and snowdrops await us,
ferns and sweet smelling sap,
treats where colour and creation collide.
Soon, we shall bathe in a new beginning
and the winds and snowstorms,
the frost and the ice
shall be but another year’s memory.

50 Word Stories: Foreign Shores

The waves, I could watch them forever. The repetitious ins and outs like steady breaths. I am sucked in. I am no longer me.

I don’t recognise this foreign shore? The sky’s the same, my breath’s the same, but the world is not.

Take a breath. Listen to the waves.