Wednesdays with Mary

“What do you fancy watching, today, Mary?” Becky gazes over the limited selection of DVDs in the collection, anticipating Mary’s choice before she’s even given it.  Becky knows Mary very well.

“Ah, something with a bit of action, I think,” Mary replies with an almost giddy response, to which Becky nods in agreement – for her.

“Sounds good to me.  How about some classic Bruce Willis?” She pulls out a DVD they’ve watched together nearly every Wednesday afternoon, for the last ten years.

“Oh yes.  Haven’t seen that one for ages.  I forget how it ends.”

“Me too,” Becky smiles, grabs the remote and settles on the sofa next to Mary.

Two seconds later, there’s a knock at the door, that only Becky hears. She knows who it’s going to be.  She starts the film and leaves Mary immediately engrossed in the opening credits, to answer it.

Penny stands smiling on the other side of the door.  “Hey, love.  How are you?  What are you and your mum up to today?”  Penny tries to peek over Becky’s shoulder to see how one of her elderly clients is.

“Oh, you know.  The usual.”  Becky smiles, swallowing back the tears building up within her.  The tears are swallowed every Wednesday.

Penny smiles, and glances at the TV screen blaring out an action film from the eighties, all to offer Becky a moment to take a breath if she needed it. “Oh, I love that film!” Penny says, winking at Becky.  “If you need anything, love, I’m on shift until ten tonight.  And my office is just down the hall.”

“Thank you, Penny.  I – we appreciate it.” She smiles and closes the door.

Sitting back on the sofa, Becky asks her mum, “What did I miss, Mary?”


Prompted by link here.






Whispers of wonder

“Did you see that?” his wife whispered to him with sudden, youthful excitement.

Over the years, he’s loved how her whispers can echo throughout him.  And how the sweetness of her voice can raise the hairs on his arms – how her sound can tingle.

Never more than two pulses away from her, he looks to where her eyes are currently transfixed.

“Did you see that my love?” she whispers again, although this time more to herself in disbelief, than to her husband next to her.

He smiles, softly.  He didn’t see it, and he doesn’t mind, because that doesn’t really matter.  He sees and hears everything he could possibly want for, standing next to his love, feeling the hairs on his arms raise again.


Prompted by link here.

The keeper of her heart

It’s how she scrunches her nose at him, with that glint in her cool blue eyes.

It’s when she takes his arm, and how she delicately slips her arm through to link with his.  And the gentle squeeze she gives, letting him know she’s safely locked in.

It’s knowing she can always find him in a crowded room – like being either side of a pair of magnets; Connecting together quickly, or by being able to touch each other, despite a forced distance between them.

It’s the way she smiles at him and appreciating that she doesn’t need to offer him anything – ever.  Not even her precious smiles.  Yet, she does.  And she smiles at him every day.


Prompted by link here.


Rules of rejection

For her, there are no official rules in rejection.  She behaves as she should, if and when she receives some; with grace, yet fiercely – in equal measure.  She moves on when she wants and rarely explains why.  These are her rules.  And she never expects anyone else to understand them.

It’s taken years for her to be this carefree.  To be this brave.

Although she can no longer see them, she knows they’re still there.  The hidden reminders.  The haunting memories of her past rejections.  And the rules she once followed.


Prompted by link here.

Nicked nails

He was beautiful.  His extensions, eyebrows, makeup was all on point.  He had finally achieved the perfect ‘glow’ on his highly coveted chiseled cheekbones.  It was just a matter of combining fake-tan with a little blush.  And his outfit was both daring and yet simply stunning.

There was a definite air about him.  The way he walked.  The way he carried himself.  How he held eye-contact with everyone he met.  And the way he looked at them… it was as if there was no-one else in the room, and they loved him for it.  They were all special in his eyes.

At the end of the day, when this beautiful man would sit in front of a mirror to remove the extensions and wipe away the glow, there he would still be.  A beautiful man.  A beautiful person who’s perhaps only ‘flaw’, (not that it should be considered a flaw, but just another example of his beauty), was in choosing to have nicked nails – refusing to ‘touch them up’, believing he could never be perfect, but would always want to strive to be.  And having nicked nails kept him fighting for it.  Fighting beautifully.

In the eyes of all he met, he was already there.  He was perfect.



Prompted by this link.

Silver Sand

It’s mesmerising, watching the silver sand shift, scatter and stick to my pale white feet, making my way across this deserted paradise.  The gentle lapping of the ocean stroking the shore lulls me further into this dream-like sequence.

I have no fixed route on this walk – distance and time to take it aren’t important to me.  I just wanted to take a walk.  This was my walk.

The silver sand glows; shining delicately in sprinkled spots, everywhere – highlighting the setting of the lukewarm, blood orange sun.

Tomorrow, I’ll take this walk again.


Prompted by link.

Douglas O’Malley

I met Douglas O’Malley one night on my way home from work.  I stopped off at my local for a quick, but much-needed pint.  It had been a rough day.  Week.  Year.  But I kept going.  Somehow.  My local had become my second home almost.  The barman knew my name and knew the type of beer I liked to drink.  I would just need to say, Hi, as I stepped towards the bar, and he’d be pulling me a dark, smooth ale, all within two minutes.  I liked my local.

Douglas O’Malley was sat on the stool at the corner of the bar.  He had one hand on his near-empty glass, and the other thumbing through the pages of a national newspaper.  Nothing unusual, except, he wasn’t reading the paper.  He was just staring past it.

Calling the barman over, I whisper, “Is he alright?” nodding to the weathered man sat on the stool in the corner.

“Yeah, he’s just… been through some things.  He’s a great character.  A lovely chap.” The barman smiles and finds another customer.

Looking back at the ‘great character’, I tried to think about what things he could have been through.  And my heart fell thinking of the possible worst.  Shaking my head – shaking out those thoughts, I pick my pint up and walk around to the man sat on the stool in the corner.  He lifts his eyes up from his paper – or the point past the paper and smiles at me.

“Hi, I’m Heather.  Can I join you?”

“Hello, sure.  Douglas O’Malley.  Lovely to meet you, Heather.”



Prompted by this link.

Viable creations

I needed to believe in myself that what I was creating was worth it.  It had to be viable.  My boss wouldn’t have any of it if I didn’t put it together in his precise fucking format.  Dickhead.  This was my idea.  I had to hold my fucking own and prove it.  Not to the dickhead, but to myself.  I needed to.  I so needed it – to have faith in my ability to fucking write.  Even if whatever I hashed out was utter shit, I just needed to keep writing.  This was who I was – who I am.  I’m a writer.  I create things.  I love – cherish being able to grow with my writing.  And to be a viable creator of things.




Prompted by link here.

The Last Link

This was the last chance for them to find the last link.  The last remaining link which connected everything together.  Everything.  They were holding their breath waiting – waiting for – they really didn’t know what.  How can you put so much hope, so much trust in something you don’t know?  In truth, they didn’t have any choice.  They needed this.

The door creaked open in front of them.  A woman with a kind smile stood in the doorway.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you all.  I’m so happy you made it.  Thank you,” she said.  Still smiling.

They look back at her with a smile in return.  And with relief.

“Thank you,” they reply in near unison.

The woman with the kind smile steps aside, gesturing for them to come inside.  And with a newly found confidence, they do.

And the woman with a kind smile closes the creaky door.



Prompted by link here.

Evidence of greatness

She looked in the mirror, and she saw herself for perhaps the first time in a while.

The once ice-blue eyes were now staring back grey.  A dull grey.

She hadn’t noticed before, how her face was now beginning to weather around the edges too.

The once plump, rosy and freckled cheeks were now slump, pale with dark age spots.

And now around those dull grey eyes, she had many lines that drifted off from the corners.

And her hair.  Steely-straw-like, but neat and always shiny.

She looked deeper in the mirror and smiled back at herself.

She was observing her evidence of greatness.



Prompted by this link.