The Elephant in the Room

©Susan Eames

The doctors were amazed at the damage caused to her foot by simply dropping the iron on it, but Sadie still didn’t mention the elephant in the room. Bemused, they’d tested her synapses and brain functions extensively, as this was the third time Sadie had dropped the iron in three months.

She didn’t like lying, especially to authority, but she didn’t want them taking Ella away. Ella was clumsy but it wasn’t her fault, she was still young and a living room in a terraced house can be an extremely small space if you have big feet you’re still growing into.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.

The Problems of the World

This was a flash fiction written to a prompt, which didn’t get published originally, as I decided it was maybe too daft. However, I have a category on here, Strange Brew, just for such abominations and whimsy and as I quite like it now, here it is:






The moon in aspic was entering the solar plexus. The sun rose a day ahead of schedule and beavers abounded; if anything should abound it ought to be bluebells or rats.
A worry gnawed at The World like another beaver. His design was in chaos.
He scratched his Norwich, a tethered goat slipped down the crack of a mild earthquake and a crossdressing partridge squawked “plastic” from somewhere north of Ushuaia.
The World pondered the drawing board.
He’d used colours before but they’d assimilated all sorts of unintended baggage.
“Perhaps if I went back to monochrome and jettisoned the oil.”

None So Blind As A Horse to Water

In one of those moments of mind blank, writer’s block, can’t think to write my name let alone anything else, I got to wondering what we would have lost, if the poets of history had had the same problems, if they hadn’t recognised what was before them and subsequently were unable to turn out the great classics.
This pondering led to the following poem of my own. It’s a bit of fun and features references to 12 great poets and/or their works. You might enjoy trying to identify them all and if you have an idea for a couplet or quatrain about any of your favourites, then feel free to send them over in the comments and I’ll add them to the poem.
Hope you enjoy.






My writing mind blocked and searching for clues,
I thought to stroll awhile with the poetic muse.
At first, she bizarrely suggested I might
Take an old Grecian urn and upon it write.
Be assured if I possessed such an ancient thing,
I wouldn’t deface it with my scribbling.

At a leafy fork in the road we bore right
Where we chanced upon a black bearded miner up for a fight,
Insisting I couldn’t do better than take
For my subject, of all God’s creatures, a snake!
Miserable, scaly, belly slithering vermin!
Now I wished I’d taken the more travelled turning.

Round the corner a poppy-eyed fiend was relentlessly talking,
So naturally, I ducked my head and carried on walking
He ranted on about a poor sailor’s torments at sea.
I suspect he was really collecting for charity.

Wearying of it all I would have sat down
But for all the blooming daffodils covering the ground,
And the naked loon babbling about tigers on fire.
Imagine that, must have smelled like the foot and mouth pyre.

In a clearing a man with a cat in each hand
Championed writing about a wasteland
What’s that all about? There’s nothing there
Hello? Definition of wasteland? Barren and bare?

My muse introduced yet another, bawling a strain,
Demanding to go down to the sea again.
We awaited a suitable pause in his speech
Then joined him for an ice cream on the beach.

Finally, on the sand a Walrus and an odd man called Lear
In a pea-green boat and quite crazy I fear,
Proposed I try my hand at some nonsense verse.
More nonsense? I had to leave, otherwise I’d curse.

So, if I should die, think only this of me
I tried my best to write some decent poetry
If, with all that going on, you could pen a beautiful something,
You’re a better man than I am Gunga Din.

Differing Perspectives

Strange Brew

Sometimes something will fall in my lap virtually fully formed, but such is its random nature, I have nowhere to put it. Hence I’ve added this category, “Strange Brew,” for anything that can’t find a home anywhere else.

Points of View

When my daughter was younger she accidentally bit her lip whilst we were having dinner. There followed what I considered an inordinate amount of fuss for something so minor, though it was probably only the right amount for a young girl, unaware as yet of the real pain and problems life can throw at you. Eventually she settled.

Later that evening I was drawing a Walrus. Why I can’t remember

and I don’t think I’ve drawn one since. I made a mistake by drawing the line of the mouth before I had put in his tusks, so the final result looked like the tusk had pierced the bottom lip and gone right through it. This I realised was when accidentally biting your lip could be a major problem and the couple of verses below arrived.

If you have any suggestions for further verses on the theme, please send them in the comments box.

Differing Perspectives

Accidentally biting one’s lip
Is not worthy of excessive fuss,
Unless of course you happen to be
An immense, heavy-jowled Walrus,
And then for sure, it could prove to be,
Something entirely more serious.

I’m sure the shy partridge and his hen
Will forever fail to understand,
(When peering from within a dense bush,
At happy hunter crossing his land)
The old adage whereby the best bird,
Is the one hung bleeding from his hand.