The fifteenth

This is number 116 of Sammi’s #weekendwritingprompt. This week’s word is “amateur”, and the target word count is 51.

John snatched the cover off his driver, strode confidently to the markers and teed his ball on a patch of grass not already destroyed by the weekend hackers. Without hesitating he slammed that puppy two hundred metres down the fairway. A bit right perhaps, but not too bad for an amateur.

Thanks for reading,

Photo by Ludwig Schreier on Unsplash. Here’s this week’s challenge:

Now what?

This is week 181 of Sonya’s #3LineTales writing prompt. Enjoy!

Armstrong: Houston, do you copy? Over.

Houston: Neil, we copy. Receiving physiometrics, all vitals are clean and green. You are good to go. Over.

Armstrong: There’s not much here, just dust and rocks. So, where am I supposed to go again?. Over.

Some think the Apollo programme was a waste of time and resources. But Neil Armstrong’s first steps on another world broke, for humanity, the shackles that still bind every other lifeform on Earth.

That’s a big deal.

The day it happened, I was at school. It was a Monday. Noone ate lunch for that “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind” moment (12.56pm Sydney time) – we heard it live on the radio, and then watched it at home on the evening news (no TV at school in those days).

As a pre-teen, I thought it was just another thing that adults did. Fly to the moon, and all that. But in hindsight, I vacillate between respect for the the achievement itself and the money it cost that perhaps could have been spent on more practical things back here on planet Earth.

Thanks for reading,

Photo by History in HD on Unsplash. This post is 210 words.


This is number 94 of Sammi’s #weekendwritingprompt. This week’s word is “indistinct”, and the target word count is 18.

Jono listened, trying to understand. He heard the words but the concepts behind them were hazy and indistinct.

Thanks for reading,

Photo by rawpixel on Unsplash. The quoted text is 18 words.

Slow news day

This is week 160 of Sonya’s #3LineTales writing challenge. I hope you enjoy it!

It was not a meaningful protest. The crowd, never big enough to threaten, had lost interest and wandered off to a pub nearby. Except for one kid. An undersized punk, not even old enough to shave. But he held a knife, and he had the reporters’ attention.

Just by standing there he would be the hero and the police, the villians. “POLICE BRUTALITY”, the headlines would shout, if they disarmed him. “POLICE INCOMPETENCE”, if they didn’t.

Today, one spoilt kid would ruin reputations and careers that had taken a lifetime to build. And there wasn’t a single damn thing they could do about it.

Thanks for reading,


Photo by Jonathan Harrison on Unsplash. The quoted text is 104 words.


This is number 93 of Sammi’s #weekendwritingprompt. This week’s word is “horizon”, and the target word count is 74.

The preacher man who lived in the visitor hut had a watch.

Jono didn’t care about time. Or month, or year. Jono knew day and night, the seasons of heat and cold, of wet and dry, of planting and harvest.

Jono knew the abundance of signs his world gave him. Jono didn’t need no damn watch.

Jono knew the rain was close. When he crested the hill he saw clouds building on the horizon.

Thanks for reading,


Photo by Sho Hatakeyama on Unsplash. The quoted text is 74 words.

Scary love

This is week 159 of Sonya’s #3LineTales writing prompt. Enjoy!

Mikey capped the spray can and dropped it into his backpack. He was certain no-one had seen him but he hurried down the street just to be sure.

He liked what he had done. It was smaller than his usual work, but it looked good. He wanted it raw, unfinished, imperfect. He was an artist, not some junior tagger, and it was art. His art.

Maybe she would see it on her way to the office. Maybe she’d say something. Maybe he’d work up the courage to explain it. Love was scary.

Thanks for reading,

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash. The quoted text is 92 words.

Footnote: I completely missed that this came out on Valentine’s Day. My wife is not impressed.

No more story

This is week 158 of Sonya’s “Three Line Tales” exercise.

The fence was just a physical thing to Jonathan, like his grey room or the dining hall. It had a purpose – to enforce a limit to his meanderings – but he didn’t know why.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. Or how long he was to stay. Or even how and why he got there. It was just the way it was.

He had no reason for anything. He had no memory of before. The tests had torn every shred of story from him, and now he had nothing left.

Thanks for reading,


Photo by Robert Hickerson on Unsplash. This post is 113 words.