Friday Fictioneers — Dressed Trout

Genre: Dark humour
Word count: 100


“You, madam, have fatally overstepped the mark.”

“Leb be bout!”

Silly old trout. Dose of y’ own medicine. Enter the zone of a faceless nobody without a voice, hands tied by The System. …Except now you’re at the mercy of My System. “Madam, you called me ‘boy’ again today and shouted at me in front of the customers. My job is to stack the freezers, not spend hours helping you choose wine so all my ice cream melts.”

“Bolice! Boy’s a bycho.”

“Too right, I’m a psycho. Now an officially jobless one with infinite time on his hands for torture.


Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: image copyright (c) Liz Young

Friday Fictioneers — Unholy Epitaph

Genre: Dark humor
Word Count: 100


hic iacet sepultus

a gardener who loved Nature minus Man.

Born in Islington, June 13th 1836
Died December 27th 1891

Bastard son of Michael de Humpe, VIIIth Earl of Stitchbury
 who cavorted with Molly Frimble, an unfortunate, and contracted the French disease and died most horribly of raging insanity,
thereby bestowing upon his beloved illegitimate son nothing of note other than an unconsecrated burial plot at the far end of his Estate,
for when his own time of passing came, alongside Molly,
dispatched to the afterlife by Lady Stitchbury in a fit of apoplexy.

requiescant in pace


Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: copyright © Liz Young


March’s Guest Storyteller, Hugh Roberts

Hugh Roberts

Hugh Roberts is a writer and blogger, now living in Abergavenny, South Wales.

Although Hugh suffers from a mild form of dyslexia, he doesn’t allow it to stop him writing. He has a passion for reading and writing short stories, many of which come with an unexpected twist.

Hugh is hoping to publish his first collection of Short Stories towards the end of 2016.

Sarah says: I’m delighted to welcome Hugh Roberts as this month’s guest storyteller. But be warned, his “unexpected twists” often have a wickedly dark edge to them, as you’re about to discover –shades of Roald Dahl, even.

To read more of his tales, plus some  helpful snippets about the art of blogging, you can find him at Hugh’s Views and News.   


 The Gingerbread House 

Here’s the photo I took of it. Do you like it?

Yes, it took a lot of time making that gingerbread house. Mum was not very pleased about all the mess in the kitchen, but when Johnny volunteered to help me clean everything up and I agreed to make her a cup of tea, she went back to her computer upstairs and said nothing else about it.

The gingerbread house was a huge hit at Mum’s birthday party. Everybody loved it and said how nice it looked as the centrepiece of the table. We even used our favourite sweets to decorate the house. Yes, we ate some of the sweets as we decorated the cake, but there was enough left to finish it off. Mum was well pleased with it and Dad said it was the best birthday cake he had ever seen. He was the one that took the photo.

At Mum’s birthday party, the following day, everyone was eager to have a slice of the gingerbread house, but Dad said we had to eat the sandwiches, cheese and pineapple on sticks, and sausage-rolls first before Mum could cut into it while we all sang happy birthday to her. Mum was quite emotional as she made the first cut and we all thought it was because she hated the fuss of birthdays and being the centre of attention.

Mum had been upset the day before, not only because of the mess we were making but because she said the picture of the gingerbread house we were baking from the recipe book looked like Grandma’s house. Grandma and Mum were very close and when Grandma went to heaven to become an angel, we were all very upset. Johnny and I were so pleased with the gingerbread house and that it reminded Mum of Grandma’s house. Johnny is nearly eight and I’m ten in three and three-quarters months’ time.

After the birthday party had finished we agreed to help Mum and Dad clear up. Dad asked Mum if she wanted to keep the cake board the gingerbread house had stood on, seeing as the whole lot had been eaten. While Dad cleaned the cake board, Mum sat down in her favourite chair and noticed that the lid of Grandma’s canister, that they call an urn, was not on correctly. She asked Dad about it and he said he hadn’t touched it.

It wasn’t until Johnny told Mum and Dad that he’d emptied what was in Grandma’s canister into the mixing bowl, because he wanted to put Grandma back into her house, that the screaming and crying started. Even Dad was upset. I had no idea what Johnny had done while I made Mum that cup of tea and took it up to her. I didn’t even notice a difference in the mixture when I came back and Johnny was making a wish as he stirred everything with the big wooden spoon.

However, it doesn’t matter to Johnny and me because we still believe Grandma is an angel.


You can find the links to previous guest storyteller posts at 
%d bloggers like this: