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Photographing the Loch

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He dragged the collar of his jacket as tightly round his neck as he could and then thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He had checked on the internet the time that the sun was due to rise and had left the hotel early, not knowing if the cold January weather would hamper his journey. Black ice was always a problem in this part of Scotland, but luckily the night had been cold and dry, making his drive trouble free. He had arrived at the car park by the loch with enough spare time to set up his equipment at his leisure and now he stood in the cold pre-dawn air waiting and thinking. In his mind’s eye he saw again the photos of the loch that had intrigued and inspired him for so many years. Images taken during every month of the year, showing the changes in the seasons and the weather, the light and the shadows. There were lurid shots of the Northern Lights, reflecting garish tones of blues, greens, purples and reds in the still waters; yellows, oranges and reds of sunsets and s
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Congratulations to Tony Roberts

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Happy Mayday Everybody. Thank you very much to the people who entered the 100-word challenge. The stories have been a pleasure to read. The winner of the 100-word challenge is Tony Roberts and the winning entry follows: MISSING MOBILE   It was the morning after the party and the house resembled a battlefield. I had the task of clearing up while Judy went to work. “Bye then,” she muttered. I sighed; things were not good between us. Later I found a mobile. I shrugged; I knew its owner would ring to track it down.   It rang at lunchtime; I pressed answer. Before I could speak I heard a voice harsh and strident; it was Judy. “You bastard, where are you? I’ve wasted six months of my life on you.” “Hi Judy, who do you wish to speak to?” I said.  
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Remember When

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Do you remember when we kissed while the brass band played and our hearts beat in time with the drums? Do you remember when we danced, cheek to cheek at the school disco, as Meatloaf promised to do anything for love? Do you remember when you held me as the piper played in the new year? Do you remember when we made love as somewhere a fiddler fiddled? Do you remember when you whispered ‘I love you’ as the wedding march played? I remember when I should have listened to the words playing in my head and not the music. by Dorcas Wilson
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This week's 100-word Challenge

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The Music Box by Sue Wright Life, the leveller by  Rathin Bhattacharjee Deja Vu by Ryan Finnerty I didn't know by  Lauren M Foster Imprinting by  Susan Cornford A Fantastic Hobby by  Josie Gilbert In Camera by  Roz Levens Susan's Story
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Painting Butterflies

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'Look at him sitting there so quietly. Honestly, he's a credit to you. He really is. What's he painting?' The little boy's face is fixed in concentration – his dark eyebrows furrowed with intent. 'Butterflies', his mum replies, pride swelling up within her chest. 'He's so talented. His watercolours are so realistic! How does he manage it?' Now standing next to the little boy, his mum's acquaintance notices the card from which he is copying and sees the pinned live butterfly - its powdery wings still vaguely fluttering. 'Adolf!', his mum calls. 'Show the nice lady how you do it.'  Sukie’s micro fiction has appeared in ‘Made in Shoreditch’ and ‘Memento Mori’. As well as scribing short (pretty dark) pieces of fiction, Sukie also writes and performs spoken word, as well as the occasional comedy character, in and around London. She won 2 nd  prize in the Open Pen poetry competition, has been longlisted for Flash 500 and the Bedford
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Susan's Story

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“ Leave me alone, you devils. I can make it on my own two feet if you just give me my cane. Where the hell did you put that cane? I shoulda had me some daughters instead of a son. Women know how to find stuff.” “ I don’t know, Dad. I’ll track it down later and bring it to you.” What I don’t know is if he believes me. He’s harder to convince than Mother was. He stiffens as they put him in the van. “Please don’t hit his head,” I tell the middle-aged man guiding him with a tired smile. Patricia Ann Bowen is the author of a medical time travel trilogy, a short story collection about people in challenging circumstances, and a serialized beach read. Her short stories have appeared in several anthologies and most recently in Mystery Tribune, Chamber Magazine, Idle Ink, and Commuterlit.com. She has taught short story writing, and she leads a critique group of short story writers for the Atlanta Writer’s Club. You can connect with her at www.patriciabowen.com .
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In Camera

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They kiss. They've done this before; not a polite ' you-may-kiss-the-bride ' kiss; not a chaste ' one for the camera ' kiss. It's practised, probing, passionate. I try to tear my gaze away, but my longing pins me like a butterfly to a board. My mouth waters, my hands rise of their own will, wanting to pull her from him, from his heaviness, his heat, his ownership. I raise my camera, fumble with the lens, desperate to capture this moment, to preserve yet prevent in the same movement. I brush the confetti from my dress, turn away. They kiss. I’m a 62 year old writer living in Devon, and I’ve just achieved a Masters degree in Creative Writing from Hull Uni. This is the first time I’ve entered Worthing Flash. Roz Levens
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