Sarah Ann Hall

Reporting on writing in progress or, more probably, not.

Posts Tagged ‘death

#FridayFictioneers – 21/7/17 – Mothers’ Ruin

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Every Wednesday Rochelle Wisoff-Fields publishes a photo prompt to inspire writers to write 100-words of flash fiction or poetry.

At any point during the following week, the Friday Fictioneers post their 100-word tales. Read the other stories by clicking below.

I’m very late to the party this week and have struggled with the below. I showed it to hubby who suggested a couple of minor changes. I don’t think either of us thinks this works. Perhaps I’m trying to squeeze too much in?

With thanks to Rochelle and Kent this week.

© Kent Bonham


Mothers’ Ruin

(Genre: general fiction: 100-words)

Sally smiled as she threw Rick her car keys. He was a sensible boy. It wasn’t his fault his parents had moved to the middle of nowhere during his first year at university. It was only fair they should lend him their car to go to see his friends in town.

Squeal, screech, thud.

That’ll be another bairn flattened, Irina thought, shuffling along. When would the young learn sense? How long before humans and hedgehogs lived in co-existence?

As the sun went down, Irina’s array all arrived home safely.

Less than a mile away, Sally’s cottage bathed in blue flashes.



Written by Sarah Ann

July 23, 2017 at 9:45 pm

Mediterranean Summer – #gargleblaster185

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Tacking to starboard, the crew luxuriated in warmth and jollity. Through kissing winds their sail sliced the blue. All around sea met sky, nothing else in sight.



Arms flailed, glasses flew.

As the deck righted, none noticed their red wake.




Written by Sarah Ann

October 29, 2014 at 8:47 pm

A New Home – #gargleblaster159

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After ten years, cobwebs craze the stripped walls. Boxes perch on upturned furniture, each layered with despair.

The kitchen, bright, spacious, the only room completed, is kept perfect in his memory.

Her soul, crushed along with his body, spurns their rotting home.


This is my submission for yeahwrite‘s gargleblaster challenge to write a story in 42-words.


This week’s Ultimate Question:


Have all your clocks stopped?

Written by Sarah Ann

April 28, 2014 at 10:21 pm

#FridayFictioneers – 21/3/14 – As One

with 30 comments

Every Wednesday Rochelle Wisoff-Fields publishes a photo prompt to inspire writers to write 100-words of flash fiction or poetry.

Every Friday (or before) the Friday Fictioneers post their 100-word tales. Visit Rochelle’s site for the rules on how to join in and check out the other stories by clicking on the blue guy.



Following on from last week’s attempt to rate the photo in terms of the number/ rapidity of story ideas generated, this was another 4.5. I think my muse is playing hard to get. Still, once the idea came, it wouldn’t let me go. Unfortunately, life and work have intervened since Wednesday, which is why I’m not posting until Sunday evening, but I’m not late until the linky closes….

Many thanks to Rochelle for this week’s photo.



As One

(Genre: Contemporary/ Romantic Fiction, 98-words)

Short of breath, David entered the lift. Legs tired, shoulders aching, his bags of groceries almost dragged the floor, hanging limply from numb fingers.

As he rose, a girl flitted down the stairs, ebony curls skimming her shoulders. A spear of recognition cut. She looked just like his Eliza when they’d met, fifty years before. David shook away the silly thought. He was old now; Eliza was ten years dead.

He followed the girl’s progress. When she turned, Eliza’s eyes smiled up at him. A hand squeezed his heart, and sweet lips caressed his, as they were reunited.


Friday Fictioneers

Written by Sarah Ann

March 23, 2014 at 8:19 pm

Steam-rollered time

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After posting recently about how I seem to always be catching up, life, in the form of a death, has squished time even thinner. Following the recent demise of my aunt I am writing more lists of jobs-to-do than usual and precious little else. The funeral has to be arranged, post has to be sorted, subscriptions cancelled, friends contacted, and family negotiated with. It’s exhausting and my imagination has been boxed away in a cubbyhole, the flaps taped securely. I didn’t want this to happen, but there’s no space for her to flit about and procreate. Hence my WIPs are in the doldrums, my flash fiction is absent, and my reading of blogs non-existent, for which I apologise.

In the midst of this, I attended a talk this week entitled, ‘If we can write, so can you.’ This entailed a member of our local library services asking Essie Fox, Julia Cohen, Scott Andrews and Kate Mayfield a series of questions – where they get their inspiration, who chooses book covers, and others that I have forgotten. The questions were more interesting than I’ve indicated but they faded quickly as the answers given fed each other and made for an entertaining and useful evening. There was a lot I already knew, but my revelation was the fact that I might have finally found my genre – contemporary issue-driven romance. Well, not the romance bit, but contemporary issue-driven definitely fits. So now I read Julia’s book and see if mine is of a similar ilk, and then I look for equivalent books, and then I look for the agents who represent those authors in order to approach them. It’s great to have a plan, but it feels like I’m starting another long process and I see my self-imposed deadlines evaporating.



#FiveSentenceFiction – Flowers – Forever Lily

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Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week Lillie McFerrin posts a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate writes a five sentence story based on the prompt word. The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just use it for direction.

This week: FLOWERS


Forever Lily

A single calla lily stands in a plain glass vase; a trumpet atop a long stem; tall and elegant; the simple green and white a marked contrast to the turmoil that was her life; the stillness of the church in juxtaposition to the energy she exuded.

Her raucous laugh, her loving and generous nature, her edgy wit, and the constant fear and pain of illness are all gone. Her shining eyes, the shapely legs that extended always from mini-skirts will be seen no more. She will never again cook for her family, pour a drink for a friend, offer a hug or kiss to one she loved.

Everyone leaves the graveside with a bloom and so her favourite flower becomes forever the memory of that last day, and of her.


Lillie McFerrin Writes

Written by Sarah Ann

September 17, 2013 at 7:43 pm

Two for Tuesday #21 – Inexplicable

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This week’s Two for Tuesday prompts from Andy Black are:


‘Standard Prompt:
wax museum

You have lots of creative leeway. The limit is 200 words. The words can be used:

  • simply as a point of inspiration and do not have to be used directly
  • they can be included exactly as provided
  • or each word can be used independently of each other (for example if Death Row was the prompt instead of crafting a story about an inmate on the way to the gallows, you might write something like: Despite feeling like death from an excess of cheap vodka consumed the night before, Evelyn moved on to planting her next row of spinach).

Non-Standard Prompt:
For this week’s alternative prompt I’m suggesting that you begin a story with the climax and use flashbacks to lead the reader through how the story got there.

As per usual with the Non-Standard Prompt there is no word limit (to allow for more in depth explorations) but there is a minimum of 200 words.’


I don’t think I fulfilled the flashback aspect of the non-standard prompt adequately, and my title is useless. Suggestions for a better one will be received gratefully (and adopted!).


Inexplicable (512 words)

Harry looked at the sprinkling of mourners. It wasn’t much of a turnout, one black jacket for each dead body. A family of five wiped out and no one to see them off.  Standing in the graveyard, the sun was bright, the birds chattering. The weather reminded Harry of the day six weeks earlier when he had seen them for the first time. None of it made any sense. Early summer had been warm and no one could say why they’d had the fire lit.

Harry ran his finger around his collar, pulling at the tie that trapped his throat. As he listened to the priest he wondered if he should buy another black tie, his was looking a little tatty. Police work had turned out to be less about car chases and catching criminals and more about looking presentable, thumping keyboards, and searching for the inexplicable. Harry hated the unsolved, the insolvable. And this case could only ever be subject to conjecture; the witnesses were all dead. The neighbours had seen and heard nothing. Through all the interviews no one had come up with anything controversial, less so anything enlightening.

Sheila had been missed first by work colleagues. A couple had phoned the police station after not being able to raise her at home or on her mobile. The desk constable had said the family were probably on holiday and had forgotten to tell anyone. The school was of the same opinion and a letter was drafted to call in the parents for a discussion about unapproved absences. The benefits office made a note that Trevor hadn’t signed on and to find out why when he next appeared. It was the sun shining through windows, onto already over-heated bodies, that had the neighbours rushing to their phones as the taste of death seeped onto the landing.

A family plot was a rare and expensive thing these days, Harry mused, but someone had manoeuvred so they would lie all together, from the shortest to the tallest, the youngest to the oldest. He wondered if it would have been more fitting to leave them as they’d been found, the three children between and protected by their parents. Mum and Dad had been in easy chairs, the three kids on the sofa. The eldest two were halfway through a game of Connect Four, while the five-year-old played with her coloured bricks. They’d lain on her lap, longest to shortest, just as she was being laid to rest now.

Harry shivered and took a step backwards. It was too much. Five needless deaths. Five pointless deaths. Five deaths because the family couldn’t afford to have the gas fire serviced this year on top of everything else. And still no explanation as to why the fire had been on.

As the last coffin was lowered, Harry saw himself walking in to their sitting room, mask clamped to his face. Carbon monoxide was a merciless killer. If it hadn’t been for the stench, the scene would have made for the perfect family tableau in a wax museum.





Written by Sarah Ann

August 18, 2013 at 9:19 pm

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