Daydreams. 55 Fiction.

Blue sky

She dreamed of a kiss, too good to be true.  Her fingers gripped the lapels of his jersey.

“Wake up.”

She moaned.


More moans… falling.


Her eyes flew open, a delicious blush spread across her cheeks as she hit the ground.  He was looking at her.  The man of her dreams.  How embarrassing.

To Be Happy. 55 Fiction.

“I want to be happy,” said the girl, looking tired with shoulders that sagged by some unknown weight.

“Cry, first you have to cry,” said the old man.

Her voice shook, “but how do I cry?”

“Just let it flow,” he replied.

And she did.  She had wanted to cry for a very long time.

Bear In Hibernation. 55 Fiction.

Sourced from here: Link

She is a bear, huddled in her blankets all covered.  Her hair splayed across the pillows, eyes closed.  The chill could not touch her.  The rain endlessly pouring, visible through the curtains.  She smells  it—and sleeps on.  Shoots spring from moistened land as the sun rises, spreading warmth.   And she awakens, stretching, welcoming spring.

[N.B] This time last year, it was unseasonable warm.  Although I dislike immense heat, I do prefer it to be a little warmer–I miss being able to walk out with only a t-shirt on!  (and pants of course!!!!)  I probably wouldn’t mind winter so much if we actually had snow down here–that would be fun!  (The novelty of it would exceed all negatives associated with it.) But no….down under only mountains get snow, flatlands get rain, rain, and more rain, which leads to mud, which leads to mud covered dogs, which leads to ten clothing changes in one day haha.  Ah well!  I’m looking forward to summer, and luckily, today is a nice cold but sunny day <3.

It Starts With You. 55 Fiction.

She opened the book, flipped the pages, breathed in the new book smell.  Her eyes moistened, becoming shiny and overcome with emotion.   There are no words she could use to express how she was feeling right now.  All she knew were the words on the page:  This is my story, and it starts with you.

Never Back Down. 55 Fiction

The man was beaten, thrown down to the ground, sweat, blood, cut to the bone.  His eyes rolled back, his life flashing before his eyes, and the world spinning out of his grasp.  She’s looking at him.  Fearful.  Afraid.  A lion roars in him, sends his blood raging.  He surges upwards—one punch knockout win.


A woman of her own right. 55 Fiction.

There were so many things she could do.  She could punch him.  She could yell at him.  She could cry.  She could beg him.  But none of that was necessary.  It was too late.

Looking him in the eyes, a woman of her own right, she said, “good bye.”

Gathering her bags, she walked out.

[N.B.] Wow.  It has seriously been a long time since I’ve written a 55 fiction story.  But it looks like I might just be writing some more now!  I sure as hell missed writing them.

55 Fiction, A Story About.


The act of writing a story, 55 words long, creating a character and a setting, three lines wide.  It’s a story about love, hate, murder, mystery, with “I” or “Me” or “You” or “they”, it’s a moment of inspiration, a moment of vividness.  It’s a 55 word story, fresh, brief, capturing.  Be enticed by it.


Through the Summer Rain, I Finally See You.


I feel the summer rain, cascading all around me.  The steam rises from the concrete, sizzling, dehydrating, rehydrating, existing as a wall between you and I.  I see you for the first time.  You are standing, watching, waiting for me, hand forward longingly.  We are worlds apart, separated, until I too leave the rain behind.


Queen of the World.


She stands straight, above the crowd, the gown weighing her down.  She’s tired, worn, but she’s smiling.  She’s genuinely happy, seeing all those below her waving at her.  Slowly, slowly, she raises her hand, and the smile, transformed into a beam, is shining down on those watching her.  She is the Queen of the World.


With Love.

They tell me to pen the name,

On the gilt edged paper,

And send it to the one entitled.

They didn’t tell me what it was,

Or what should have been.

When I penned that name,

I felt my heart leap with infatuation.

If I knew what it contained,

My heart would have broken earlier.

The Belly Dancer’s Ring.


She danced in her metal and silk adorned body.  She weaves her way around the floor, sinking low, spinning round, dancing energetically and beautifully.  She is charming, seducing her audience.  The metal glints in the dimness of the restaurant.  Everyone is entranced.  But everyone sees the ring on her finger, it shines brightest of all.


Flag Of Honour.


He raised the flag and with his other hand, he lifted his sword.   The men roared and raised their swords in turn.  There was nothing but fury, nothing but determination.  It was a sea of blades waiting to cut the first blood.  They were the King’s pride and joy.  For honour, they would be mercenaries.


Water In The Boat.


I am swamped by the sea that floods my boat.  I am desperate in my fight to win.  But the water keeps on flowing, and the boat keeps on sinking.  Is it impossible to save what’s left of him?  Voices call out.  Hands grab at me.  I can’t die.  The memories must survive with me.


Sun In The Winter.


In the darkness of my mind, consumed by utter grief, there is a winter.  Barren plains of ice and snow, blizzards and endless cold.  I see nothing.  I am nothing.  There’s just numbness in my heart.  A voice calls my name through the winter cold.  It’s a warm light, gently guiding.  I want to live.


The Desert Of My Heart.


The desert is a dusty plain, a sand plain, an ice plain, a dry arid land.  There is no water, there is no shade.  It’s just hot sun, it’s just ice cold.  My fingers are hot, cold, unbearable.  I want to strip, I want to wrap up.  I’m alone in my misery, waiting for relief.


A Game Not To Be Played Lightly.


I hate tennis.  I hate tennis racquets.  I hate the sun that beats down on my back, as my hands grip tightly, to the racquet that lunges left and right and backwards.  I hate falling over and scrapping my hands.  I hate being tired after.  But when I stop…all I want is to play again.


Cactus Of The World.


The cactus sat on my windowsill in terracotta.  It was still, unmoving, prickly and one odd shade of green.  I’d neglect it for days, expecting it to die…but still it grows, strong and wild.  Just like the cactus boy who gave it to me long ago.  I wonder what he’s doing out in the world.


The Love Potion.


‘Omg I’m so sorry!’  She said, from the ground, where she had fallen.  She looked up in despair at the orange juice soaked guy sitting the booth.  She expected to be yelled at but instead he held his hand out to her, pity on his face.  She laughed, and took it.  He laughed too.

The Drug.


She turns the packet in her hand, looking at its poisonous white innards.  It was such a temptation, an exit to her problems, a chance to hide from the rain of the crumbling world around her.  Just take it!  Her mind told her.  So easy to consider.  But it was something…she may never come back.


With Love.

They tell me to pen the name,

On the gilt edged paper,

And send it to the one entitled.

They didn’t tell me what it was,

Or what should have been.

When I penned that name,

I felt my heart leap with infatuation.

If I knew what it contained,

My heart would have broken earlier.