Flash Fiction – Ferrying Secrets

Image courtesy of Ted Strutz



I ignore the other kids. The wind bites my nose. I button my coat.


The familiar puff of steam. I clutch my camera with numb fingers.


A stone hits me in the back of the neck but I manage to snap a picture of the cab.

The photo won’t take long to develop and when it does I’ll show mum. It might be my dad! He’s been away on top secret missions since I was born. A spy masquerading as a train driver. Ferrying secrets.

She’ll say no. Call me a gullible idiot. She always does. But part of me still hopes. Perhaps it’s him. Perhaps he’ll love me.


Friday Fictioneers is a weekly 100 word story challenge, inspired by a photo prompt. Hop over to host Rochelle’s blog to read the other entires or join in! 


Cast Adrift – #FlashFiction

Image courtesy of J S Brand


There’s a dark, empty space inside me that six months volunteering in a Nepalese orphanage does not fill. I’d hoped the wide, bright, smiles of the too thin children, the fierce hugs and the progress we have made would make me feel whole again. It doesn’t.

The summer is spent in the USA teaching sports to disadvantaged children. There’s no ‘I’ in team we chant, and yet I’ve never felt lonelier.

In Cambodia, I dedicate myself to Wildlife Conservation. The elephants stride, trunk to tail.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’

I turn towards the voice.

Clear amber eyes lock onto mine. My pulse flutters. This time, I might just stay.


Hurrah – I’ve finished book 4 and while I’m waiting for the edits from my publisher I can’t resist FF. For 48 hours only my latest psychological thriller, The Surrogate, is part of a flash sale across all digital platforms for £0.99/$1.38 – you can grab it on your local Amazon here.

Pop over to Rochelle’s blog and join in with Friday Fictioneers. Post a 100 word story inspired by a photo prompt. 


Diamonds & Dust #FlashFiction

Image courtesy of Roger Bultot


Nothing. I’ve nothing except dust and junk. Mama’s attic virtually bare now. Opening the last box, I’m hit by colour and memories as vibrant as the shimmering material I find myself clutching to my chest, which aches with longing.

‘Do you have to go?’ I’d asked.

‘It’s how we’ll make our fortune.’ Mama kissed my nose as she set off for another long shift, sewing clothes for the ungrateful jewellery maker’s wife.

I lift the dress to the light. It’s heavy. Surely too heavy? The sparkles too bright to be fake?

I remember the headline ‘Missing diamond mystery.’

Perhaps I have something after all.


Happy New Year! Tomorrow, Thursday 4th January, at 19.30 GMT I’m live on the Facebook Group Crime Book Club, answering questions about writing, publishing and books as well as discussing my latest novel, The Surrogate. Whether you’re a reader or writer do pop over and join me if you can. You’ll need to join the group first here.

Diamonds & Dust was written for Friday Fictioneers. A weekly 100 words story challenge inspired by a photo prompt and hosted by Rochelle. You can read the other entries here

An Unexpected Guest – An Xmas Short Story


Again, I drive my spade into the frozen ground. Tiny rockets of pain shoot through my wrists, up into my shoulders. Tears spring to my eyes and I tell myself it’s frustration, pain, anything but this horrible sense of missing you. I drop to my knees, the coldness seeping through my jeans, and I burrow at the earth with my gloved fingers but the mud is as solid as the gold band I still wear on my wedding finger. I look up at the fir tree, branches dusted with snow and my heart aches. We’d brought this tree inside every single Christmas eve; you were big on traditions. Mulled wine warmed on the stove, the house smelling of cinnamon and cloves, as you’d heft the tree into its usual place, standing tall and proud in the dining room. You’d twist lights around its middle – a man’s job – you’d say, and then I’d hang baubles and candy canes. Three tiny felt stockings for the children we’d longed for but were never blessed with. Now you’re gone too. Loneliness wraps itself around me like a second skin. I raise my eyes to the flat, white sky and scream out my frustration, my breath billowing in front of me like a cloud. I wonder if you’re looking down. I like to think you are.

Despite my protestations, my sister’s coming for Christmas dinner this year. We’re going to have roast beef the way we always had growing up. Dad was a butcher and always insisted on something ‘with a bit of blood in it.’ You’d been horrified. ‘It must be turkey. It’s traditional.’ I still feel fragile. Raw. It’s too soon for snapping crackers and flaming puddings, carols about peace and goodwill to all men, but ‘it is the season for families,’ my sister insisted. She’s bringing Sophie my niece. ‘It will be odd without Dan at the table.’ She had said. Grief shimmering in her eyes. She adored you, as did Sophie and you were so good with her. Every visit I got a glimpse of the father you could have been and a painful lump rose in my chest.

Sometimes I’d pretend Sophie was ours. She had the same colouring as you. You’d stretch in front of the open fire, her cradled in your lap, reading stories about big bad wolves and too-hot porridge, heads bent, blonde hair glimmering as the flames crackled and hissed. She could almost have been ours I thought as I toasted pink marshmallows brown. Almost.

Except she isn’t ours.

She is yours though.

I still remember the heart wrenching pain when you’d told me you were leaving me for my sister. I still remember the weight of the iron in my hand. The sizzle as it hit your face. The sickening crack as your head hit the flagstone floor. I do hope the blood doesn’t stain.

I’d told everyone you’d run off with your secretary. I almost felt sorry for my poor sister as I watched confusion, disappointment, anger slide across her perfect, perfect face. She believed me. Why wouldn’t she? After all I’m not the liar here.

I sit back on my heels. It’s no good. I can’t indent the earth at all, let alone dig a hole big enough to bury you in. No matter. I’ve a batch of pastry resting in the fridge and mince pies were traditionally made of meat weren’t they? You’d appreciate the tradition. I’ll get dad’s old mincer out of the garage.

You’ll be joining us at the dinner table after all, darling.


Thanks so much for reading, reviewing and recommending my books this year. Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas. See you next year. Louise x



‘An Unexpected Guest’ recently appeared on Portobello Book Blogs 12 Days of Christmas feature. You can hop over and read the other short stories from various writers here.

It’s the thought…#FlashFiction

Image courtesy of Sandra Crook


‘What is it?’ Disappointment drips through every word and my heart cracks a little more. I’ve got it wrong. Again.

She reaches for her phone to plaster my failure over Facebook no doubt.

‘It’s a symbol of love.’ I take her hand in mine. ‘The circle represents something that has no end. The gold emblem because you’re precious and the point is…’ My eyes sweep the room, settling on the book of Everest in the bookcase. ‘A promise there’s no mountain we can’t overcome,’ I kiss her palm. ‘Together.’

‘Oh I LOVE it.’ Her fingertips slip into the waistband of my jeans while I desperately hope she never finds the packaging for the revolutionary new cleaning appliance designed to make her life easier.

It’s the thought that counts.


For those of you who missed it on my blog last week I was chatting to Harper Collins author Darren O’Sullivan about positivity, gratitude and whether you really can visualise your way onto the bestsellers list. I believe so. You can catch up with that here

I make no apologies for going a tad over the word count this week because it’s Christmas! ‘It’s the thought’ was written for Friday Fictioneers. A weekly 100 word story challenge inspired by a photo prompt hosted by the fabulous Rochelle. Wishing everyone a very happy festive season and huge thanks to Rochelle for all her hard work this year keeping us going!

Tis the season to be… #Flashfiction

Image © Marie Gail Stratford


Ten. Nine.

I love Jen.

Eight. Seven.

We’ve been friends forever. First day at preschool. First love. First kiss. First loss.

Six. Five.

Now we’ve children of our own.

Four. Three.

But today there’s tension between us as we shuffle impatiently in the queue. She smiles, her teeth pointed and white. Nudges me with her sharp elbow.

‘Look.’ She nods behind me.

Stupidly I turn.

Two. One.

Too late, I miss the doors flinging open. Jen racing inside. Triumphant, she raises this Christmas’s must have toy over her head. I’m only seconds behind but the shelf is already empty.

I hate Jen.


I’ve really missed participating in Friday Fictioneers these past few weeks – it’s the first time in years I haven’t taken part but I’m (trying) to focus on nailing the first draft of my fourth psychological thriller which is due out next summer. I couldn’t resist joining in today though. I popped out on Monday for a pint of milk and came back with a Santa dog toy, a tub of Quality Street & a bottle of Bailey’s. The Christmas madness has started!

‘Tis the season’ was written for Friday Fictioneers. A weekly 100 word story challenge inspired by a photo prompt, hosted by Rochelle. Hop over to her blog to read the other entries or join in yourself.


Soaring High #FlashFiction

Image courtesy of Douglas M. MacIlroy


I’m free and yet I’m not. Not in a cage but still trapped by bars of my own making, but they bring me comfort, these bars. They keep me safe. They stop me flying because if I were to flutter my wings where would I go? Who would I be? What’s to stop me falling? The world is so huge and I feel so small. So insignificant.

I screw my eyes up tight, blocking the voices telling me I can, my own telling me I can’t. I try. There’s a shift. A movement and then it happens. I’m rising, soaring, flying. Free.


How joyous I was when I saw this perfect prompt. This weekend I conquered a lifelong phobia of public speaking and appeared at the Althorp Literary Festival. You can read how I got on here and see the photos.

 Yesterday I had a great time on the radio chatting about Friday Fictioneers, the way it’s helped me tighten my writing and my love for the WordPress writing community. You can listen to that here.

 Soaring High was written for Friday Fictoneers. A weekly 100 word story challenge inspired by a photo prompt. Read the other entries and join in over at host Rochelle’s blog here.