Murder in the Family

Angie walked into the nursing home and was immediately greeted by an old lady with bright blue eyes.

“Hello, have you come to take me home?” she said.

“What?” Angie replied. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else. I’m here to kill my father.”

The old lady walked away, her head drooping in disappointment. “They left me here, no one ever comes to get me.” she said looking over her shoulder one last time. Angie laughed because the old crony had no idea she had just admitted she was about to commit murder.

“Hello, I’m the matron here, sorry Kathy lives in hope of getting out of here. She has run away several times, once in the back of the laundry van.” she said laughing. “She has Alzheimer’s and really has no clue where she is. Can I help you find someone?”

“Yes, you must be Mrs Robinson, we spoke on the phone, I’m Angie.”

“Oh hello, nice to meet you. You are here to see Michael. You are his first visitor in four years. His son used to visit, but I haven’t seen him in a couple of years.”

“My brother died eighteen months ago.” Angie replied as she remembered holding the pillow over her brother’s face until he stopped struggling.

“Oh dear, how sad. Well you are the first family member to visit him in a long time.”

And I may be the last, Angie thought silently.

“Come with me, he is sitting in a wheelchair out in the garden.”

“Does he know I’m coming?” Angie asked.

“Yes he does.” The matron answered, looking away, unable to meet Angie’s eyes. Michael wasn’t a pleasant man and had not wanted his daughter to visit.

They walked out into the garden. A frail old man sat in a wheelchair, his clothes hanging loosely on his wasted body.


“Is he in good health?” Angie asked.

“No, his heart is failing. He is too old for surgery. He could live another five years, or he could die next week.” The matron answered softly.

Or he may die this afternoon. Angie thought to herself.


Dead of July (Small)

Fringe Science or Alice in Wonderland? (Part 1)

As I scrambled to get my things together and get out of the house I wondered if I would miss this morning rush when I retired?  Nine more working years in me before I am able retire and become a full-time writer.

Of course you won’t miss it.

Who said that? I looked around startled. That voice wasn’t in my head, I heard it clear as a bell. The garage was empty apart from me. I slid behind the wheel of my beloved Audi, the car I had waited all my life for. The one thing that made my drive to work bearable.

Watch out for the rabbit!” said a voice from the back seat.


I screeched to a halt as a rabbit ran hopped across in front of me. Now this wasn’t your regular rabbit. This rabbit was the size of a kangaroo. I rubbed my eyes (carefully so as not to smudge my mascara) and looked again. The rabbit hopped off into the distance, white cotton tail wobbling on its oversized rear-end. Should I go back to bed?

No, keep driving, this will be a day to remember” said a voice from the back.

I looked in my rearview mirror, a shadowy shape was forming there. I concentrated on the driving, not wanting to look anymore.

I turned onto the dirt road, being careful to look out for rabbits, pretty certain I would see one if it ran out in front of me. I didn’t want to hurt a rabbit, but more to the point, I didn’t want to damage my beloved Audi. I pulled onto the road, glad to put the craziness behind me.

What the hell was that? 

I felt like as though I was in a cartoon and  ‘road runner’ had just buzzed past me. I strained my eyes to see what was disappearing into the distance. I looked like a motorbike, but even a Suzuki Hayabusa couldn’t go that fast.

I turned the engine off and sat there for a few minutes, debating whether to continue my journey to work, or go back to bed. Was this some sort of alternate universe, a mixture between Fringe and Alice in Wonderland.

I looked in my rear view mirror and my mind was made up. I turned on the engine, pressed the ‘warp speed’ button on my console and accelerated away from the Golden Eagle that was swooping down towards my car. It was the size of a small plane!

Journey to Insanity

The Clown rolled backwards at the sound of my scream. He fell on his bottom between the seats and sat there looking dazed. Although I felt a little sorry for him I remained in my hiding place, unsure of my surroundings. Where had this bus come from?  Currently I was on a bus driven by Hitler and the only other passenger was a clown.

The bus stopped again and I heard the door open. We were in the middle of the County Durham Countryside. There were no lights and the moon was hiding behind a cloud. I heard the sound of slow heavy footsteps as another passenger climbed the steps and paid his fare.

I looked across to where the clown, who was still sitting on the floor. His eyes were wide and he was trembling. He scuttled across to me without standing up. We crouched at the back of the bus, peeping above the seat in front to see who was about to share our journey.

We weren’t quite expecting to lock eyes with Frankenstein . It was pointless hiding anymore so the clown and I huddled together on the back seat of the bus. I couldn’t believe I was holding hands with a clown.

To be honest, although the latest passenger looked like Frankenstein, he certainly wasn’t scary. Instead he looked quite sad. He was tall and not very well-coordinated. His head was a little flat on top, and he had a big scar on his forehead, but he looked rather shy.

He sat sideways on the seat in front so he could talk to us. “Hello” he said “my name is Bernard”

The clown and I laughed. Bernard looked hurt and turned his back. “I’m sorry” I said “I didn’t mean to laugh, I just didn’t expect you to be called Bernard. My name is Poppy.”

“Poppy, Poppy.” said the clown “You don’t look like a flower. My name is Jack”

“Jack’s are alway heros and you don’t look like a hero.” I replied, a little annoyed.

Bernard turned around and smiled at us. “I know, everyone thinks I should be called Frankie like the monster.”

I felt safe again and started to think of Herman Munster, from the TV show. Bernard looked like Herman Munster, he wasn’t scary at all.

“What are you laughing at” a voice hissed. An awful voice filled with hatred and venom.

Another passenger had crept aboard, a passenger I really didn’t want to get close to.


She slithered down the middle of the bus and made herself comfortable on the back seat next to Jack, who was holding my hand so tightly it hurt.

Her body moved constantly as she rattled and hissed. She was beautiful, but deadly. I was unable to speak. Bernard moved to the front of the bus. I saw Hitler’s reflection in the rear view mirror. He was enjoying the show.

I have fun with my blogs and I hope you do too! Writing gives me great pleasure. It allows me to escape from everyday life and fantasize. It is also a great way to practice my writing skills and practise makes perfect. 

My first two short stories are available on Amazon for a little while longer. In March, my first full lenght nove ‘Dead of July”(Preview) Dead of July will be released and my short stories will be taken down to re-edit. I am also in the process of writing my second novel ‘September Souls’ which is set in the London Blitz. Follow my blog and have fun with me. 

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Guy at the Bar Amazon

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Bedlam and its Ghosts!

Bethlem Royal Hospital, near Shirley, taken 7 ...

Image via Wikipedia

Bethlem Royal Hospital (bĕth`ləm), the oldest institution for the care and confinement of the mentally ill in England, and one of the oldest in Europe. A priory in 1247, the building was converted to its later usage c.1400. The hospital moved in 1675, in 1815, and to its present location near Croydon in 1930. The word bedlam, which is derived from the hospital’s name, has long been applied to any place or scene of wild turmoil and confusion. Presently, Bethlem Royal Hospital is connected with the Univ. of London’s Institute of Psychiatry, and is part of the Maudsley Hospital.

When I was a kid I remember my mum using the word ‘bedlam’.

Photo from 'A Symphony of Ghosts'

It was a very common word back in the sixties. I think it is also a very British word as I don’t hear it so much now I live in the US.

I can only imagine the ghosts that wander the halls and passageways of this place. The poor unfortunate mentally insane residents, who were committed to spend their lives in that horrific place, were not well cared for. After enduring years of cruelty they often died terrible deaths. 


My curiosity is piqued and now I will have to find time to research Bedlam, and the ghosts that roam there.

It’s very name chills me.