Stan Green’s Secret #FridayReads #shortstories

A very moving story to make us think on this important day.

Judith Barrow

‘How old are you, son?’

 Stan straightened his spine and stretched his shoulders back, looking beyond the man to the recruitment poster of Lord Kitchener, on the wall.  ‘Eighteen, sir.’

‘Hmm. Date of birth?’ The captain studied Stan.

‘October 3rd, 1896, sir.’

‘Okay, lad, you’re in. Report to the sergeant over there.’ He dismissed Stan by shouting, ‘Next!’

 Stan grinned and gave the thumbs up to his mate, Ernest Sharp who stood, behind him. He turned and marched as best he could to the other side of the room to the serveant.

‘If that’s the best you can do as a march lad, I’ve got some work cut out for me.’ But the recruiting sergeant, tall and moustached, gave Stan a grin. ‘Welcome to the East Lancashire Regiment. ‘He winked. ‘We’re doin’ well; you’re the tenth recruit today, so that’s ten half-crowns we’ve earned. We’ll be ‘aving a few pints…

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50 Word Stories: Ready?

I too have been caught out by this sudden Autumn – not sure I’m ready.

Richard M. Ankers - Author

Autumn has swept in without my knowing. An early gloom has stolen my evening reading and ushered in the need for unnatural, electric light; it buzzes like a swarm of flies. Northern kisses settle on chapped lips, the promise of snowflake tomorrows. There’s a change. Are you ready? I am.

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Home

Mixed emotions are beautifully portrayed in this simple but evocative piece of writing. I have moved home many times and have always felt a sadness on leaving.

A Literary Life

This short piece of creative writing is for the purposes of the competition at Friday Fictioneers, the task being to compose a story, based on the given photo prompt, in 100 words or less (my word count: 100). Enjoy!


Dale RogersonCredit: Dale Rogerson

I’m fed up with boxes. I’m fed up with their sticky labels dogeared corners.

At first, they excited me; whenever I looked at them, I saw hope. I was going to get out of this dingy, old flat and escape to the city, where I would finally be able to be myself. Now, though, all I feel is pain.

This town of mine, this strange, little town… it’s my home. I hadn’t really appreciated that before – not until today, my last day. I stare hard at the flowers on the kitchen table – at my last bit of home.


 Click on the blue froggy for more…

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Lost

I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about relationships. This poem resonates with me because I think it is easy to forget ourselves in a relationship; to give so much that we lose who we are, what we feel and what we want.

No Talent For Certainty

It’s strange the way I lost myself.
It happens, though. It does.
I thought I had things figured out.
But that all went, because

I lived within delusion, thinking
I was good — and fine —
And then, the moment came I knew
I was more hers
Than mine

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