When feuding grannies get down and dirty — “Bingo!” she screeched. “Bitch!” I muttered, not for the first time that year. I was growing dreadfully sick of Gran Esme and her bingo-winning streak. Disgruntled, I sat back in my chair and scrutinised the old bag. ‘Bingo! Bingo!” she called, waving her scrawny arms, orange bingo dauber clutched in…

Is he far, far away? — How many people in the world have the real name, John Doe? You might be surprised to learn that it isn’t all that uncommon. It would seem a bad idea to name a kid, John, or Jane, if the surname, Doe was to follow. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? But…

Obliterated by big black lines — I intend to start by placing the blame for this article squarely where it belongs, on the shoulders of my exceptional writer friend, Patrick Eades. One day, I happened to comment facetiously in his response column about a time, many years ago, when a psychiatrist delivered a professional opinion on…

Who knew hot cocoa could be deadly? — Reverse Bechdel prompt rules: The story should (1) have at least two men, (2) talk to each other (3) only about a woman. If the men in your story talk to a woman, they can discuss any topic, but if they talk to each other, they can only talk about…

In Forever-land — It was all over the newspapers at the time. A child went missing, inexplicably vanishing from the family’s front yard in the middle of the day. It was a report that seemed all too common; parents dropping their guard for just a moment and poof! …

The bastard didn’t deserve to die like that! — Jump on board this fun prompt — see complete details in tags below! Short explanation — turn to page 12 of the book you are reading, select a sentence. Use the sentence to inspire a free-written story. You’ve only got 10 minutes to do it but you really need to…

We will be keeping our clothes on! — April brings simple pleasures

Here’s looking at you, kid! — Madge stomped into the kitchen, still wearing her muddy gumboots made from bright blue rubber, patterned with yellow chickens. Merv knew things weren’t right the minute Madge breached the doorway, still wearing her boots. …

You’d better not close your eyes! — The moon hung suspended, partly visible through the trees, throwing just enough light to illuminate the twiggy path she walked along. The dusk insects had ceased their myriad clickings and chirpings just before Lunar’s nightly emergence; the woods held their counsel save for the odd mopoke trying out its name…