My name is Hugh. I live in the city of Swansea, South Wales, in the United Kingdom.
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It always snowed at Christmas, and it was one thing Fiona detested.
A white Christmas was one of the remaining bits of magic the festive season had over her. This Christmas, she needed to get rid of it once and for all.
Witnessing the arrival of the angels every Christmas Eve had helped keep the magic alive. But last year the angels seemed different; different to how they had always appeared to Fiona. Last year, the first Christmas Fiona hadn’t believed in the magic, the angels had refused to show their faces to her.
“You’re too old to be hanging up Christmas stockings,” Fiona yelled at her daughters as they approached the fireplace. “And you can lay the table and cook tomorrow’s dinner if you want to celebrate. Christmas Day is now going to be like any other day. The magic of Christmas no longer exists.”
At the stroke of midnight that night, Fiona made her way out of the house. Would the angels show their face this year?
It wasn’t long before the warm globes of light appeared. The angels had come back and made their way to the only part of the garden where virgin snow lay. It hadn’t snowed for two days, yet the footprints Fiona had made in that part of the garden were no longer visible.
“You’re not real! Why don’t you show me your faces anymore? There’s no such thing as the magic of Christmas,” she shrieked, as all but one of the angels touched the undisturbed snow and melted into it. As the winter air chilled Fiona’s bones, the last angel turned around and beckoned her towards it.
Doing all she could to stop herself moving towards the creature, its ugly face made Fiona want to scream, but nothing but a silent screech came out of her mouth. She tried thinking about the magic of Christmas in the hope the creature would go away, but her body refused to stop moving. By the time she reached it, its terrifying face had melted away.
Fiona’s heart raced. Had they gone?
A noise from behind her forced her to turn around and look back at the house. Now, before her, the whole garden was full of untrodden, virgin, snow, yet it had not snowed.
As she made the first hesitant steps towards the house, Fiona’s journey abruptly stopped. From underneath the snow, a hand appeared and grabbed her ankle. Her screams went unheard as the warm hand pulled her into the world of non-believers.
Fiona’s last sight of the magical world she had once believed in was that of a stout figure, dressed in red with a long white beard, standing on the roof of the house.
“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas,” laughed the figure, as the final remains of Fiona melted into the virgin snow.
The image in this post was created by me using Canva.
December 10, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about something a character never dreamed would happen. The situation can be fortuitous, funny, or disappointing. Go where the prompt leads!
Final Score – by Hugh W. Roberts
Living his life in the closet, Alan never wanted his father finding out he was gay.
He loathed going to watch football every Saturday afternoon with his father. But he never showed how disappointed he was with the season ticket his father gifted him every Christmas.
But on the Saturday after his father’s death, Alan carried on with the tradition.
“Hello. I’m Tim,” came a voice from behind. “Where’s your father today?”
Alan never dreamt that a season ticket would be the key to meeting the love of his life and no longer living his life as a lie.
Written for the 99-word flash fiction challenge hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch. Click here to join in.
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December 3, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes family traditions. It can be related to any holiday or situation. How does the tradition impact the story or change the character? Go where the prompt leads!
An Advent Tradition – by Hugh W. Roberts
Not only have the new family in your area won the Christmas lights competition, but they’ve become known as the kindest and friendliest people in your district.
Next time you’re out walking, don’t look through their dining room window and watch them carrying out the tradition of raising a glass or two of red wine.
What you don’t realise is that the dark red liquid is that of one of your neighbours.
Unless you’re a vampire, you won’t know about this Advent tradition that has been going for over 666 years.
I’m dreaming of a red Christmas. Are you?
Written for the 99-word flash fiction challenge hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch. Click here to join in.
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Over the years, I’ve collected and accumulated lots of Christmas objects. However, some items have me curious as to why I bought them.
Take, for example, this curious little pot.
The curious Christmas pot
Purchased on eBay over ten years ago, it has never seen the light of day in our house. Not even at Christmas time have I been tempted to put this strange little pot on display. I’m not even sure what it is.
However, there may be a clue in the hole on the side of the lid where maybe one could place a teaspoon.
Does the hole hold the clue?
So is it a festive pot for holding jam, mustard, cranberry sauce, or Boxing Day festive chutney?
And it’s probably no wonder why I’ve never had it out on display at Christmas. I mean, look at it. It’s the stuff of nightmares. It’s something that belongs in a horror story. Feel free to write one that includes this object.
I’m positive the words ‘Christmas Antique’ in the heading of the auction were what tempted me to buy it. I don’t remember how much I paid for it, but it was no more than £20.
Was I conned at buying this supposed piece of ‘Christmas past?’ Maybe the mark on the bottom of the object answers my question? Maybe you know an antiques expert who could answer my questions?
At least we know where it was made
I wonder what’s its history is and what stories it could tell me?
Have you seen an object like this before? What do you think its purpose is? Is it an antique, or was it massed produced for the market?
Thank you to Michael at Spo-Reflections for the idea for this post.
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Ever since I can remember, I’ve always enjoyed Advent Sunday. It’s the day when the first few Christmas decorations start appearing around our house.
An eBay purchase from 10 years ago
Another eBay purchase from 2001
Purchased in 2019
Another eBay purchase from 2005
Although I tell myself that I’m not going to buy anymore Christmas decorations (because we have too many), I always end up buying something new every Christmas. Introducing this year’s buy
Christmas 2020
Over the next 14 days, more Christmas decorations will appear, with the grand finalé being switching on the lights on the Christmas tree.
Do you have any Christmas decorations up yet, or is it still too early to put them up?
All photos in this post were taken and belong to me.
I’m delighted to welcome Graeme Cumming to my blog. Not only is Graeme somebody I class as a friend, but he’s also a very talented author, writer and blogger.
A guest blog post by Graeme Cumming
Graeme’s true story opened up my eyes to something I’d never thought about when it comes to passing on wisdom and mistakes I’ve made in my life to those younger than me. Read his story and let him know how you pass on words of wisdom to the younger generation.
Unlike Bryan Adams, my summer of ’69 had nothing to do with playing guitar. Having struggled to play triangle during a school concert, I think it’s safe to say my musical abilities wouldn’t have stretched that far.
When I chose the wrong moment to hit the triangle, I was even more mortified than I might otherwise have been because my dad was in the audience. He didn’t tend to turn up for school stuff because of work – not many dads did back then. So, when he was able to put in an appearance, I wanted to impress him. Clearly, I was to be disappointed and, at the time, I assumed the same was true for him. It’s funny the perceptions we have of our parents.
That summer, we took a rare holiday. I suppose they were rare because we didn’t have the money for them. In those days, it was common for the husband to go to work and the wife to stay home and look after the house and children. With one wage-earner, a holiday was a luxury. Even better, we had two weeks at Mablethorpe, not just one.
Fifty-one years later, I still have great memories from that holiday. Great, though not all of them filled with joy. Not at the time anyway.
There was an incident where my dad and I were playing football on the beach. Sport had always been his forte. He’d even been signed as a professional footballer back in the fifties – though a foot injury put paid to his sporting career within weeks. Nevertheless, even with the injury, he was a good all-rounder. In his time, he played cricket, tennis and squash to a high standard, and even walked away with a trophy on the one occasion he played golf.
In contrast, my own sporting skills have always bordered on the inept. So there was very little surprise when I kicked the ball in the wrong direction, sending it hurtling out into the sea. The tide was going out and, before long, it became apparent that the ball was going with it. My dad did go after it – inevitably, he was a bloody good swimmer, too!
Like most kids, my dad was my hero. I thought he was capable of anything. So, when he swam back to shore and I could still see the ball in the distance, it’s fair to say I was disappointed. In short, I wanted my ball back.
Standing at the water’s edge, he pointed to where it was, bobbing further and further away. I felt very let down that he’d come back empty-handed. And I let him know it, too.
“You can still get it.”
“Graeme, it’s too far out.”
It didn’t look that far to me, a point I expressed pretty sharply.
“The tide’s taking it,” he tried to explain.
Perhaps the concept of tides was too difficult for a six-year-old. It was another thirteen years before I experienced the terrifying pull of the sea as a Moroccan beach seemed to recede very rapidly from my line of sight. And the overwhelming sense of relief as I somehow managed to scrabble my way back to shallow waters.
To this day, I don’t know whether my dad had ever gone through a similar experience, but he knew what he was talking about. I didn’t.
Hands on hips, I looked up at him and, in the manner befitting a child who isn’t getting their own way, let him know just how disappointed I was in him. After all, this was my hero. He was my Simon Templar, my Robin Hood, my Tarzan.
“Aren’t you brave enough?” It was an idea that was, frankly, shocking to me.
Exhausted from swimming against the tide, and faced with a similarly unreasonable question, I’d like to think I could show the same level of patience he did (I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t).
“Sometimes, Graeme, there’s not much difference between being brave and being stupid.” He glanced out to the ball. “I’m not going to be stupid today.”
Naturally, this quite profound life lesson went straight over my head at the time. And yet, strangely, the incident and the words stuck with me, until one day they made sense.
I’d like to say my dad was not only a great sportsman, but a philosopher too. But I can’t. Like each and every one of us, he was a flawed individual, and over the years I learnt as much from his mistakes as I did his wise words. And I’ve learnt even more from my own mistakes, especially from my youthful certainty that I was right, that I was invincible, that I would be my own hero. But that’s part of growing up.
Now, as a father myself, I see my children making their own mistakes, and hoping they’ll learn from them too. I’ve shared my words of wisdom, and hope they’ll remember some of them when the time is right. Sometimes those words have been dressed up in stories – because sometimes it’s easier to learn when you’re being entertained.
And I do like to tell stories.
Graeme Cumming
Graeme Cumming lives in Robin Hood country. He has wide and varied tastes when it comes to fiction so he’s conscious that his thrillers can cross into territories including horror, fantasy and science fiction as well as more traditional arenas.
When not writing, Graeme is an enthusiastic sailor (and, by default, swimmer), and enjoys off-road cycling and walking. He is currently Education Director at Sheffield Speakers Club. Oh yes, and he reads (a lot) and loves the cinema.
November 12 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes avocado toast. How can this be a story or a prop to a story? Use your senses and imagination. Go where the prompt leads!
Avocado On Toast – by Hugh W. Roberts
I always met Carl at this restaurant. But this foggy Thursday evening was much different.
The waiter looked at me peculiarly when I ordered two portions of avocado on toast.
A sudden burst of cold air crossed the table as he placed two plates of green coloured toast in front of me.
I couldn’t thank him. I couldn’t move, yet my ears picked up the sound of Carl’s voice cutting through the foggy night.
“Good. You’re ready. I’ve been waiting for your signal. I told you I’d come to get you when you ordered avocado on toast for us.”
Written for the 99-word flash fiction challenge hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch. Click here to join in.
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October 30, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about life savers on any body of water. It can be a formal Coast Guard, historical or contemporary. It could be an individual who unexpectedly takes on the role. Go where the prompt leads!
Lifesavers – by Hugh W. Roberts
Cindy-Rose already knew that she wanted to follow in the footsteps of her father and save lives at sea.
“I’ve just saved Teddy and Giraffe from going underwater, Daddy.”
“I know, I saw you save them from falling into that big, strange puddle left by last night’s, weird storm,” responded her father.
“Thank you for saving our lives,” whispered Teddy into the ear of its owner. “Giraffe and I will always save you.”
Smiling, Cindy hugged her toys and counted down from her age of four before jumping into the puddle.
Only her yellow wellington boots and rainhat resurfaced.
Written for the 99-word flash fiction challenge hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch. Click here to join in.
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October 15, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about chores. It doesn’t have to be a western ranch chore; it can be any routine task. Go where the prompt leads!
Vacuuming – by Hugh W. Roberts
Having murdered his chore-loving wife, Herbert did the unthinkable and scattered her ashes throughout the house.
“That’ll teach you,’ Herbert chuckled. “Lived-in. Not a showhouse.”
On getting home from work the following day, the house was spotless. Unbeknown to Herbert, his wife had employed a domestic help to come in once a week.
That night, the sound of hoovering woke Herbert. Yet downstairs, the hoover was unplugged and stored under the stairs.
Questions: Had Herbert’s wife come back to haunt him? Was it time to buy a new vacuum cleaner? Or should he empty the cylinder of his wife?
Written for the 99-word flash fiction challenge hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch. Click here to join in.
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When I woke up that Saturday morning, little did I know that something I was hiding from view from others was about to have the key put in the ignition and set me off on a journey that was to become the life I was born with.
True Stories: Gay Memories
It was a Saturday morning like any other Saturday morning. I always got up first because I’m an early bird.
After breakfast, I’d sit down and watch Multi-Coloured Swap Shop – a children’s TV show on Saturday morning.
The theme to the TV show Swap Shop
The fact that I was 17 years old didn’t put me off from watching it. I loved watching it. It got my weekend off to a perfect start.
Just after midday, I always went into town to buy an array of snacks for myself for the evening. I still preferred to spend Saturday evenings indoors watching television like I did on Saturday mornings.
My parents thought it unusual for a boy my age to want to stay in on a Saturday evening. At the time, I thought they knew nothing about why I did not want to go out. Years later, I discovered my mother had already suspected I was gay.
Whereas boys my age were going out to drink alcohol and date girls, my Saturday evening treat was the snacks (including a small trifle from Marks & Spencer) and Saturday evening television.
I always visited the same shops to browse or buy something. On this particular Saturday, though, something I’d seen on TV that morning made me go into a shop I hardly ever visited.
Scanning the shelves full of newspapers and magazines for the music newspaper I wanted, it soon caught my eye.
On the front was a picture of the singing duo Chasand Dave. I didn’t particularly like their music, but I found both men sexually attractive.
Picking up the newspaper, I flicked through it, pretending not to notice the picture and taking little, if any, notice of who was around me.
Towards the back of the newspaper, I stumbled upon the advertisement section, and one of the adverts immediately got my attention.
It was a significant point in my life that opened a door and invited me to step through.
I didn’t personally know any other gay people, yet here was an advert in a music newspaper about a world I belonged to yet knew little of.
Gay? Then you should read Gay News. Once fortnightly. For a copy, send a postal order for (I can’t remember how much) to –
At that moment, a member of staff entered the shop and shouted over to the cashier –
“I see the library is open again, Karen.”
She was referring to me and a few other customers who were all flicking through various newspapers and magazines. I quickly closed the paper to see if anybody noticed me reading the advert.
At that point, I wanted to put down the paper and rush out of the shop, but the chance of being in touch with other gay people stopped me from doing so.
I told myself to be brave, quickly walked over to Karen, and nervously placed the newspaper by the cash register. “Got everything you need today?” she asked me as she pushed the keys on the cash register.
Nodding my head, I could feel myself blushing. I thought she knew which advert I’d been reading and was about to stand up and announce, ‘This one’s queer!” Of course, that never happened.
As I walked home, my heartbeat raced. I kept looking behind to check if anyone was following me. After all, unlike my straight friends, it was still illegal for me (as a gay man) to have sex with a same-sex partner until I was 21.
Precisely one week later, I waited patiently for the postman to arrive. When my first copy of Gay News came through the letterbox, I rushed downstairs before anybody else got to the post.
I was relieved that the people at Gay News did as they had promised to do in their advertisement. My copy of the paper arrived in a plain brown envelope.
My hands shook as I took the envelope up to my bedroom. Carefully tearing it open, I allowed the life I’d been hiding to start coming out of the closet.
Have you ever had a life-changing moment? Contact me if you’d like to share the details in a guest post.
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Hugh's Views & News 