Friday Fictioneers: No Ice-ice Baby

Rochelle, how hard can this be (asked the man to no one in particular). Its very tricky sonny jim said another person with no punctuation or capitalisation this is what im up against. The idea, to construct a tale with a beginning a middle and an end, not necessarily in that order using the photo prompt which this week has been provided by the super duper Dale Rogerson (Yay! Woo Hoo!) So i’d best get cracking…

On My Marks…

Get Set…


“Well the sign is obviously misleading”

“In what way? How is STOP misleading, i’d say it’s pretty much massively leading”

“But it’s a reminder. A reminder of days gone by”

“What on Earth are you talking about”

“The Glacial age” 

“Glacier? What’s that?”




He swirled his glass, an audible hallucination; the chink of ice cubes. When, he wondered, was the last time he had encountered Ice?… Polar-Bears, Penguins, Walruses, Whales… Primates, Big-Cats… The names imperceptibly lingered, a vague memory?

“An Arête is a glacial feature…” his voice tailed off into a Whispering Narcosis, his misty eyes Dampened slightly.

There we are 100 words on the bleak recollections of a person where glaciers no longer exist, enjoy, if you can, this type of bleakness.


  1. A typical conversation of sorts in the pub, lamenting better days. Been there a few times.

    I recall my first time along the Crib Gosh, mostly on my hands and knees. A week later and numerous crossings I ran along the edge like a mountain goat. Great fun. Ah, those days.

    Crib Goch is described as a “knife-edged” arête in the Snowdonia National Park in Gwynedd, Wales. The name means “red ridge” in the Welsh language. Crib Goch. Crib Goch from the west. Highest point.

    Liked by 1 person

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