Friday Fictioneers: The Tiniest Violin

This week I have been ducking in and out of the rain and trying to keep warm with it being British Summertime and all. This winter has been a shocker, not specifics, it just has. I think everyone is sick of the country and the way its heading. Which is why I thank Clod for the wonderful Rochelle and her little corner of the internet, as yet uncorrupted by self serving politicians. Let’s keep it that way, eh? So thanks also to Amanda Forestwood, who this week provided the photograph we have to base out story of 100 words on. Best get cracking.

On My Marks…

Get Set…


In a tiny dolls house; on awful astro turf…

But I did have Covid, I nearly died.

I wasn’t at a party, well I didn’t realise it was a party, rather other people were having a party. In my house, yes, apparently, but I didn’t see anyone… honestly

It wasn’t me…

Money for the NHS. A BIG LIE just to GET BREXIT DONE.

Whatever that is…

My kids can’t go travelling around Europe for a year off, if they want.

If there’s any Justice The Select Committee will find you guilty as charged and a great deal more.

But Outside I hear smallest violin in the world playing a vacuous conciliatory tune.

There we are, 100 words on hopeful retribution for a bloody awful man and his wretched followers who have plunged our country back into a spiral of disorder. Enjoy it.


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