June 14, 1941


All those summer nights

closing spun-out days of waiting tables

blistered feet, merry hearts and

cheery faces in creamy cafes and yellow-lit clubs.

Hope was never a fragile thing.

Together, we would make it through.

Starlight in the skies

turned to fires burning high

over our heads, we were lost in flames.

The sirens screamed long into the night.

Our stricken hearts would never give up this fight.

When the daylight came to clear the smoke away,

the words on our lips met the tears on our cheeks:

Paris has fallen. Paris has fallen.

94 words


(Update: As Neil pointed out, try reading it backwards. It kinda almost works ūüėČ )

This is a story of how life never goes as planned. Take 2020 for example.

That’s how the poem began and it developed into the Nazi-German siege of Paris on June 14, 1940. I took some creative liberty in my poem.

After four years of Nazi occupation, Paris was liberated on August 25, 1944.

Armed fighters take part in the liberation of Paris. Who might these young people have been before the war changed everything? (Keystone/Getty Images) Sourced from Washington Post

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less, click the frog to submit your flash fiction and read what others have written. Enjoy!




Maybe what I miss most

Wasn’t the beige dwellings

housing our belongings.

Though I protected them with all my might

I longed to escape their confines.


Maybe what I miss most

wasn’t the calm lake that spilled

into the Baltic Sea.

Though it was a silent witness

where Solveig and I made secret love

beneath the twinkling eyes of the gods.


Maybe what I miss most

was a curl of Elin’s yellow hair

wisping up into the air

as she loosed her lethal arrow.

Cheeks flushed.

Eyes ablaze with the glory of war.


Maybe what I miss most

were sounds of military merriment in the tavern.

Victorious and raucous.

While I washed the blood off of my axe

in the quietness of the lake

that swallowed our stories into the water.


Maybe what I miss most

were the sounds of twenty boats

breaking a path through the Baltic Sea.

The promise of fortune and fate

drawing out the heaving breaths

of my army, working the oars through the black water

towards a destination far beyond

what we could see.




Inspired by the very real historical Viking Warrior, who was first assumed to be male upon excavation in 1878. (And also inspired by a song with the same refrain). Due to the remains being buried with an arsenal of weapons and a game set, used in strategic thinking, it was clear that it was a warrior’s tomb.

It took more than a hundred years later for someone to examine the bones and confirm that the lack of Y-chromosomes indicates the remains were female. This caused much controversy. But the evidence speaks for itself, and the myth of the female Viking warrior became fact.

The artifacts in the tomb indicated she was a high ranking warrior. My poem tries to capture life through the eyes of this dead warrior, in the Viking village of Birka.

Geography plays a major role in the activities and organisation of a community. In this case, Birka (located in Sweden) was a major trading post between Northern Europe and the rest of the world.

Anthropological and historical studies show that much of what the modern world perceives as uniquely masculine or feminine gets debunked by findings such as these. Where medieval and sometimes ancient customs do not have the same roles and customs assigned to specific genders as we do today.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub


**Images from Smithsonian.com. Featured Image: (Antiquity Publications Ltd./drawing by Tancredi Valeri)


A reconstructed Viking Age house in Birka. Image source: http://www.worldsheritage.travel.wordpress.com




The Aftermath


PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

“I feel sad.” said Afshan.

Aabid knew, but encouraged his daughter to talk, “Oh, why do you feel sad?”
He flung a piece of rubble the size of a football to the side. His arms trembled. The bombs struck in darkness. That was two weeks and three burials ago. Memories of his wife and two children clutched at his heart.

“Everything is gone. Ruined.” Such big words for a little girl, he thought sadly.

“Yes.” Grief threatened him as he was violently confronted by the ruins of his former life. “All we can do is look ahead. Start over.”

99 words

Written for Friday Fictioneers where the challenge is to write a story in 100 words or less. Hosted by leading flash fictioneer, Rochelle.

Thanks to Sandra Cook for providing this week’s photo prompt.

Things can change so quickly in life. Enjoy the present moment, and surrender to whatever it holds for you. A good attitude goes a long way. I tried to depict this in this week’s flash fiction, with Aabid surrendering to his loss and still looking ahead to whatever Life brings his way. I struggled with the title on this one.. The Aftermath was the best that came to mind…

Click the frog to read more awesome flash fiction!

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Night of the Star



Some things never change.

Nadia looked up at the full moon, brilliantly white. The same full moon lit up the dark roads all those years ago as she held Mama’s hand fearfully. Sobbing for her murdered Papa.¬†Led to that unknown place beyond the mountains she knew so well. She still hated that word refugee. But over the years it became part of her like the moles on her skin.

“Ready Nadia!” her new captain slapped her shoulder. Cheers erupted from the stadium crowd as the team ran on to the pitch. Refugee to star striker.

So much has changed.


100 words

This one is so close to my heart. I had a previous life of entrepreneurship (don’t ask), and my passion was Muslim women in sports. So I started a sportswear brand aimed at developing and encouraging Muslim women in sports. Many women are not active enough for various reasons.

Today I saw this video of Nadia Nadim who has signed on with Man City Women, and I feel like a proud mother hen. Despite the business not working out, this is what it was all for. To develop top level sportswomen. Her story is incredible. Boy did she break barriers. Her father was executed in Afghanistan by the Taliban. Her family fled to what they thought was London, but unknowingly ended up in Denmark. It was the mistake that led to her career as a footballer.

She has achieved a lot in her life already and still plans for much more: watch the video!



Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. The challenge is to write an entire story in 100 words or less. Click here to read more flash fiction.




The Teacher


PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Black dust stained her fingers where they trailed along the charred remains of a school desk. Upturned chairs and tables, half a chalkboard dangling from one corner. She could almost hear the screams and the deafening silence that followed. Some dead, others injured, too weak to make a sound. Weak sunlight glinted off a shard of glass in the window, and seeped into her heart. Hope.

Outside, men shouted instructions to one another. Women wheelbarrowed in bricks. Rebuild. Moving on. Together.

82 words


I do not know if war will ever end. But I do know that love will never die, cannot be killed, cannot be maimed; Love survives.

My story this week is about the good that survives through the bad, that in fact realises its power through the evil that tries to smother it.


Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by the lovely Rochelle, where we’re challenged to write flash fiction in 100 words or less. They say that the creating the best art, and writing included, is more about leaving out the unnecessary than about what you allow to appear on the page. Less is more.

Click the frog, or click here,  to read more incredible flash fiction or 30 second reads.






Mikail: story one of the Scars series

Photo credit © Fatima Fakier Deria

Dan rolled up his car windows and turned on the aircon. Usually he wouldn’t dare, it used up too much petrol. He was glad he was submitting a fuel claim for this particular trip.¬†¬†He turned it up a notch, cool air swooshed towards him.

They rolled in traffic past an ambulance stuck on the side of the road, steam hissed from under its bonnet. Capetonians  were not used to the forty degree weather, and neither were their vehicles.  The weather forecast predicted the heatwave would last till the end of the week. Dan hoped the evening would be cooler when his band held their practice session.

“Roll down your window.” Mike piped in the passenger seat. His name was Mikail, but everyone called him Mike. He leaned over and shouted at the ambulance driver above the hum of car engines. “Are you guys alright over there?”

The driver smiled and gave a thumbs up. “We’re fine. We were out on a response call, but broke down. The tow truck is on its way. Another ambulance has been sent out for the call. Thanks anyway.”

Mike returned the thumbs up and leaned back in his seat.

“Well it’s not like we had time anyway, to stop and help.” Dan reminded Mike of their schedule. They were out to pick up supplies and had to be back at head office for the next volunteer training session. He shook his head at the thought of the volunteers. Men and women eager to risk their lives. They must have no life, otherwise why enter a war zone?

“The turnout of volunteers is massive this year.” Mike whistled thoroughly impressed. “Best thing is, we have a lot of them with a medical background.”

“Ja, like you.”

Mike was a nurse by profession. He grinned and nodded.

Dan thought he’d just come out and say it. “I don’t get it. I mean I understand helping people… I don’t get the risking your own lives part.”

Mike looked out his window. “It is scary, you know. And the conflict is just getting worse.” He turned to look at Dan. “But that’s just why we need to go. There are kids who had their limbs blown off, without access to treatment. If not for anyone else, but the kids.”

His stomach lurched at the mention of limbs being blown off. There was also something else too, a peculiar sadness that washed over him.

“I couldn’t do it. That’s all.” he tapped¬†the steering wheel with his thumb.

Mike punched him on his shoulder, “C’mon! Of course you can’t. We need you here at home base. Doing all this.” He spread his hands out as if all that Dan did was laid out in front of him.

Dan turned on the radio and they went over everything needed to be done to prepare for the relief mission. The aid organisation, Giving Hands, would be sending out the first group of volunteers and supplies in a few weeks. There was much to do.

Later, he met up with his bandmates in a borrowed studio. The new drummer Cyril turned out to be a killer lyricist. He wrote songs of heartache, mistakes and redemption that people loved. And he had a network that fed the fan base and gig bookings.

The setting of the sun made no difference to the temperature. The ground released the heat it absorbed during the day. We always played without our shirts, we could really let loose that way. Cyril never took his off.

Perhaps he succumbed to the thirty eight degree heat, but he took his shirt off too. For a few seconds no one said anything.

Circular welts peppered his torso, shiny and tight. Two were on his left shoulder, one on his lower abdomen. He saw us staring and he turned around to reveal the exit scars, only one on the shoulder and one on the back, a little higher than the front.

“Dude, what happened to you?” our lead guitarist broke the silence.

“Oh, this was years ago.” Cyril shrugged the seriousness away. We were not one to let go. We assaulted him with questions till he gave in.

“I used to be in a gang.”

Cyril told us he grew up in the Cape Flats, the part of Cape Town rife with gangsterism. Once the gang warfare got so bad, the army stepped in and locked down entire neighbourhoods.

They were out patrolling the streets for rival gangs trying to invade their territory. A thirteen year old boy walked out of a house, gun pointed towards them. He never spoke. He fired shot after shot, emptied his magazine, picked up another loaded gun and fired some more. Cyril’s entire posse fell to the tarmac. Some died on the scene, some on the way to hospital, only Cyril survived.

He quit after that. He still receives death threats from his old gang. “It was clearly an ambush. I’ll never go back, I have a son now and I don’t want that for him.”

It is said that we earn our scars. Dan never understood that. Those jagged, lumpy pieces of flesh appeared as a body’s poor attempt of joining muscle and skin, and more a sign of an ineptitude than of any ability.¬†Sometimes they are tight, sleek and shiny attempting¬†a badge of honour, yet still, never returning the skin to it’s smooth flawlessness.

He couldn’t help thinking that if Mike returned from the relief mission all scarred up, which was possible, that it would somehow be different than Cyril’s. The bullet¬†scars marked a life of asserting power over others. ¬†Mike’s would mark a life the complete polar opposite: giving power and life back to¬†those who lost everything.


Ja – (Yah) localised version of the word ‘yes’.

Cape Town gangsterism and drug rings are a huge social and criminal problem. At one point, the Premier pleaded with government to involve South African Defense Force. I don’t think the army lockdown happened, but included it in my story.