My Life in a Nutshell


piano-anshuMy life in a Nutshell

My mother was a nut – a walnut. When my beautiful, polished form first adorned the drawing room I was joined by matching walnut bureau and piano stool. Alas, my mistress was consumptive and my master broke.

After the bailiff’s visit I adjourned to the pub, a lowering of status compensated by variety. Contemplative days followed by evenings of carousing and company. One penniless student of composition spoiled me forever with his sweet sad caresses.

Nowadays it’s just me, the woodlice and a tickling of marigold roots. I’ll not complain; we all return to the good earth one way or another.

Miranda Lewis 2019

It’s Friday, it’s five o’clock and it’s time for Friday Flash Fiction hosted by the esteemed Rochelle and this week adorned with a photo by Anshu Bhojnagarwala.

Thanks to all who visit and most especially to those who stay to comment.



The days are growing lighter and I’m spending too much time staring out of my window. Think I’ll pack a knapsack and head south to meet the spring. (Sure they’ll understand at work.) I can’t shoe a horse or sweep a chimney, so I’ll just knock on this cottage door here and offer to tell a tale – a whole life in one hundred words – for my supper.



Born under the shed, behind the compost bin, the little vixen’s first smells were the fecund scents of placental blood, mother’s milk, mushrooms and leaf litter.

When her mother was hit by a lorry reversing in the lane, she escaped to the park and shared the dawn with a locked-out drunk and two teenage lovers. Many times she raised cubs herself; one long summer of plenty with an old dog fox who stayed.

Skin and bone now, today she hobbled back onto my lawn, raised her dark snout to a sudden swathe of blue sky and sniffed the spring air.

M J Lewis ©2015

Please click on the LINK for a whole glorious dawn chorus of stories from around the globe. Thanks as ever to Rochelle, our very own conductor of the Friday Fictioneers. Photo prompt by Erin Leary.

And they call it therapy

And they call it therapy

on-on-offIf they do it right it’s like falling asleep.

Deep down goose-down snuggle down downy little head beside mine sleep?

Or turn the dial to prickly hiss crackle sleep?

If they do it right is it top of the stairs

Mummy me jump now!

crash bash three flights right down to the tiny soft sad heap peaceful forever sleep?

Trolley wheel squeak squeak ampere volt cell resistance useless.

Lord jesus krishna abraham and the angels

let them light me up like a christmas tree and fry my soul

only just let me sleep.

Mummy jump too now.


M J Lewis ©2015

Here we are at Friday Fictioneers, enjoying the discipline of 100 words and this spooky picture by Ted Strutz. (Don’t count the title!)

Many thanks again to Rochelle. Click on the link (Rochelle’s name) to find lots of diverse and wonderful stories using this same prompt.