Sunday, 19 June 2016


Being the first human being ever to be born with X Ray vision I would have made a wonderful brain surgeon.

My fame would have travelled far and wide. One day you would have found my eyes staring at you from the surface of a ten dollar bill. When I am dead and buried somebody no doubt would build a statue of me. Somewhere suitable. Times Square. Miami Beach. Or perhaps somewhere out of harms reach like Zocalo or next to a rusty well in the middle of the Yemen.

But brain surgery isn't for me. I prefer to keep my talents to myself. Why waste it when I can enjoy it?

You can't beat sitting on a warm beach with a good book, a cold beer and several hundred scantily clad women walking around totally oblivious to the fact that I can see everything. Some days I prefer a busy tube station. A hospital forecourt. Nothing gets in the way. No coat is too thick. No scarf too tightly stitched.

Who the hell wants to be a statue anyway? School girls giggling at your triple chin. Sea gulls forever shitting on your fat bald head.

                                                                         (C)  Ally Atherton 2016

Written for this week's Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge


Sunday, 3 January 2016


I carry Angela around with me everywhere I go.

To the untrained eye she's a ten buck lava lamp from Walmart. She's so small I can fit her in my pocket. She never complains,

Angela is the quiet type and is never quick to lose her temper, even on the rare occasion when I've dropped her. She's got a few scratches and I know she worries about that crack that is working it's way slowly up to the top. I blame the shakes. The pills do that to me.

But Angela understands. Sometimes she reminds me if I've forgotten a pill. She uses the blue bubbles for that. Three blue bubbles in quick succession, Pink bubbles mean she wants to be left alone and when she wants a cuddle she releases a red bubble, I don't see many red bubbles and that's how I know she is happy.

The cat got her once. The little furry bastard. Now she panics whenever he comes into the room. Clear bubbles are fear bubbles. And they only come out when the cat's about or when we are in a crowd or an elevator. She hates elevators. They remind her of home. At night we curl up together on the couch and she talks about home and walls and elevators. I calm her. I soothe her. I blow her my own red bubbles.

Five red bubbles in quick succession.

                                                                               (C) Ally Atherton 2016

235 words written for this week's Sunday Photo Fiction