Tuesday, 29 October 2013


Unlike most junkies, they were lucky. The music and films meant money. A stream of royalty cheques, alleviated any supply problems, and provided all the trimmings of a privileged life. No need to be on the streets. No reason to steal. No cause to worry about the next taste, or the one after that. Suppliers were always on hand. Despite this, they were junkies, and I came in second by a long way.

They loved me, but they loved the junk more. I had everything a child could want. Everything that is, except parents. High fashion, cutting edge, heroin chic, the press said. Never showed the ugly side, the sordid underbelly. The hours wasted, the days lost. Too strung out to do anything. Too high to care. No conversation, hugs, smiles, glances. Even a boo in the face had zero effect. Absent, except in the brief periods between when the drugs wore off and the craving began. That’s my memory. That’s my childhood, and that is why I left.

They called me back. They pleaded. I found it hard not to listen. I would believe their promises, and I would go back. Wishing it would be different, knowing it wouldn’t. The cycle repeated. The word rehab, was just a word. An expensive holiday, nothing more. The pain would become too great to stay.
 After leaving and returning far too many times, I left, and forced myself to ignore their pleas. I was, with much effort, able to shake off the bonds and begin my own life. I cut them off. Now, many years later, the pain has faded into a memory. I have my own family, my own children. We share laughter, hugs kisses, sadness and tears. We love. We live.

I read the headline again. “Rock star couple, victim of tainted drugs”. Panic wells up from deep within. Gulping lungfuls of air, I begin sobbing unstoppably. All the years, believing they were dead to me, and only now do I really know.

333 words written for Trifecta Challenge: Week 101, incorporating the word boo:

Wednesday, 16 October 2013


The whole family is there. My babushka, old, withered and regal, perched next to my baccy chewing grandfather.  Aunts, uncles and cousins, parents and siblings, we are more numerous than I remember. In Sunday best, we know the baccate display is just a teaser. A Bacchanalean feast of Babylonian proportion is about to happen. A pair of Bacchantes, begin singing, over the sound of a Bach Cantata. The new baby is proudly carried in by his Godfather, my bachelor uncle. Resplendant in a pale blue Babygro, our newest addition has absolutely no idea that all this is for him.
99 words written for Trifecta: Week Ninety-Nine. The bold words are from the top part of the prompt:

Wednesday, 9 October 2013

Sleep Baby Sleep

"Tell me again. Tell me"

The expression "to sleep like a baby," was definitely not for you. That old gem just didn't apply. You would not sleep at all. For six months, you squirmed, you cried, you fidgeted and burbled, but you certainly didn't sleep.

"And then"

I was going mad. I loved you so much. You were beautiful, but the last thing you wanted was sleep. All night and all day, you were awake. Sometimes happy, but mostly not. You'd cry until I held you, and when I did, you wouldn't stay still, or keep quiet. "Sleep like a baby", my foot. I tried everything. Nothing worked. I was losing it. I was going mad. That is until....

"Until what"

So simple looking back. If only I'd known at the time. Those first six months. Oh my god. Those first six months.

"What did you do?"

A spoon of absinthe in the milk.

"You put absinthe in my milk".

Your milk! Huh no. The absinthe went in my milk. After that little zombie, I slept like a baby every night.
Written for Trifecta Challenge week ninety eight at:



The prompt this week is the word zombie I and the context:  

Tuesday, 1 October 2013


I had a real dilemma.

Copyright - Rich Voza
The journey up to now had been straightforward. As planned, I’d left in the night. First, following the road. Two wide lanes, and a well defined sidewalk narrowed, then became a tarred, and ultimately a gravel strip, I continued. As dawn approached, the road petered out, but I still had a track to follow. Even when it wound down a steep hill and into an open valley, I had a clear path, and I stuck to it. But now, I had a problem. I had no answer. I can't continue.

Which door do I choose?
100 words written for Friday Fictioneers.