Friday Fictioneers: Plans







Writing was like her footsteps in the snow. You make your mark, they disappear, someone else makes their marks behind you. Erasing yours, showing life as it is now.


That was why on that cold night as she walked from the pub, she wondered why she had been so scared to say what she felt. To create stories of real life. Not safe. To leave the bubble of her own existence and be a writer. True writers wrote about everyone and everything, didn’t they?


That was plan until she walked out in front of that car. And died at the scene.


My book Black Coat based on a previous Friday Fictioneers prompt is available at:


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17 comments on “Friday Fictioneers: Plans

  1. Unfortunately that must happen so often. If a writer lives to leave his mark in recent times, though, it’s a bit easier than with ancient literature, which was largely anonymous

  2. Jade Li says:

    A rueful and sad story 😦

  3. neilmacdon says:

    I wonder if dead writers have a compulsion to find spirit writers

  4. Violet Lentz says:

    The end.. Very final.

  5. Iain Kelly says:

    And her stories died with her. What a shame.

  6. Oh no! I wasn’t expecting that ending!

    Susan A Eames at
    Travel, Fiction and Photos

  7. Dale says:

    Well damn. To finally find her/his voice only to have it quashed forever.

  8. gahlearner says:

    We can plan as much as we want, we die anyway and most of us won’t be missed for very long.

  9. Abhijit Ray says:

    Another proposition got disposed.

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