Hello – and thanks for dropping in…


I recently joined the Blogging World – deep breaths, hesitant fingers, head full of words, and a great sense of adventure. To be fair, most days are adventures – I live on an island and I’m a teacher who loves to travel so the material is fairly solidly in place each morning when I wake! It is true – I never know what the day will bring. My purpose in venturing into this new digital space is to share words; I love words. The intention is to use this Writing On A Rock opportunity to harness the words and get them to do what I’ve wanted them to do for ages – work with me. Not for me, or by me, or round me, but with me to produce a whole load of musings in the form of stories, poems, travelogues, rants and dreams, diaries and articles, thought bombs and conundrums, thunks and thinks – anything which lets words do their thing.

I hope you’ll stick with me and drop in now and then to see what’s going on – it’d be great to have you along for the ride. If you like what you see here, please do visit my Back to the Future archive links on the left hand side. J.




This site https://www.121words.com/ has a section open to microfiction of 12 words – it can be quite a challenge and some of the contributions are really thought provoking. Recommend a look.

My contribution today is –

  “For sale – multi sport wheelchair. One careful lady owner. No longer needed.”

Inside the Mind of a Gender Creative Boy


Raising My Rainbow

I hear from a lot of adults raising gender expansive four and five year olds. The adults are typically stressed, confused, lonely and scared. I get it. I’ve been there. Ages four and five were the toughest for us in terms of parenting a gender expansive child. I tell families that it gets better once the child can communicate his/her thoughts and feelings. Like, now, with C.J. being 10 years old and getting ready to start fifth grade, if I have a question about him, I can ask him and he can answer. I asked C.J. what he remembers thinking and feeling when he was four and five years old and I wrote it all down. I’m hoping that sharing C.J.’s memories below might help families currently wondering and/or struggling. xoxo, Lori

(By: C.J., age 10, August 2017)

When I was two years old I kind of liked cars and…

View original post 785 more words

A stranger to me…


Written for the 121 Word Flash Fiction challenge on the excellent site

https://www.121words.com/           @121_words

Robin stared at me. I stared right back. Things were getting out of hand and I was struggling to understand his increasing aggression. When he’d arrived here, he’d been so sweet, so gentle, so perfect. Fitting in straight away, he was happy to share space with the others and spent hours in the garden looking for bugs, splashing in the water fountain, and watching Jeff as he worked in the vegetable plot. He had a healthy appetite and ate whatever I gave him. But now – he was different.

Sadly, I watched out of the window as he took up his aggressive stance and prepared to attack the newcomer. There was nothing I could do now. Robins have always been very territorial.



This site https://www.121words.com/ is open to microfiction of 12 words – it can be quite a challenge and some of the contributions are really thought provoking. Recommend a look.

My contribution today is –

“Do people really still say ‘One for the road’?” Vodka bottle. Bang…




He was only tiny, a couple of weeks old, when they diagnosed his mother with cancer. She’d struggled to recover from the birth and they’d been worried about her so the surgeon was called back. Terminal – such a harsh word. The end was quick and she slipped away. That left little Frank and his siblings vulnerable and alone. What to do? Whose responsibility were they?

The farm had always been such a busy place – not just ‘busy’ as in lots going on, although there was that too – but ‘busy’ in its sense of energy and commitment, and uncomplicated love. The old man had lived there all his life, married his sweetheart and had five robust children, now grown and with lives of their own. He’d worked hard and their childhoods had been rambling and free – something out of an Enid Blyton story; the farm had thrived and prospered over the years. It was a happy place to visit, to live, to work, to be. And this was unusual in times when people talked about the hardships of farming and the pressures of making a decent living from stubborn sheep and stubborn crops.

 Now their beloved Suzy had died, and the family was heartbroken, bereft. For some reason, focusing on the speed of her loss rather than on the loss itself helped take the edge off the pain for a short while, delayed the harsh knife-stab of hurt and allowed it to seep slowly into hearts and souls like liquid cruelty. She’d been so cherished. It was so unfair.

A brother and three sisters were motherless now; their father was a feckless wastrel, long gone. The old man looked at them as they slept, their pitiful crying done for the day. He permitted his own silent tears then brushed them away fiercely and impatiently. Their mother had been very special to him, but there were practical decisions to be made, and quickly. The little one, Frank, was clearly struggling; he’d not been strong since the day he’d slipped almost silently into the world, his mother exhausted and failing fast. Tenderly, the old man now stroked his baby head, watched his snuffly sleep for a minute, then went back to earnest family rumblings in the kitchen. Decisions were being made.

 “I’ll take them,” said his daughter, quietly. “They can come to me.”

 Questions flew – how will you cope? What about your work? Do you know what you’d be taking on? What about Richard?

 She smiled. “Of course I know what I’m doing. We’ll make it work between us. I’ve done it before, you know.”

The old man looked at her for a long moment. His tough, farmer’s face softened as he realised that this was the only solution and that she was going to make it easy for all of them. “Thanks, love.” Turning sharply, he left the room, went out into the barn and searched through the straw bales for a wooden crate, yanking one from amongst the tangle of farming implements and machinery. He unhooked an old blanket from a nail – it’d once been a baby blanket in a cot, but had since served many a purpose and its gentle pastel colours were well past recognition now. His glance down at a small hollow in the hay caused him to pause, then sigh. It was what it was. It would be what it would be. Ever the philosophical.

The winter twilight was folding around the farm, turning the low, mauve clouds into gentle bruises. The old man looked up and out across to the distant hills, their dips and peaks so familiar, their rooted oneness so eternal, so safe. He wasn’t usually a sentimental man, but the death of Suzy had hit him hard and he was surprised at himself. Pulling his eyes from the skyline, shaking himself free of the lurking melancholy, he crossed the yard quickly and entered the house. He headed straight for the back room and, bending stiffly to the box in front of the fireplace, placed his strong hands carefully around the sleeping Frank to lift him onto the baby blanket in the crate. The puppy snuffled and shivered in his sleep, but didn’t wake. His three sisters were placed around him and they burrowed into each other, seeking the warmth that their mother wasn’t there to give them, joining as one cuddle of brown and white collie. The old man ran a hand over the soft heat of their bodies then lifted the crate. Enough now; let them go.

#internationaldogday  #NationalDogDay

In memory of Ffinlo (originally called Frank) 31.3.07 – 7.7.17  RIP, Ffin.