LN Sanby
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LN Sanby
@lnsanby.co.uk
150 followers 170 following 130 posts
Writer, Composer? Photographer

He/him

WWW.LNSANBY.CO.UK
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lnsanby.co.uk
Couldn't finish this yesterday, but I'm delighted with how this one turned out 😁 #writingcommunity #writingprompt #poetry #hbp121
A poem with a line illustration of a waterfall. The poem reads: Behind the water wall Safe from prying eyes She slips her slip and lets it fall Twisting into her fresh disguise. But out the dark She slides and rides The darkened pavements In the silent night. Enemy, enemy! Here and there She fell into a sprint! Enemy, enemy! With her garrotte She braids a neck with a tightening metal ring! Enemy, enemy! Everywhere And all the boards did shrink! Enemy, enemy! With despair Nor any blood to drink. Soft of toe And quick with wit She makes escape For her stowed outfit. And to the world A face known by none Is peaceful now Until she slays anon.
February 25, 2025 at 8:09 AM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompt #poetry #hbp116
Ho! What’s this? A little mouse in my bag exists. In my nest, within a tent, Where sleep tonight might be spent. Ho! What too? To join the mouse a nuzzling shrew. It’s twiddling nose seeks out some food, So from a paper cup, I choose to tip out a feast of discarded seeds and nuts. Ho! What here? My tent flap parts to a doe-faced deer. She comes in further, not so nervous And settles, folded, at my side near. Ho! What comes? A snuffling hotchin scrums. With her little piglet pods in toe, Who’s heavy heads find sleep, with gentle nods on soft sock pillows. Ho! “Now then?” I say to greet the badger from out his den. Whose friends the ferret, stoat and marten follow in, And stow inside my boots and socks, like twisted noodle brethren. Ho! What’s this? It seems like in this place, Tucked in this space, with these beasts And critters, a quiet peace exists.
February 19, 2025 at 2:55 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompt #poetry #hbp115 Really enjoyed this prompt!
The wisdom well is opened wide With no cap cover stuck atop to prise No hindrance to the prize inside But still no crowd gathers, No pressing waiting lines. But none can claim to drown, A shame. I’ve known Many who should drink their fill. And even still if they suffered the fall in, They’d slipper the walls with turgid experience — A simple ignorance they would deny And a wider world would not question why.
February 18, 2025 at 10:29 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompt #poetry #hbp104
Left behind are the old punishing tricks Of broken stones, Or a beating stick. Obvious? Yes. The twist is That it is Its purpose: It is a fix. So for every brick We build or dismantle, They decide what, And how many, They'll let us handle.
February 8, 2025 at 9:42 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
Had no idea where this was going beyond the opening sentence. It gets disturbing 😳 #hbp102
They were growing, like an escalator; the more I climbed the stairs, the more stairs there were to climb. I stopped, paused for a moment, and so did the growing limestone steps. I stepped to the right, for a moments respite. Bending, to tie my shoe, the stairs shot from under me into the sky. They were flickering up and up, as the sun highlighted the edges with a stroke of bright. But it didn't happen that way. Only from my position, at the foot of the stairs, did I realise I'd fallen down. In a humble bundle, in a lump on the floor, I could see it all. The stairs falling down. My head, twisted between my legs, had snapped itself upside down after all. Those damned stairs had taken me in the fall.
February 5, 2025 at 7:37 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
Only ever did this to one plant, but I felt so bad 🙄🤭 #writingcommunity #writingprompt #poetry #hbp101
You did not protect me, Left me choking in water Tightly bound With packed arid dust, All that would fill my lungs If it could. The water simply runs off, Overfilling my drip dish Lifting me up, Just to hold on and Drag me back down. You failed to protect me, And now in my pot I alone sit And wither and rot.
February 4, 2025 at 8:46 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
This one ended in an entirely different place than I'd planned 🤯
#writingcommunity #writingprompt #flashfiction #hbp97
A man at the front of the gathered group spoke in a whisper which was meant to carry clearly. His date looked forward with a more fixed and purposeful attention than anyone had ever looked at the painting, other than the artist. It was titled: The arcane order meets in the floating city of Tharala, above the valley of the Gods by Ve. “Of course, it lacks realism by being a fantastical vista. Not the artists fault, but their work doesn’t deserve to be here amongst actual realism. If I were running this place, I’d keep this with the digital art prints.” The artist stood forward from beside his date. “You understand the difference between realism and realistic, right?” He looked at her with the same puzzled look a dog gets when hearing their name spoken in a baby voice. “It’s okay, I can explain it for you. We don’t have floating landmasses in reality, no. But by taking that fantastical element, imagining how it would sit in that space and how it would affect everything else around it, and then presenting it in a realistic way with true textures, shading and light. It is imaginative, but it is realism.” The man was stunned, mouth open. Closed. Open. The group shifted with collective cringe, but intrigue kept them from fleeing. “Y-you’re the artist. You are Vena Mulvane?” He asked, stumbling over the words. He reached out a hand and Ve took it before she could stop herself. “I’m such a big fan of your work. I have two of your prints at home.” His date laughed. The group laughed. Ve smiled at him, biting her cheeks to keep control. He was still for three seconds before he turned into the group to flee. They were obliging and parted for him, which only made them laugh more. Before he’d reached the door they had developed a hum of conversation, mostly re-enacting the event as they had seen it. All but for Ve and his date. “Not going after him?” Ve asked. “I was looking to ditch him, he didn’t find my humour funny.” . “What an idiot. I’ll add that tone of red he went to my palette for my new painting. Dedicate it to him, or maybe to you?” “I’d like to see that” “The new painting? How about now? My studio space is upstairs.” “Do you have a name? I can’t keep thinking of you as “the rude man’s date now.” “Yeah, not now I’m your date, I guess. I’ll answer to that, or Clair.” Ve laughed
February 1, 2025 at 11:43 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompt #flashfiction #hbp95
Sophie looked over the Cease & Desist. It claimed she had stolen her ideas, but who could prove that when they didn’t even exist on this plane of existence. Her mouth dried as she reached the seal at the bottom of the page. It was a ram head skewered by a ceremonial knife through its skull. Below it read: THE FECUND RAMM Beyond time and space Extradimensional Law. Copyright, Property, Immortal Bindings & Multi-life Oath legal needs.
January 30, 2025 at 8:29 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
Didn't think I'd have time again, but got this in 20 minutes!

#writingcommunity #writingprompt #poetry #hbp94
It wanted to eat me, It wanted to dance It wanted to fight me I could tell by its stance. At first, I was scared, Those teeth were so frightening. But I noticed real quick They were no good for biting. So grateful we were For no hasty decisions We built right there the best friendship That we could envision. For my new friend, out his mouth, I pulled and I yanked Till the teeth were out whole And I was gratefully thanked. When it ended my new friend Was still hungry I could tell, So I cooked him lamb shank And chewed it up for him well. Because if he did not eat, And enjoy it all through No sore mouth could stop me Becoming his dinner too.
January 29, 2025 at 9:22 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
Spent too long messing with the formatting of this one only to prefer left justified 😮‍💨 #writingcommunity #writingprompt #poetry #hbp89
On a journey down a river I’m just a little stick. A little twig On a little trip Free from control Of how I roll and slip. Over falls, In shining sun. In shadows flooded By canopies above. Waters warm or Cool to touch And clear right through Or murky muck. Whether currents be gentle Or a little rough. I’m glad to tumble where I go, A little stick going with the flow.
January 25, 2025 at 11:18 AM
lnsanby.co.uk
I'm really happy with this one 😁 #writingcommunity #writingprompt #flashfiction #hbp84
I got out of the car once my body confirmed with my brain that the numbness was not an injury, but rather a state of shock and adrenaline. I had not been driving fast and neither had the car behind. I opened the door and swivelled my hips. A pain shot up my leg, but putting my foot outside with a little pressure made it disappear as fast as it had appeared. The other driver must be local. It came to me then, so obvious. Only locals knew this stretch of road was not navigable over forty. My vision floated away from me as I stood; it lagged behind and arrived ahead of me all at once. Something inside my skull screamed and pounded on my left eardrum. The other driver was already at the boot of my car. The stranger flourished his thigh-length coat and approached with his hand outstretched towards my face, like he wanted me to kiss his ring. His finger flicked my forehead... I was stood alone in the road, my car was turned off and dented. Where am I? How did I get here? And why am I standing in the road?
January 19, 2025 at 2:12 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompts #poetry #hbp82
In a high rising tower Is a private bower Of a lady at peace And restfully reclined. Poised with paper plain And ink and pen the same It was upon her then to retell Tall tales, that had always filled her mind. "Author, Author!" Calls her brother After reading And swelled with pride. So to another She let's turn the cover To see her tales of Imagine, and fantastic life. But in her bower Atop the tower, She has yet to make a start. But so bright within Her imagining That her Real life has lost its lustre. And still she stares, endlessly, At the pages left bare and empty.
January 18, 2025 at 9:49 AM
lnsanby.co.uk
Such evocative imagery, had to see how far I could push it! #writingcommunity #writingprompts #flashfiction #hbp80
Eric had disappeared three years ago, so when he sat in front of me at our favourite restaurant I wanted to flip over the table and lunge forward. Impropriety be damned, I had to feel his mouth again. His touch. How his eyes could never keep contact with mine without him breaking out into a mischievous grin. But I didn't. Something had changed in him — it changed what I had held onto over the years. Eric extended his hand across the table towards me. "I've found the most wonderful place, you won't believe it. Will you come with me?" Eric asked. I could only look at it, palm up, expecting my reciprocation. "W-were you happy with..." I began to say. I looked Eric in the eyes. "Were you happy without me?" "Yes, of course I was Liam." It was ready to break my heart when he added. "In that place, there is only happiness." He said it all so plainly I was convinced it was true. I watched his placid face. I needed more, in way of answers, than he seemed capable of giving me. Eric met my eyes and I kept contact. Just a few moments and I'd know if he was still my Eric deep down. He grinned. My hand settled into his, and we left for that place together.
January 15, 2025 at 9:50 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompts #flashfiction #hbp79
Heidi had found the book in a little shop tucked down an alleyway, off the high street, between a snooker hall and tattoo shop. The alley was filled with seven roll top bins, something about that made a clear statement to Heidi about the perception of respectability, or something. She’d also been near public men’s rooms which smelt less rank than this passageway. Noticing the stains on the walls, her eyes attempted to dance away, only to fall on another pattern a sepia trace of aged piss. She gagged. The door she wanted had ribbed privacy glass panels and a salamander burnt into the centre of the wood. That was what everyone called the shop, Salamanders. Inside the air was thick with incense. Heidi made her way between three bulging circular clothes racks. It looked like someone had, in a moment of choice paralysis perhaps, decided on putting their entire stock on display. She reached the counter. Leaning over she looked down at the owner on the floor with her hands extended like a child pleading for more gruel. Two inches above floated a purple shard of crystal, it spun about an off-balance axis and spluttered out a blinking light. Heidi met the owners eyes. She didn’t know the woman’s name and it didn’t look like she could offer it anymore. Heidi knew the look of someone who had had their mind overpowered by magic. Did that mean the vision this woman had sent her was the last thing she’d done before succumbing to the malfeasance? She took the emerald charm from the owners bracelet. It was carved into the shape of a wildcat or a lynx. The purple crystal stopped glowing and dropped into the woman’s limp hands at the same moment her eyes emptied and her muscles relaxed. Heidi didn’t let a sound spill out of her as she cried. Above the nearest clothes rack Heidi held the little green charm in the place she knew the dimensional vault was. Her sight was still blurred, but only one object was there. The book. Heidi wiped her eyes and left the shop to begin her hunt.
January 15, 2025 at 8:30 AM
lnsanby.co.uk
I could have really gone into the motivation/plot with this, but I like the mystery so much more. #writingcommunity #writingprompts #flashfiction #hbp77
Morris was a quiet man who never wanted to intrude on others, never be noticed. He shuffled, he didn't bellow expletives when sneezing and most importantly his fingers brushed the keys so his typing was always whisper silent. The office he worked in was hell. The people stomped between cubicles all day in a fury, the quite obvious alpha-overcompensating the men did when sneezing was deafening and everyone else turned their silent keyboards into old fashioned mechanical typewriters if he was to judge by the cacophony. He'd make a complaint, but then someone might notice him. They might even realise he didn't work for this company at all.
January 12, 2025 at 7:04 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompts #flashfiction #hbp76
This was the first job Hannah had secured where her face would be in the ad. There was a future she could imagine. Move Ethan into an apartment and get out of their Box. It would be nice to have a kitchen, and maybe a second room. This was meant to be a whole campaign. It could lead to more projects. Things were looking up for them. At least, that is what she’d believed before seeing the mock up, in the middle of her hair and makeup time. She knew she’d look great, and tasteful enough her parents wouldn’t have been ashamed to brag to their friends. But The Befouling had seen off that generation. Not directly, but Hannah’s mum always told her the careless ways they had acted at the start, before it was known how to keep safe. Playing on that fear made the slogan feel so tacky to Hannah. She might have been embarrassed to have it in large print next to her face if it didn’t actually do what it claimed. The ad read: She’s going NEW She’s going CLEAR She’s going NUCLEAR! The new cleanser that obliterates pollution factors B24 and Ac12, whilst providing 3 hours of SPF 400. It was important work. She was about to become the face of a safe outdoors.
January 11, 2025 at 9:40 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
Started this months ago. This prompt gave me the push to get it done! #writingcommunity #writingprompts #flashfiction #hbp75
The mirror was a simple sheet of scratched back-foiled plastic, screwed directly into the wall. It could be worse, they could've booked him somewhere with ingrain wallpaper painted over with so many coats it became smooth. He'd never stayed here, Stanley had never been to Loughbroughton before — he had no usual haunts. It was one of those Georgian terraced houses along the seafront, turned into a B&B. It was old, it was dirty, but what turned Stanley's stomach was how strongly it clung to a distinct style of time. It was to the style of the 70s as neon was to the 80s or pop art was to the 50s. It strangled the room into a time period and committed murder on all of the furnishings. He let himself fall back on the bed. It didn't give. If there were springs in the mattress, they were sandwiched between fibreboard, two floors down. It didn’t matter, he couldn't relax anyway, thoughts about the guest book were going nowhere good. The way it looked like old leather, hardened with age and at once both dry and sticky. Like thousands of strangers festering hands had caressed it. Stanley groaned to stop the thought spiralling out of control — to the point his head was in the toilet. Exposure, it was the best cure for these things. He took a pen from his bag and leveraged the cover up and over. It fell flat, clearly well used, onto the dressing table/kitchen counter with a wet meaty sound like spoiled ham. Stanley sucked air through clenched teeth to keep the contents of his stomach in place. He read the first entry by a young man on his first business trip, full of excitement and glad for the reasonable room rate. He was clearly paying out of pocket. Stanley could remember being so naive when he started out. He read to the bottom of the page, All the best, Stanley Rasa. Followed by his own signature. Stanley turned the page again, hard. And again. Again. Again. Every entry. Was his own. The last entry read, What's happening? Stanley just RUN! Please.
January 10, 2025 at 9:36 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompts #flashfiction #hbp74
There was a cloth that Clive had owned since childhood, passed his way by a great grandfather. It was a dark purple silk on one side, and crushed black velvet on the other. One side shimmered in the light and the other side drew the light in. It was no illusion, rooms darkened when this side was out. Clive had always felt the dread and had to tuck it away into a chest, wrapped around an elm wand. But today he got home and it was on the sofa. The sun should have filled the room with daylight, but it felt like an oppressive storm cloud was in the way. It pulled him in. His partner came in from deeper in the house holding a threaded needle with their thimble hand. “Don’t worry love, I’ll patch it up in no time.” Clive could only look confused. “The cat got at it somehow and ripped a hole in it. But that’s the perks of being crafty,” Ellis said. Before the needle plunged into the material Clive sat on the blanket. “Sorry, this happened before. I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned himself around, wrapping himself from head to toe. Ellis pulled at what they thought was a shoulder, but it lost its shape at their touch. Clive was gone, but the velvet looked fuller. If not for the second tear, like the first but bigger. Ellis began to suspect that this one was just big enough for human shoulders.
January 9, 2025 at 7:31 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompt #flashfiction #shortstories #hbp73
Outside the village was an abandoned railway line. It was tucked between two embankments and under a Victorian bridge which still carried the main road into the village. It was overgrown, there were brambles and buddleia. It had been cut back. I had to walk the line, see this lost place. Most of the sleepers were rotted away now, but the stone could be felt under the weeds even if I couldn't see it. The steel tracks were there, where they'd been for over a hundred years. As I got to the tunnel, I could almost smell the coal-smoke from the thousands of steam engines that would have passed under its ascendant crown. I could see the thick soot, like the tunnel faded into the dark vastness of space. It must be a sight at night. I should come back on a clear, moonless night. It was decided! Nearing the centre I heard a rumble of a car above. Except... The rumble was in the tunnel, just ahead of me. A flash of light as the space, maybe two meters away, ripped like rotten cloth — tattered and flaking at its bright edges. I couldn't see inside, but now the sound came on clearer. It was a steam train. The train slipped through the space just as I threw myself into the red bricked wall. It filled with a dark coal smoke and I fell out from the tunnel with my face covered and breath held. I ran a bit further before taking a breath I was sure would be smoke-free. The train was nowhere to be seen. The brambles and buddleia in the middle of the tracks were still there. But so was the smoke, pouring out of the tunnel. I wasn't sure what had happened, but I was sure I wouldn't be coming back on a moonless night, if at all again.
January 8, 2025 at 9:39 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#AskTwice #hbp72
“We were in here for two minutes last night, and you noticed the drip?” Jimmy asked. Alan dried his hands on blue roll. “Sure, I can hear a leaky trap from another room.” He cleared away, through Jimmy’s protests. “You did me a favour, don’t clean up, I’ll do it.” “Can’t mate it’s just drilled into me. Have to clean up after mysen. Don’t want to leave a customer with that bad impression.” Alan let his weight shift backwards. “How are you doing?” Jimmy shuffled. “I’m fine Al, better now I know the plumbing’s all good.” He forced a laugh. “Jim mate, I could feel the tension last night. How are you doing?” Jim sighed. “You’re right, things are going bad.”
January 7, 2025 at 8:57 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#writingcommunity #writingprompts #poetry #hbp71
The paint pours down To wash away my rage, It smears in chaos 'cross the ruined page. But the field I find, In the pigment blended, Reveals new life — A scene rightly amended. But not long, from frenzy, My canvas so tainted, I find hate anew For these flowers I've painted.
January 6, 2025 at 7:25 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
I think this could make a fun sitcom I'd love to watch. #writingcommunity #flashfiction #writingprompts #shortstories #hbp70
At the Undead Day & Night Centre the staff had many complex needs to contend with. Lycanthrope types who were always brooding based on the moon cycle, snapping and snarling at a full moon. For a while we had a little problem with teen litters. Who knows how it happened, a complicated combination of hormones, animal instinct and staff who didn't want to be eaten if they attempted to intervene. There were a lot of pregnancies. Now we had the S&M room — safety and monitoring — and had achieved a dramatic reduction. The reanimated corpses, we prefer not using the term zombie at the Centre, are much less work but still have complex needs. They require a special diet based on their specific form of reanimation, and a well-ventilated room. We've employed dedicated staff with anosmia to work with them full time. But the newly turned vampires are the worst. They are strong, arrogant and full of media-made delusional beliefs. For a long time they expected to come out of the grave with full martial arts skills — having never cultivated them in life. Then came the period where they expected to sparkle. We had a lot of fatal burnings in the quiet reflections atrium. Some service users now call it the fire pit. No matter the era, the vampires were as cliquey and vicious as a pack of teens. They were twice as bad when they were actual teens, which for them causes a seventy-year puberty. The tantrums and angst, and a ballooning acoustic guitar budget made them easy to resent. But my staff are a compassionate bunch. They might have found their jobs complicated by the varied needs of our service users, but as manager my biggest issue was the high staff turnover. I didn't worry about them leaving for other jobs, they almost never did that. My staff had the habit of dying and returning as service users themselves.
January 5, 2025 at 7:53 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
Had no idea where I was going with this one, but like where I ended up. #writingcommunity #flashfiction #writingprompts #shortstories #hbp69
Every other Sunday the common hosted a car boot sale. It was popular enough that it had long grown beyond a few regulars hawking finds for an eclectic hoard of collectors with the odd family needing to offload their trash for fifty pence a pop for quick cash. Now it had a farmer’s market and food stands. At some point they’d even been forced to organise into something official by the council. For Bill it had lost its charm. Where was the day when a few cars would roll up on the grass, open the boot and maybe shake out an old tarp to really show off their goods. Now there were always special events. This summer they’d had all the local cheeses. Bill couldn’t eat cheese on account of high cholesterol, making it a real miss. In the summer they had all of the local breweries celebrate. Well, that one went fine. Bill was a fair man, he could admit when it went well. Although it was only a few weeks later they made their worst mistake in hosting a butcher’s day on the August bank holiday weekend. The field stank of meat mulled in the sun, like the fetid musk from the backend of some woodland creature. It had been a wretched idea and Bill was still of a mind to write a complaint to the council. Bill was glad to see, on an Easter Sunday, that not a single food stall or market bench was out. Seven cars, one beach towel and two ripped tarps covered in junk ready for hawking. It was just like the good old days. The first had old circuit boards, computer parts, old equipment which could have been external visual or audio tech, all covered in grey-brown dust. Who knew what any of it did. It was the second boot full of crackle-varnish framed art and unevenly stretched canvas paintings which changed Bill's understanding of the world as he’d always known it. [Continued alt text] Bill pulled out a Georgian painting of the very common on which he was stood. The people were happy, arms slung with full baskets, leaving through the same gate he had come through himself. There were food stalls, and a market, and even entertainment. And at the very front, a little sign that read “No hawking on Market Day — every Sunday”.
January 4, 2025 at 9:19 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
Trying to keep it short today

#WritingPrompt #WritingCommunity #FlashFiction #hbp68
Caught in a cloud of debris with an enemy I'd stalked for more than seven centuries. The sand whipped about us, but it was his undead flesh that was being shredded into a putrid paste. I emptied my stomach and filled his chest with a silver stiletto. The thin blade broke and I let the bone handle fall to the ground. And that was that. The storm continued around me. I sat down and allowed my life to end.
January 3, 2025 at 10:42 PM
lnsanby.co.uk
#hbp67
The footbridge over the river was flocked in verdant moss. It had been left too long without varnish after people had stopped coming out this way, so now we were its only visitors. It was our bridge. This was where we could sneak away for kisses and sentiments which were meant earnestly — if not everlasting in their truth. The council or a farmer had mowed a path, cutting back ancient hedge to reveal a style. A public footpath was reborn. The other side of the bridge was a copse of trees, a tiny scab of a lost landscape cresting the low hill of fresh tillage. In the very centre, with a bramble and bracken understory to curtain it off, was a glade. We spent all summer there. We stopped visiting the bridge quite so much other than to get to the glade. We took picnics and music, we stayed all day on blankets and on the solstice, we stayed all night. It was warm enough to not need a fire, we were warmth enough, but still in the morning our heavy breathed passion had become a cold condensate on the inner tent. That was not the only cold splash we awoke to. Climbing out of the tent half-dressed we were dazed by the sunlight. It wasn’t enough to conceal the farmer, sat on one of the decaying trees, which had fallen to allow the glade to form. He had a walking staff over his knees and a working staff at his feet. He was kind enough, but we took it seriously and never returned to the glade. We still had out bridge. We etched our names there, through the lichen and moss and silvered wood to a soft yellow bellow. It didn’t last. The bridge soon collapsed, our fault, I guess. And with summer dying fast after that we drifted apart. Not all important things can go on forever.
January 2, 2025 at 6:28 PM