Debbie Chase - Writing is Good
A Bit About Me

My name is Debbie Spink (writing name Debbie Chase) and I have been writing for many years now.  Since I began writing I have achieved a Certificate in Writing for Children, Diploma in Copywriting, Diploma in Romance Writing and Editor's Choice Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.

I have self published four novels which are available to buy on Amazon and other online book stores, these are, “You to me Are Everything,” a novel part fact/part fiction, “I Wasn’t There,” a book of poetry, “The Confessions of a Pet Sitter” and “What a Catastrophe (Teddy’s Tale), both children’s books, although many of my adult friends have enjoyed them too.

I have had two pocket novels published with My Weekly magazine, “Planning on Love,” and “Romance on the Run,” and I have a Contract with World Castle Publishing for my novel “Educating Maggie” which is now on their website and available to buy from 20 August 2018.  I have also had my next novel "A Step Back in Time" accepted by World Castle Publishing.  Please visit their website at

I have also had many children’s and adult’s short stories published in magazines (Girl Talk and Fiction Feast) and many poems published in books and magazines.

Customer Review for "What a Catastrophe (Teddy's Tale) - 

"This book is a joy to read and is well-written and quite amusing at times!"

Customer Reviews for "The Confessions of a Pet Sitter" - "Well written book, great for animal lovers. Couldn't wait to read on to see what happened next."​

"If only they could talk! This book is a refreshing change from wizards & ideal for any animal loving children."

Customer Reviews for "You to me Are Everything" - 

"This is a really good book by a new writer - I think this book would strike a chord with most women. It deals with the death of a child, the affair of a husband and a teenager's first love. Very sad but at times very funny too!"

"I loved this book from beginning to end. The women in the story feel like living characters: their dilemmas, their choices, are totally believable, and as in life, it's not always obvious what the right path is to take. So I'm really rooting for them, I care what happens to them.

The book is a set of three first person narratives, by three women of different generations. There are a number of leaps backwards and forwards in time, it's not done in a confusing way though, and the narrative keeps its flow and its cohesion. Generally the structure is very well done. I would have liked a bit more of Jessie, as it's only in the final section that we become fully engaged with her story, but maybe I just need to read the sequel !

The author's command of the multiple interlocking storylines with her large cast of characters is impressive, and I particularly love the way that she gives us a soundtrack to each period that she writes about, by referencing songs that were in the charts at the time.

In contrast to the realism of the storytelling, we're presented with a symmetry in the three storylines: three accidental pregnancies for three 17 year old girls, who all have big decisions to make. Why the similarities in the stories, what's going on here ? One way of answering this would be to say that what's important here isn't the similarities in the stories, but the differences. Each woman has to face her own unique challenges, and make her own choices. In a deeper sense though, the similarities do matter. They're symbolic of a spiritual bond, stronger than their blood links, which unites the three women and makes us feel that their destinies are intertwined."


A Step Back in Time

I am extremely proud to share the first chapter of my latest novel "A Step Back in Time" with you.  Hopefully it will whet your appetite for the whole book! Enjoy!

Chapter One

“Hannah…hey…. Hannah…wake up….”

Groggily I opened my eyes, the room swimming around me.  What was going on? One minute I was busily typing up a very complicated will (where somebody was leaving far too much money to their beloved pet dog), and then…well, I wasn’t sure.  A hazy memory of a woman wearing a long black gown came to mind, and then nothing…blank….

“Hannah?” Max Reynolds, his expression concerned (for once), appeared in my vision. He stared at me intently, his green eyes narrowed, a lock of blond hair falling onto his forehead which, impatiently, he pushed away with his fingers.

“Oh hi,” I said, my voice just a tiny whisper.  What was wrong with me? Had I been drugged? Surely not.  Who could have done it anyway? Max?  I eyed him warily.

“Falling asleep on the job?” he asked.  “Do you realize how serious that is? A sacking offense.” He laughed loudly at his own wit.  Oh, so typical of Max.  “Methinks maybe you need a good old shot of caffeine.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right—I’ll make some coffee.” As if from a long, long way away noises started to come back; the ringing of phones, Sarah clicking away at her computer in the office next door, the murmur of voices from upstairs.

My legs wobbling slightly, I stood up and began to make my way to the little kitchen that adjoined the office. 

“Oh, Hannah, while you’re there, make me a cup, will you? You know how I like it—milk, no sugar?” Inwardly fuming, I watched Max’s retreating back, the laddish swagger in his walk.  He grinned cheekily over his shoulder and said, “I’ll be in my office.”

“Who does he think he is?” I asked myself as I thumped on the kettle and began taking mugs from the cupboard, milk from the fridge.  While waiting for the kettle to boil I gazed from the tiny mullioned window at the paved courtyard at the back of the offices. Well, it was offices now, but had once apparently been a row of cottages, as had the pub next door, and still held a lot of old-fashioned charm.   There were beautiful tiled fireplaces in every room, even in the offices upstairs that would once have been bedrooms, and thick black beams crisscrossed the ceilings.   It pleased me to think that the office I worked in would once have been a dining room.

 It was April, and bright yellow daffodils, like spots of gold against the dull brown earth, swayed and danced in the massive pots that stood on the paving. Ratty clouds moved quickly around the sun in a patch of blue sky that I could just about see if I craned my neck hard enough.

The kettle shrieked to the boil, bringing me out of my reverie, and as I filled the mugs I thought about the strange dream that I’d had earlier—well, if you could call it a dream.  More like an out of body experience, because I really felt as if I had been there—not as an outsider, but one of the people involved, like an actor in some sort of medieval play.

I remembered a lady dressed in a long black gown, and a good-looking man with piercing green eyes and blond hair.  Actually, not so different in looks from the “I’m so great” Max Reynolds, who was probably sitting at his desk right now like a king on a throne, waiting for his lowly minion to bring him coffee. Actually, thinking about it, what had Max said earlier? “Methinks you need a shot of caffeine….” Methinks? A sort of ancient, I suppose, medieval saying? Very strange.

Ursula! I suddenly thought. My name was Ursula. I had no idea what the lady in the long black gown was called, but I had a sudden memory of the man—whoever he was…the Max Reynolds look-a-like—calling out to her. I thought he had called her my lady, and she had turned around, and then…nothing. Once again a blank; only a fleeting glimpse of her face. Ursula, though. Why did I think I was called Ursula? A strange, old fashioned name.

Putting one of the mugs on my desk, I went through to Max’s office, automatically ducking my head under the thick beams that knotted the ceiling, and knocked discreetly before I went in.  He was sitting at his desk, everything neat and tidy as usual—a laptop open in front of him, his phone at his side, a pen and a pencil in a straight line. Even files and papers were in pristine little piles.   It was a fairly large room for a former cottage, its tiny windows looking out onto the old narrow Havant Road, where a car cruised slowly by.

The rough cream painted walls were bare except for one wall, which featured a large painting of The Metamorphosis of Narcissus by Salvador Dali, which I thought suited Max down to the ground. To keep on the same theme, a large oval mirror hung over the fireplace, in which I was sure he preened himself at regular intervals.

Looking at him from under my lashes, I noticed that he looked smart, as he always did for work, wearing a black suit and a white shirt, the top buttons of which were undone, displaying a mat of light curly hair which I studiously ignored, my eyes looking just above his head. Did he really think I was going to fall for that just as all the others did?

I placed the steaming hot mug on a coaster at his side and made to leave the room when Max said, “Feeling okay now, Hannah?”

“Absolutely fine, thank you, boss,” I said, edging my way out of the room.  “I’ve got work to do though; I was in the middle of typing up that urgent new will for Mrs. Jordan.”

Standing up, Max walked around his desk, although it was more of a prowl than a walk, making me think of a sleek panther. “Hmm. You do know where you are, don’t you?”

“Of course I know where I am,” I replied irritably.

“Yeah, okay, I know it sounds like a silly question. But you were really out of it just now. You were muttering a name—um….”

Ursula? I thought, then said to Max, “What name?”

“Gregory. Yeah, you said Gregory—very clearly, too. Is he your boyfriend, Hannah? Oh, silly me, you have a boyfriend called Andy, don’t you?” A grin swarmed all over his face and his green eyes glittered.

Ignoring the comment about a boyfriend who I’d finished with a while ago, I said, “Max, don’t be silly,” as I turned once again to leave the room, my hand on the door knob. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve work to do.”

He came nearer and nearer, until he was so close he really was invading my personal space.  I could smell the cologne that he wore, sort of oriental and spicy. I took a step back, which unfortunately flattened me against the door. 

“As you said, I’m your boss; I need to make sure that you’re well enough to be at work.  Now just answer a few simple questions, okay?”

Trying to breathe deeply and evenly to calm my erratically beating heart and my temper—which, red hot just behind my eyeballs, was almost at bursting point—I nodded.

“Okay. Now—where are you?”

“I’m at work,” I replied as patiently as I could. “At Reynolds & Rhodes, Solicitors, in Havant, Hampshire, situated right next door to the oldest pub in Havant, The Old House at Home.” And just for good measure, I added, “There are also branches of Reynolds & Rhodes in Waterlooville and Denmead.”

“Great! Correct—with even more information than I needed.”

I gave him a scathing glare.

“Now, who is Reynolds and who is Rhodes?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Max.” I raised my wrist and tapped pointedly at my watch. Well, my Fitbit, actually. With only three thousand eight hundred steps on it at the moment, which was a disaster, I was sure that at any moment the Fitbit Police would be knocking at the door to take me down to the station for questioning.

“Go on….” He nodded his blond head.

I took a deep, huffing breath. “You are Reynolds. Max Reynolds, the founder of this little enterprise. And Stuart Rhodes is your partner; long-time partner, actually, seeing as you’ve known each other since bare kneed at school.”

“Well done, Hannah. Just one more question. Both Stuart and I have very delightful personal assistants. Who are they?”

Still fuming, and wishing I could get back to my desk and my work, I replied in a very clipped accent—similar, I suppose, to a BBC newsreader back in the day. “I’m your personal assistant, Hannah Palmer, twenty-eight years old, and Stuart’s is Sarah Miller, aged twenty-seven, who at this very moment in time is hard at work on her computer—something that I need to be doing right now.”

“Excellent, Hannah, full marks. You may go back to your desk and resume your work now that I know you are fully compos mentis.”

“Thank you, boss,” I snapped.

Max’s laughter echoed in the very air around me as I stalked back to my office.

The will that I’d been typing before my strange experience occurred was still on the screen just as I’d left it.  The words in curly black script, “This is the last Will and Testament” jumped out at me, as in this case did the name of the dog that was due to come into a fortune. Mr. Al Pacino—what a name for a pet. Mrs. Jordan must surely be a massive Pacino fan. I supposed, though, that it made a good change from Rex or Tiddles, or border collies named Molly. 

I took a sip of coffee, which was now lukewarm, thanks to Max. If he hadn’t kept me in his office for so long, I’d have been enjoying a hot drink now. What an irritating man he could be at times.   Admittedly, he was a good boss—very fair, and kind even, and he had a great sense of humor. But when it came to the opposite sex, he turned into some sort of juvenile delinquent.  He’d had so many girlfriends in the year I’d been working for him that I’d lost count. 

Thank God I didn’t look like his usual type, willowy and blonde with big baby blue eyes.  In fact, I was the exact opposite, having shoulder length dark hair and hazel eyes. My figure, while not being fat, was definitely not willowy.   Maybe that was why I’d gotten the job as his PA, so he wouldn’t be tempted to flirt with me. Not, as I’d thought at the time, because of my qualifications and experience as a super legal secretary.

Putting that aside, though, and forgetting about his romantic life, it could be said that he’d done really well for himself. Having his own very successful law firm at only thirty-two was quite an achievement, and if I had any other hat than that old decrepit beanie that I wore when the weather was really cold, I would certainly take it off to him.

“Hey, Hannah.” Sarah came out of her office, dressed in virtually the same outfit as me—a black trouser suit teamed with a red blouse, the only difference being that my blouse was green. “Hey, you okay?” she asked.

I raised a hand as she disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt to make a revitalizing cup of coffee.  I followed her and stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb as I filled her in on my weird experience that morning.

She chuckled as she put coffee into a mug and added hot water, and then milk.  “Hey, ooh…you’re not turning into Margaret Pole, are you?”

I frowned. “Margaret Pole? Who on earth is Margaret Pole?”

“Hey, you don’t know?”

I shook my head, wondering not for the first time why Sarah started every sentence with the word hey!  Maybe she thought it sounded hip?  But “hey,”
she was a good friend to me, and even though we’d only gotten to know each other through working at the solicitors’ office, we actually lived together. 

Don’t get the wrong idea—neither of us were gay. It was just the only way that both of us could afford to buy a house and finally be in a position to leave home. We’d decided to pool our resources, and now lived in an ex-council house on Mitchell Road in Bedhampton—number forty, to be exact.  It was all working really well so far, and we shared everything—the bills, the house work, even the gardening.  Sarah’s boyfriend, Neil, was a regular visitor, but I was keeping away from men at the moment after the disaster that was Andy just a few months ago. Max had no idea that we had finished, and I still didn’t really want to talk about my ex. 

Anyway, I zoned back to the conversation with Sarah, who was valiantly trying to get my attention.

“Hey, Hannah?”

“Oh, sorry, Sarah. Yeah, who was Margaret Pole?”

“Hey, she was the cousin or second cousin—or something like that—of Henry the Eighth.”

            “Really?  Wow! But why should my experience have anything to do with her?”

“Hey.” Cradling her mug in both hands, she leaned back against the work top, comfortably crossing her legs at the ankles, and said, “Well, local history, you know. She lived in Warblington Castle, or Warblington Manor as it’s usually called—you know, the ruin by the cemetery? —for the last twenty or so years of her life. Henry visited her there, and apparently actually gave her the manor in fifteen thirteen. There’s only a turret left, which was part of the old gate house.”

She took a sip of her drink while I waited with bated breath for the next installment.  I looked at her intently—at her pretty face, freckles covering her nose like a dot to dot drawing, her highlighted bobbed hair, and her beautiful, almond shaped eyes.

“Henry the Eighth visited her there?” I said. “That’s amazing.”  An image came into my mind of the old ruin near the church at Warblington, just a turret sticking up into the sky.  I’d never seen it up close because it was on private land and hard to get to.

“Hey, apparently, he had her executed for treason—his own cousin or second cousin or whatever—and she was really old for Tudor times…sixty-seven and very frail. What a cruel man he was.”

“Well,” I replied, “He had a couple of his own wives executed, so I suppose a cousin would be nothing to him.”

“Hey, yeah, you’re right there. But he had at one time been really close to her. She was royal governess to his kids, and even godmother to Mary—Bloody Mary, as she went on to be. Anyway, better get on.” She took her phone from her pocket and glanced at it for the time—more and more people seemed to not wear watches these days, except Fitbits, of course—and then took a sip of her drink.  “Stuart will be back from court soon, and I promised I’d have all his letters ready for him to sign.”

“How do you know all this stuff about Henry the Eighth and Margaret Pole?” I asked as we went back into the office.

“Hey, studied history, particularly the Tudors, at college,” Sarah replied, then went on to say, “Hey, you’ll have to Google Margaret Pole. Interesting reading, particularly because of it being local. I think she had kids too, four boys and a girl. Poor girl, having four brothers.” She made a woeful face and I laughed at her. “Hey, I think her daughter was called Ursula. Cool name, don’t you think?”

I stared after her open mouthed, thinking of the lady in the long black gown—who the good-looking Max Reynolds look-a-like had called “my lady” —and this weird feeling that I was called Ursula! Coincidence or what? 

Sitting back at my desk—my interest in Margaret Pole at the forefront of my mind—and being very naughty, I minimized the urgent will for Mrs. Jordan (temporarily of course), and reaching for my mouse, clicked decisively on Google Chrome.


The carriage lurched and swayed its way along the deeply rutted road to Warblington Manor.  Thank God the rain had kept away, otherwise the day’s journey from Havant to Langstone would have been virtually impossible, and I would never have reached home tonight.  Two gleaming black horses pulled the carriage, the muscles in their necks straining with the effort, their hooves slipping and stumbling on the slippery mud.  They neighed anxiously as the driver’s whip arched through the air, slicing into their sweating backs.

A strong smell of horse flesh hung in the air, mingling most unpleasantly with the ripe odor of the driver who held tightly to the reins, his fingernails black as coal.  I held a crisp starched handkerchief over my nose, my initials UP—for Ursula Pole—monogrammed in tiny swirling stitches in one corner.          

Hanging on for dear life to the stout leather straps fixed to the carriage roof, I peered from the tiny window at the pretty Hampshire countryside, at the green fields that, because it was spring, were a mass of golden daffodils and rapeseed, at the leafy green trees, and at the arching blue sky dotted with patchy grey clouds.   I cranked the window down a little and took a deep breath, inhaling air that was fresh and sweet after the musty interior of the carriage. 

The carriage rattled along the driveway now, slightly flatter and smoother than the pot holed turnpike, trees curving above us making a mysterious leafy green tunnel.  I caught glimpses of the house between the trees; solid, four storied, with imposing turrets at each corner and tiny mullioned windows glinting in the sunshine. 

Suddenly the gardens opened up around us, showing clipped lawns and borders filled with a mass of forget me nots and black-eyed Susans.  We passed a lone gardener digging into the earth with a shiny spade. He glanced up, eyes narrowed, as we lurched past, a breeze tousling his blond hair and flattening his white shirt against a hairy muscular chest.

My mother, Margaret Pole, appeared in the shadowy doorway to welcome me. An imposing figure, she wore a square necked richly embroidered scarlet gown, her dark hair hidden beneath a hood that rose slightly on her head like a little house, making her appear taller than she actually was.   She walked regally down the front steps, silken scarlet shoes peeking from the hem of her gown.

“Ursula, darling.” She hugged me so close that that I could detect a sweet rose scent emanating from her skin and her clothes. 

“My lady.” I curtseyed, giving a tiny bow of my head as I did so.

“Lovely to see you, sweetheart. Come, come….”

She grasped my hand and led me inside and into a dark stone flagged hallway, and from there into the great hall where my father, Sir Richard Pole, stood in front of the massive fireplace.

A fire burned in the grate, sulky and smoking, filling the huge room with a grey haze. The tantalizing smell of roasting meat wafted from the kitchens.  Two of my brothers, Reginald and Geoffrey, sat on hard wooden benches dressed in doublet and hose, looking as extravagantly bright as a couple of strutting peacocks.  My father’s dogs, Gilbert and Sturdy, slumbered as close to the fire as they could possibly get.

“Ah. Little Bear.” My father held out his arms, into which I gladly fell before stepping back and curtseying deeply, my somber gown belling around me like a pool of dark water.

“My lord,” The meaning of the name Ursula and my father’s use of my nickname “Little Bear” made me smile. 

“Did you have a good visit with Abigail?” he asked, Abigail being a childhood friend who I’d been staying with in nearby Emsworth.

“Yes, Father—” I began, when I was rudely interrupted by my brother, Geoffrey, who looked up quickly at the mention of my friend. 

“Abigail? When is she visiting here?”

This question was met with wild laughter from Reginald, and the statement, “Ah yes, the fair Abigail, eh Geoffrey?” 

I knew that Geoffrey was sweet on Abigail and she on him, as she had mentioned him many times throughout my visit. I had no doubt that if of benefit to both families a match would be made there. Geoffrey blushed to the very roots of his hair, making Reginald laugh even more.

My mother touched my arm and said, “Come, Ursula, I’ll go with you to your room before dinner is served.”

Picking up my travelling bag, I followed my mother’s swaying figure up the wide stone staircase to the floor above, stopping briefly on the large rectangular landing to peer from the tiny slit of a window.  The gardener was still out there busily digging, his spade glinting in the sunshine and the muscles in his strong arms working furiously. I stood on my tiptoes so that I could get a better view.  I wondered who he was and what he was called.  I’d never seen him working in our garden before.

He must have felt my gaze on him, for suddenly he stopped working and, brushing a lock of blond hair from his forehead, stared up at me, his eyes narrowed and glinting green.  Quickly I turned away, expecting to see my mother waiting for me at my bedchamber door, but instead was met with darkness.  I reached out a hand but there was nothing—only the dark, a deep, deep blackness—and then my stomach rolled and twisted as I began to fall.


Free Story and Poems for you to Enjoy!


Frankie enjoyed walking to work every day.  Even when his car came back from the garage, he decided to carry on.  He found that he felt much fitter and far more energetic but, more importantly; he wanted to continue seeing the beautiful girl who sat at the large bay window of Daisy Villas. It had all started with swift, embarrassed eye contact, then a tentative smile and had now moved on to a slight wiggle of the fingers.  Frankie was hoping and praying that today would herald the beginning of glorious unadulterated waving.

His eyes glistened hopefully and, with renewed vigour, he almost flew, like an ungainly angel, towards the house.  She was there, her dark head bent studiously over papers and books and her tongue poking endearingly from between glossy lips as she wrote.  Sensing he was there she looked up and the sun beamed into her eyes so that they glittered and sparkled like emeralds.  Without a second thought Frankie raised his arm and waved; a grin as broad as a weight lifters chest on his face.  The girl waved back, a proper wave.  It made Frankie’s day.


Sarah gazed out of the window for a long time after he’d gone, the tall man with fair, unruly hair and deep blue eyes.  Perhaps she shouldn’t have waved but he looked so nice and she could almost hope ... but no ... if he saw her properly, what would he think then?  Ever since the accident she’d hardly seen anybody and very rarely went out because, quite frankly, she found it a hassle now.  Angrily, she threw her pen onto the books and papers and manoeuvred the wheelchair away from the window so obscuring her view of the outside world.  The only way she could cope was by studying.  What she lacked in her legs she was determined to make up for in her brain.

At first Sarah wished that she hadn’t survived the accident.  A life without the use of her legs seemed alien, but as the long, dreary, but enlightening weeks in hospital passed, she tried to come to terms with her disability.  It was only at night, whilst drifting into sleep, that she still experienced the terrifying impact of the car as it crashed and felt the tiny, jagged pieces of glass slicing into her skin as the windscreen shattered.

She took a deep breath and then smiled as she heard Mum’s footsteps approaching.  She knew without even looking at her watch that it would be eleven o’clock.  Mum had made a special routine for the two of them now that Sarah was at home studying.  She bustled into the room carrying a tray laden with mugs and all the paraphernalia that went with making drinks.  Placing the tray on the coffee table, she frowned when she saw Sarah sitting in the middle of the room doing nothing and suspected that something must have upset her.

“Coffee?” After giving Sarah a pretty flowered mug, she sank gratefully into an armchair.  Clutching her mug in both hands, Sarah sipped the thick, black liquid, inhaling the aroma with pleasure.  “Thanks Mum.”

“Getting on alright with your studying?” Mrs Blackburn enquired, her head cocked to one side, shrewd eyes missing nothing, like a beady eyed bird.

“Well I was,” Sarah replied, “but ... “Her answer hung quivering in the air like a line of washing in a breeze.

“But what?” Mrs Blackburn asked sharply.  “Did he walk past again?”  Sarah nodded.  “He waved today.”

“Wonder what he wants,” Mrs Blackburn muttered half to herself, as she leant forward to pour tea, adding both milk and sugar to the mug.

“Why should he want anything?” asked Sarah.  “Perhaps he’s just trying to be friendly.”

Mrs Blackburn drank thirstily, then said, “The thing is, Sarah, how friendly do you want him to get?”

Sarah hesitated then bowed her head so that dark wings of glossy hair hid her face like curtains. “I don’t know ... I’ve changed though ... since the accident ... I feel differently now ... I waved to him today.”

Mrs Blackburn was aware that she was fishing in very deep, murky water, but said brightly, “Well in that case, why don’t you invite him in ... for a chat ... it’d make a nice change for you to mix with young people your own age ... you must get fed up with me and your dad.”

“No,” Sarah replied hastily, reassuringly, “You and dad have been brilliant, I couldn’t have managed without you.”

Mrs Blackburn smiled; then venturing even further into that murky water, said, “It’s been nearly a year, perhaps it’s time.”

Sarah looked up quickly and said, “Oh Mum, I don’t know ... I’ll think about it.”  Her expression was thoughtful as she turned the wheelchair back to the table to resume her studies.  Mrs Blackburn sipped her tea and looked sadly at her beautiful daughter, whilst furtively crossing her fingers and hoping for the best.


Frankie was early the next morning. He’d made up his mind, after an awful night in which he’d dreamed that the girl had disappeared from the window and couldn’t be found that he was going to knock on the door at Daisy Villas and ask to see her.  As he approached the house, Frankie saw her sitting in her usual place and, at the squeak of the gate, she glanced up and her pretty eyes grew as round as saucers.  He didn’t have time to change his mind, before he’d even lifted the brass knocker, the door opened.  He flinched when the saw the wheelchair, but Sarah sat gazing at him steadily with her green eyes.

His throat felt too small for speech but he swallowed hard and managed to say softly, “I don’t suppose I could come in?”

He followed Sarah into the sitting room where he could see the table littered with evidence of her studying.  Sadness for this lovely girl washed over him and impulsively he knelt at her feet, putting his arms tenderly around her waist.  “Please forgive me Sarah.  Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough, seeing you like this, and knowing that it’s my fault ... that I should have driven with more care?” He looked up at her, his blue eyes moist with tears.

“It wasn’t all your fault,” she admitted, her voice wobbly.  “If that car hadn’t pulled out so fast ... if the roads hadn’t been so icy ... I’ve had time to think, Frankie.  I was so angry before ... and afraid.”

“Take me back, Sarah, let me show you that wonderful world beyond the window.  Trust me again.”

Sarah smiled at him and as his lips met hers, she realised that her heart felt mushy, as if a layer of ice had melted at last, and that even though she knew it wouldn’t always be easy, there was a world out there and she was determined to enjoy it ... with Frankie.


Man on the Wall

Catch me now for I fear I may fall

In love with you, man on the wall,

Your sparkling eyes and ethereal face,

Your charm, your wit, your sexual grace.

Hear me now, but what do I say?

I don’t know you, so come what may,

Why do I have feelings flowing so deep

That wish you were mine to cherish and keep?

I dream of kissing your full soft lips

And feeling your gentle finger tips

Caress my skin, then stroke my cheek,

My body trembles, your eyes I seek.

I gaze at your picture for hour after hour

Til my passions rise as high as a tower

Which crashes and tumbles to the ground

So I scream and scream, yet make no sound.

For I realise, my love, my man on the wall

That I’ll never know you, no, not at all,

Though you seem familiar, you’re a hopeless dream

If I sought you out, would you be what you seem?

Debbie Chase


Young Jack had an enemy, his name was Big James

He bullied the young ones and spoiled their games,

He pulled the girl’s pigtails and made them scream,

Then sat back and grinned like the cat with the cream.

It all came to a head one fine summer day,

Young Jack was determined to make Big James pay,

He confronted him, his fists clenched tight,

“Come on Big James, let’s have a fair fight.”

Big James sneered, “A fight indeed,

You’re nothing to me, you little weed,

I’ll get the better of you, easy as pie,

Come here Young Jack, be prepared to die.”

Big James struck out and gave Young Jack a punch,

“Hurry up,” he said. “It’s nearly time for lunch.”

Young Jack was angry, he gave a great thump

And Big James went down with a tremendous bump.

He lay on the ground not moving at all,

“Get up Big James,” he heard Young Jack call.

He tried to rise but felt too weak,

“You’ve won Young Jack,” said his voice so meek.

The children aren’t bullied any more by Big James,

They’re free to run and play their games.

Young Jack is a hero, his grandchildren he will tell

The story of the day that Big James fell.

Debbie Chase

Puppy Close Up

Puppy Love

I am currently working on my next book, the story of which is centred around a dog and cat sanctuary and called "Puppy Love, As with three previous books "Planning on Love," "Romance on the Run" and "Educating Maggie," it is set in the small village of Cobby. 


I Wasn't There

I wasn’t there the day she went

I didn’t know she was only lent,

Like somebody quietly leaving the room

She went to her eternal tomb

Stolen by greedy outstretched hands

She was taken away to other lands

Angels posing as creatures of joy

Are like selfish children desiring a toy

From the day that she was born

They spied on her and said with scorn

“It’s written that one day without a fuss,

You will come and live with us.”

They have her now in a heavenly place

Where no one even has a face,

Like ghostly vultures in the twilight

They knew her fate at the very first sight.

Debbie Chase


Get In Touch

3 Woodlands Grove, Cottingley, Bingley, West Yorkshire BD16 1PW

Mobile 07877473156


Mobile 07877473156

©2018 by Debbie Chase - Writing is Good!. Proudly created with

This site was designed with the
website builder. Create your website today.
Start Now