Tag Archives: amwriting

My Expletive-&-Knife-Themed Mini-Break…

Is there anything more likely to bring nations together and bestow a collective sense of hatred than alfresco dining being interrupted by a mime artist? If there is I have yet to encounter it.

We all saw him approach – chalky white faced in a leotard and top hat – the destroyer of dreams (the previous morning it had been a euphonium player murdering the hits of Taylor Swift, but this would be way worse…)

But wait, that morning there was a hero in our midst. A fellow diner – German, bearded and flamboyant, jumped from his seat into the path of the cash extrapolator and:

  • Mimed eating his breakfast and rubbed his belly to indicate that he was content.
  • Mimed being trapped in a box.
  • Mimed stabbing the mime artist to death.
  • Held out his hand as if demanding payment.

To add insult to injury one of his friends mimed laughing and clapping (without his hands making contact).

The mime artist mumbled some obscenities under his breath as he walked away, prompting the German to say something that was clearly along the lines of: ‘He can speak – It’s a miracle!’

I would dearly love to take this busker-repelling tactic back with me to Blighty, but alas I am English. Such a direct, grumble-free approach simply isn’t cricket.

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Back at the colonial guesthouse in which I was staying my host asked me if I had yet seen Pablo Picasso’s ghost.

‘He lived in that building right there,’ she said, pointing to an adjacent window, ‘and his apparition can often be seen walking about, trapped in time.’

I smiled, but she seemed deadly serious.

Later that evening her husband called me to the veranda.

‘Martine, come quickly, regard, Pablo Picasso’s ghost, trapped in time…’

I stared down into an empty window.

‘…He was there a moment ago, but left when I called you over.’

Once again my mirth was met with utter sincerity.

‘Wait…he will return…Pablo Picasso…trapped in time.’

An old bald man with white side-burns and a stripy top came to the window, and for a second I thought I was seeing the aforementioned apparition.

‘What’s that in his hand?’ the landlord asked playfully, ‘Is it a pencil? Is it a brush? Hey Pablo…PABLO!’

Pablo flipped us the bird and slammed the shutters.

In the morning I was packing to leave when I noticed a large glob of chewing gum stuck to the sheets. A brief attempt at removing the offending item proved fruitless. I would need a sharp implement of some description. A perusal of the kitchen yielded a large knife. This did the job nicely. On the way back to return the item of cutlery, shirtless and armed, I encountered the landlady. Her warm features grew cold.

Justifications scrolled through my retarded mind:

…I thought I saw Pablo.

…I’m sleep-cooking.

…That’s the U-bend unblocked!

‘Buenos Dias,’ I beamed like a sociopath before making good my escape…

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Twittering Tales: When Women Rule The Earth…

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I call this one: ‘Men argue over who has the best camera whilst woman takes epic photo.’ And this one’s: ‘Men miss Bigfoot flying UFO…and…’

 

140 Characters

Written for: Twittering Tales

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Henpecked Incorporated…

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With Faithful Jenny deliberately scuttled there was no going back. The rip-tides in the bay were well renowned, and the lack of a body would be easily explainable.

He outstretched his arms and let go of everything – his materialistic trophy wife, the kids who hated him, the stock portfolio, the endless competing with other alphas – all expelled in a single glorious belch of freedom.

Hidden behind a rocky outcrop he encountered two other men – one standing in the mangled wreckage of a hang glider, the other kneeling by a bloated cadaver. He greeted them with nervous exhilaration and gave a false name as he’d been instructed. They reciprocated.

‘The likeness is uncanny,’ he commented, gesturing towards the cadaver.

”I paid extra. It’s a little macabre stealing from a morgue, but it’s not like anyone was murdered!’

A speedboat was moored at the tip of the archipelago. With a fair wind they’d be in Gibraltar by morning where a vagabond utopia awaited…

 

164 Words

Written for: Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers

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Immunity

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He took the role reluctantly and with a heavy heart. Events had sliced open a vacancy and duty required that he step to the plate, but such undertakings were not meant for family men. As the mantra bludgeoned:

They come for you via your children. 

So he gathered them together, his little ones, and told them of his quest, and then he kissed them goodbye.

The path was not straight and he become entrenched in subterfuge and recrimination.  Years passed, till one mundane morning he glimpsed his eldest daughter through armoured glass. He prayed she would see the number plate and recognise its significance; follow its clues and find what he had left for her…

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Faraday Cage…

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It was a decade or more since the Faraday’s had sealed themselves away from the world, and the pathway that led through the trees to their ramshackle pile had long-since succumbed to the ravages of time.

Locals looked upon their solitude with derision. They had always been a strange family – naive and simple-minded – favouring books over apps, and community over networking. Their disinterest in all things technological morphed through time and gossip until it garnered cult status. The children who ran about in the fields with gay abandon were seen as unplugged epsilons – kept from their true potential by Luddite parents.

The very last sighting had been by a parish priest who witnessing the patriarch, Aldous Faraday, erecting a signpost on the boundary line that stated: ‘The ways of old fail to satisfy.’ With a weary smile the middle-aged man retreated over the brow, never to be seen again.

Their were rumours of course – kids venturing onto the grounds on a dare and disappearing, long finger-nailed savages, and claims of perpetual joyous laughter on the wind.

Away from prying eyes something truly terrible of fantastical was occurring…

Written for: Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers

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You most of all…

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The reading of the will gave Julian the final confirmation that his mother had hated him. His sister got the house and his brother inherited the business ‘…and to you, my first-born, I bequeath the shoes I was wearing when I met your father, my favourite tan satchel and two volumes on Mesopotamian art.’

He was incensed.

‘I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, she knew how much I hated that satchel, and what am I supposed to do with high heels?’

His siblings presented an alternative view. ‘Have you any idea how important these items were to her? She cherished them above all other possessions.’

Many embittered years later Julian rediscovered the items in his vast attic whilst searching for something of greater worth. A slip of paper slid from the between the two volumes.

‘My darling. Not everything can be expressed in monetary terms. I poured my love into these trinkets, just like I poured my love into you… ‘

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Wood I Lie To You?

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Lawrence described teaching as misinforming children for benevolent ends

The truth of the matter was that the cart had been left behind by Amish folk after their crops failed for a third consecutive year, but that seemed overly sad, and certainly not the kind of thing you explained to seven year olds. Alternative elucidations were called for..

‘At the end of an intergalactic war that stretched for aeons across the galaxy the robot warrioress was finally victorious, but her amorous husband wouldn’t let her rest, so she transformed herself into that rusty old thing where she hides to this day, waiting for his libido to subside.’

‘What’s a libido sir?’

‘It’s like an unreliable stick.’

‘What’s an aeon?’

‘It’s like the time it takes for Christmas to arrive.’

On another occasion he described the cart as a De-truancyfier.

‘You feed the naughty kids in at this end, and they come out the other side good.’

‘No way!’

‘Yes way. Just ask Stephen.’

‘Stephen moved to the coast when his folks split up.’

‘No,’ Lawrence shook his head and pointed into the haggard remains, ‘De-truancified.’

After many years of delighting children with his falsehoods one of the parents complained about Lawrence’s tall tales and he was encouraged to seek alternative employment. The cart was bought by a hipster who turned it into a boutique coffee stand.

Lawrence sold everything he owned and smuggled himself onto a slow-boat bound for Hong Kong. There he taught deliberately bad English and married a woman of high social standing…

At least that’s what everyone heard…

He may have made it all up…

 

Written for: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

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