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Post 1574. Saturday July 29

Sunday's Whirligig

‘To Joy and Jim’. As the girls clumsily clinked their glasses together, two smashed showering them with wine. They fell about laughing. It was Joy’s hen night and twenty friends were dancing, giggling, drinking…and drinking more!  Then someone uninvited appeared. Sally. 

With a flick of her hair and a sweet smile on her ruby lips, she wandered up to Joy. She clutched her hand. 'You didn’t think I’d miss the best night of your life, did you?' she said. 'Is anyone going to get me a drink?' 

Someone reluctantly handed her some wine. 'To Joy and Jim' she said raising her glass. 'I have a special surprise for you Joy, only I left in the car'. She put down her glass and walked out the door.

Headlights flashed. Sally ran towards them and leapt through the car's open door. With a squeal of tyres, they headed off into the distance. 'Here’s to us' she said, pecking him on the cheek. 'To Sally and Jim'.

For Sunday's Whirligig where the given words are joys, best, surprise, hair, think, someone, sweet, deceit, only, alike, laugh, girls, 

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Post 1567. Sunday July 16

Sunday Photo Fiction and Sunday's Whirligig

I liked it. It was perfect.

‘The Monk’s House, what a lovely name’

‘More like a monkey house’ my wife muttered pointing at the bamboo poles holding it up.

Look, three wooden kisses on the front’ I said. ‘That’s a sign’ 

‘Hmph,’ she went.

We clambered our way to the back garden. ‘A pond’ I gleefully chuckled. 

‘It's got slimy green skin on it’ she said.

‘It just needs stirring’ I suggested. ‘Why that face?’

‘Even the tree’s leafless’ she complained.

‘It’s winter’ I said.

‘It’s spring’ she yelled.

‘Listen, a blackbird’ I enthused.

‘That’s a car alarm down the street’ she mumbled.

We went inside. Okay, it was a mess, but nothing hanging a couple of my paintings and buying a few bits from Ikea couldn't sort out.

‘You can't put a cup and saucer together, let alone sofas and bookshelves’ she laughed. ‘As for your stupid paintings…’

‘The bath’s filthy’ she said.

 ‘Well, clean it’ said I. I bit my tongue; if looks could kill.

‘The fireplace is dirty’ she moaned.

‘Well, erm… I’ll clean it’ I said.

I live in the Monk’s House now. An aptly named place for a single man.

The photo at Sunday Photo Fiction comes to us courtesy of Mike Vore.

The given words at Sunday's Whirligig are bath, bamboo, hanging, dirty, wife, stirring, paintings, leafless, skin, blackbird, monk and fire.

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Post 1559. Saturday July 1

Sunday's Whirligig

What a dull job. Boring boring boring. I sit in a soulless office performing mind-numbing chores like filing bits of paper in grey boxes. My colleagues think I’m miserable. I seldom smile. Or do I? Little do they know that come nightfall I swap clerking for twerking!

How do I look? Lipstick not too bright?  And how do you like my bouffant? Another wisp of hairspray I think so it doesn’t collapse. Nothing worse! Right, off with the smock and slippers and on with my slinky dress and my highest heels. I wonder what my work mates would say if they saw me now? With a swing of my hips I’m on my way!

And here we are, my favourite club. The noise, the lights, the people…, wow! Oh look, there’s handsome Rob from work chatting up Sally from accounts. They called me dreary the other day. I wonder what they’ll make of me now. Move over girl, I’m on my way!

Actually, I need to walk to the loo first. I must remember to go to the ladies room, not the men’s!

The given words at this week's Whirligig are - clerking, willing, smock, walk, hairspray, boxes, hips, wonders, lipsticks, chores, wisp and seldom.

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Post 1534. Sunday May 21

Sunday’s Whirligig

 'Forgive me, Father' he mutters in hushed tones not certain he wishes the priest to hear his confession. 

The weary padre in his moth-eaten cassock slouches beyond the wooden lattice fidgeting with a worn wooden cross.

Two lonely creatures together. Each is the closest thing to a friend the other has.

One, a habitual thief, an insomniac who does wrong whilst sometimes wishing to be caught if only to commune with other people, albethey behind bars.

The other, a college educated defender of the faith. Once a cleanser of soiled souls, but now confused. What happened to his faith? When did it desert him? Why?

They both remember happier times.

'Ten hail Marys' mutters one as the other meanders from the confessional. Ten hail Marys.

The twelve given words at this week's Sunday’s Whirligig are - confused, insomniac, wrong, dial, remember, lonely, soul, college, cleanses, thief, defender and hear. I employed eleven.

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Post 1527. Saturday May 6


April's  A-Z Challenge 2017 is now behind us and so it's back to business as usual - at least, for the next eleven months!

A short story in 160 words, 23 of which are from three of this week's prompt sites.

Twigs crackled and snapped beneath his feet, as he dashed twixt naked ash trees and rushed through the thick green grass. He clambered up a clover strewn slope, then slithered down a muddy river bank. Gasping for breath he lay motionless in the shallow water, his thin aching limbs throbbing.

Just hours before, he imagined he’d perish in that tiny cave. He’d heard stories of those that had suffered before him. There had been no happy endings. Hungry, parched; his spirit was gradually draining away. But his captors erred, so he seized the chance to break free. Tomorrow they’d  find him gone.

But for the song of a robin, silence prevailed. He gazed at milkweed flowers drifting by. Suddenly a thousand diamond coronets began dancing on the surface of the water as leaden lumps of rain pounded down from the slate grey sky.

A ring of hope radiated from within him as the past washed away. He felt born again. Soon, a different identity, another life, a new beginning.

At The Sunday Whirl the given words are - born, radiates, rings, snapped, rain, cave, limb, spirits thin, origins, stories, ash.

At Sunday’s Whirligig -  tiny, old, flare, gaze, month, clover, thick, milkweed, drifts, melt, parch, perishes.

The single word at Sunday Scribblings 2 - endings

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Post 1480.  Sunday March 19

This week’s given words at the Sunday’s Whirligig are point, pitied, pack, sex, shop, sang, dildos, dog, drives, hot, hit, hundred and sang. I employed all but the last one one so I’ll sing a song to make up for it!

CONTAINS ADULT HUMOUR

The most ambitious thing she’d ever made was a hot dog! After all, what's the point of making food when surrounded by takeaways? I quite pitied her. After all, homemade food is so much nicer. So I gave her a cookery book, a saucepan and a spoon to get her started.

Yesterday she decided to drive the local supermarket and buy some stuff for her hitherto barren cupboards. Packs of this, tins of that and quite a bit of the other!

There were hundreds of things in the cookery book to choose from, but after careful consideration, she hit on the idea of double chocolate chip cup cakes.  She tipped everything into a bowl. ‘Whisk it together’ the recipe said. Problem; she didn’t have a whisk. Then she had an idea. Use the dildo she bought on the way home as a reward for trudging around that boring shop. But it didn't work. Perhaps her vibrator might shake it into a chocolaty goo, it has that effect on her! It didn't, so no chocolate cupcakes. But sex has never been as sweet!

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Post 1441. Sunday February 5

The Sunday Whirl and Sunday's Whirligig

I can still see myself standing in that neglected cemetery deep in the countryside. Weatherworn gravestones poked from the tangled undergrowth, reaching for the gathering storm clouds overhead. A chill wind sent a flurry of rotten brown leaves twisting and swirling twixt the crooked monuments. It seemed they once buried the bodies of soldiers there, those that hadn’t survived the ravages of war. Row upon row.  

An old woman knelt before an overgrown grave. I watched as she traced the carved letters; I shuddered as her fingernails scratched green moss from the cold grey stone. Her fingertips bled, but she appeared to feel no pain. A priest appeared at her side, his black robe billowing in the breeze; he clutched a handful of fluttering papers from which he mumbled a prayer. He crossed himself and wandered away. I sat alongside her and placed my arm on her heaving shoulders. She gazed into my eyes and mouthed thank you, then gave me a withered flower. The sun broke free and a hummingbird hovered above us. It sang. We smiled. I fell asleep.

I must have slept for hours. I was indoors, the dying embers of my log fire glowing in the grate. It had all been a dream.

Then I saw the withered flower on the rug at my feet.

 

The given words at The Sunday Whirl are stone, dreamed, bled, carved, body, brown, prayers, papers, fingernails, doors, fire and soldiers.

At Sunday’s Whirligig, we have poking, pain, proper, hummingbirds, heavy, heard, country, compare, can, survive, sky and storm.

Of the twenty-four words, I employed twenty-two.

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Post 1429. Saturday January 21 2016

 Sunday's Whirligig

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I sit here often. For at the cliff’s jagged edge I can think, imagine and create, whilst wrapped in mellow music. No tourists yet, not ‘til summer so I cherish these moments of positive loneliness.

There’s a scarf snared in a bush over there, blowing in the breeze. Do you see it? Blue. I wonder whose it was. And look there, a bunch flowers tied to a little wooden cross. There’s a label. There are just two words on it.

 ‘John. Why?’ it says. 

They are plastic flowers, so at least they will live on. No longer John, though.

And next to them there’s a dog lead and a little sparkley pink collar pinned to grass. There’s a silver disc attached. Let’s see. Poppy it says. Poppy probably broke free and chased a seagull. Dogs do that up here. I guess the gull flew up whilst poor Poppy flew down. Mistake Poppy.

Six hundred feet below, the rocky beach is peppered with broken dreams and littered with painful memories. But up here everything is perfect; for me at least.

Though not for Poppy; not for John.

The given words at this week’s Sunday’s Whirligig are broken, create, pepper, plank, revenge, music, longer, mistake, cliff, loneliness, everything, and snare of which I used ten.

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Post 1418   Saturday January 7

The given words at Sunday's Whirligig are - siblings, meek, prowls, spring, inhale, fear, pressed, remind, sleep, hungry, lamb and wolves. I employed all but one. 

Not all siblings get on. But few suffer as Harry did back in his childhood. His twin Jackson couldn’t have been more different. Harry, as meek as a lamb, Jimmy controlling, cruel.

They didn’t have much as kids. Father disappeared soon after they were born; Mother struggled to make ends meet, and she wasn't particularly interested in them anyway. The boys shared a tiny bedroom throughout their growing years. Harry dreaded the word ‘bedtime’ for as often as not he couldn't sleep. He would press a pillow to his ears as Jackson prowled around like a hungry wolf, muttering, groaning, cursing. Mother knew but did nothing about it fearing what Jackson might do to her. He had struck her many times over the years.

One spring night, their fifteenth birthday it was, Jackson disappeared. Harry and his mother made no attempt to find him. 'Gawn feral' she said. 'Good riddance to the little bugger'

Twenty years have passed. Harry has kids of his own. He's a good father. Still he has trouble sleeping; still, he hears his brother's voice muttering, cursing, groaning; reminding him of his miserable past. Tales of a macabre half-human are oft told in the village pub. About strange sounds; about sightings of a creature creeping on all fours between the trees on the village green around midnight, usually after one too many beers! Jackson, they call it......

I'm reminded of a song from 35 years ago!

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