Tag Archives: #prose

A Short Story

Once upon a time…

… there was a short story.

It wasn’t long at all;

and it wasn’t at all tall.

So short it was,

and set out so,

that it thought it was a poem;

but, it wasn’t.

It didn’t have much to say;

but, one day,

under the bluest of skies,

It left it’s home

and went off to seek fame and fortune.

Finding neither,

the short story settled down

with an extract from Coleridge’s Mariner,

and they lived happily ever after.


Linda G Hill’s SoCS Challenge ‘Contrast’

Linda G Hill’s SoCS Challenge ‘ Contrast’

Details Here

Contrast this

To my usual stuff.

I have set the timer for 10-minutes

And I don’t know what

I am going to write about.

I’m even writing it

In poetry form

Even though

It is prose.

Now, that may seem strange

To you

(Unless you know me)

But, I assure you

That I like to contrast

My work at times

Mix up the rhymes

With wit, humour, levity-

Which are all basically the same –

And give you fresh new view


From which to look

At my work

I do not shirk

From switching between

Poetry and prose

I’m not one of those people

That is stuck

In a rut.

However, I must just be serious for a moment…

… right, I’m back to the silly stuff.

Picture me

With a ruff

Doing my stuff

In sixteen hundred

Or just before

(Not four o’clock

In the afternoon, no)

Elizabethan, just about to become Jacobean

Through no fault of mine own

My quill at the ready

And words to write

Well, picture me now

With my mobile phone

Tapping in ideas

Cutting and pasting,


Looking up a spelling on an online thesaurus

And what a contrast

There is.

Would I rather have my life

Or his?

To be honest.

I would give quite a lot

To spend a little


In the land of Shakespearean rhyme.

And, having been there,

I could certainly put the Shakespearean theory

Of authorship to bed

(Or second best bed)

For once and for all

And all for once

(Sorry, that was Dumas – and I was being a Dumass).

Contrasting opinions held

Would be exploded

The myth would live

Or die

Or carry on up the creek

With out a paddle.*

*timer sounded here.

Start of a Novel – The Man in the Gabardine Mac.


Start Sentence – man in the gabardine mac

The man in the gabardine mac rose to leave seconds after I had exited the room; pushing his way through the crowded après-theatre luvvies and onto London’s glistening streets – freshly cleansed with rain a la mode – to find that I had spirited myself into thin air; causing him to stop two paces beyond the entryway, where he glanced right, left, and right again.
“All safe to cross.” I softly spoke – my gun poised the obligatory five feet away from his back to avoid a spinning kick. The safety was off and I had no need to ask any questions.
“Move forward and let’s head for that black van.”
He moved forwards and, ducking down, spun.
Quieter than even he could hear, I had gone.
He cursed; but, I wasn’t there to hear it.

Dream Sequences – Part 2 (a story in creation)


NB please read Part 1 first at: 

Dream Sequences (a story in creation) http://wp.me/p1MjHq-1jS via

thank you


Part 2

Henry’s mind considered these things during the waking hours; to the detriment of his paying attention to his work and his driving skills – which were relatively called into question ‘twice’ on the way into the office; ‘many’ times ‘in’ his office; and ‘three’ times on the way back – once with almost disastrous consequences for an intrepid motorcyclist on a courier ‘Mission from G.O. Deliveries’ where he, the dispatch rider, had almost met his Almighty Employer.

Henry parked his dilapidated Ford Belligerent in an unusually empty space only a hundred and fifty yards from his flat, and ventured away from sanctuary and towards the quietude of the public library.

Henry was pleased to see it still there; he always assumed it would become a cut-price something-or-other overnight and his refuge from society’s babble would disappear like a traffic warden’s cologne after he’d photographed your car V.I.N. number not three seconds since you’d parked and popped into the newsagents for some Aspirin.

Henry found a table with seat near the Motoring section and dumped twelve back-issues of Exchange and Mart upon grubby surface.

It took him the effort of retracing eight issues before he found what he was looking for.

1926 Bentley, 3.0 Litre, British Racing Green, yada yada yada… up for auction at Rialto (Automobiles) Auction Rooms, Tuesday 7th, lot 458, estimate of £300K-£320K.

Henry whistled – and received a look of disapproval / approbation from a nearby librarian who was replacing ‘Humbly’s Diesel Engines of the 1950s’ or some-such tome.

‘Well, that detail was right.’ he thought. ‘A 1926 Bentley in reality looks just like the one in my dream – apart from the colour.’

Henry could have Googled this information in seconds; but, being of the sort of disposition that feels a book to be paper and words first – any other format (if you must) is a poor second.

However, finding A.R.P. might require a little of today’s modern-magic. He knew that needles in haystacks were a mouse-click away when the Interweb was put to use – Henry replaced the E&Ms correctly (in chronological order) and decided ‘now’ would be the time to seek out ‘Warden’ for any truths in ‘her’ story.

Henry had not had any dreams continuing his encounter with this enigma of a pretty, young lady who ‘they’ called ‘The mechanic’ or had that been a joke? He tried to visualise her face; arrange her features in proper order; remember her hair colour, style, length, but he was hopelessly hopeless at that sort of thing unless taking detailed notes at the time – which he hadn’t.

Not having had any more chances to gaze upon her smiling face, Henry had just taken to noting down the words spoken and the detail of the… the what? Hardly a date. She had been a knight in shining armour to his broken down damsel in distress – then she had galloped into the sunset without as much as a: ‘See you Tuesday; Rialto? Seven?’

Today was Tuesday. The 7th. Rialto! Where were the Rialto (Automobile) Auction Rooms?


NB how do you think it’s going? No dreams in this bit; but, that is fine IMO. G:)

Where Did All The Money Go?


As inheritances go, this one soon went. The millions were lost (never to be found) in various non-profit-making adventures – though that hadn’t been the intention – and within a year there were no visible a signs of the fortune – and very few signs that ‘he’ had had the misfortune to lack the business acumen to cope with it.
This meant that life had to get back to a reduced reality that only seemed to rub his snub nose into the dirt and shout at him ‘You idiot!’ on a regular basis. Circumstances had meant that he returned to a windowless ground floor (basement, if you like) of an apartment block, where he used to have a pleasant south-facing third-floor suite; and, until recently, owned the whole top-floor penthouse suite with its 360 degree views of the hoi-polloi below – literally as well as figuratively.

Times change. And, sometimes, all too quickly.

Dream Sequences (a story in creation)

A 1926 Bentley

A 1926 Bentley

If he’d turned that starting-handle once, he’d turned it a thousand times – truth be told, he’d never ‘cranked’ an engine into life, in his life; but, in his dreams, still he tried.
“Damn and blast this heap of junk!” he cried to the world. The world seemed to ignore him – then sent him a saviour in the form of Alice Pevensey.

“Hullo! Can I be of some help?” came the soft voice to the ears of Henry Hoshper. “It could be your plugs need a clean.”

Henry looked to where the voice was coming from; and had to gather his composure quite an amount before he could remove the caustic reply he had intended and replaced it with the slightly tame: “Be my guest.”

As is the case with dreams, a lot of the details are cloudy, inconsistent, or outright nonsensical; so, the fact that she had exactly the right size spanners and feeler-gauges to remove, clean, adjust and refit the plugs in the matter of minutes was par for the course.

Obviously the engine now started with the lightest of cranks and purred into life.

“Thanks.” Henry offered. Then added, with a bit more control (and a lot less fluster) “Thank you; that was efficient. Most impressive, Miss…?”

“Pevensey, Alice Pevensey; my friends call me ‘The Mechanic!’ ” she laughed. “Actually, they call me ‘Warden’ due to my initials – Rowan being my middle name.”
There was a twinkling lightness to her voice as if it we’re announcing the arrival of angels.

“I’m Henry Hoshper,” he offered, “as if I was Christened whilst the vicar was under the influence – though it’s never ever been ‘Hotspur’ in my family… I checked.” The offering seemed pretty lame even to him, but Alice kept smiling and patted the bonnet of the 1926 Bentley with a polishing cloth that had appeared in her spotless hand courtesy of the dream’s continuing providence.

Then Henry woke. This was the way of dreams, he thought; just start getting interesting and… “Good morning! Reality here.”

Henry thought for a while. He considered the significance of his dream. Then he quickly realised he didn’t have a clue about the significance of dreams. And why a 1926 Bentley? Did that signify his father, born in 1926, but, long gone now? ARP – there was a Second World War reference for instance; or did they have ARPs in the First World War – for the Zeppelins? No, the Bentley meant in or after 1926. Alice? Was she (or her name) relevant? Wonderland was surely a dream for Alice in Lewis Carroll.

Henry’s head had started hurting. It did that when he thought too hard. He went in search of a pen and some paper – or, even better, a notebook.

Armed with these, and a steaming mug of coffee, (always ‘steaming’ as an adjective, he thought – then dismissed that as being ‘off topic’) he went into the sitting-room (‘old-fashioned term’ he thought – almost called it a ‘parlour’). It was going to be one of ‘those’ days.

Anyway, his dad was never a Bentley; an Austin 7 perhaps; but, never a Bentley.

And why would Henry have one? His tastes didn’t stretch to (or couldn’t afford to) the price of classic cars.

NB this is just the start of an idea written whilst on my walks this morning. If it has any hopes for continuation, then my work gas just begun. Any thoughts on the above please let me know. Thank you, G:)

An Interview with the Boss #MayInvolveNaughtyBits


Boz: You’re half-past decent!

App: Oh, you’re quarter-too kind!

Boz: Your CV is recent?

App: Is the Pope a Catholic? Does he worship God?

Boz: It is rumoured so. Not that ‘that’ is relevant.

App: Humour breaks the ice, I find.

Boz: Well, if you do use humour as an ice-pick, please let me know.

App: Right, I shall do just so. My CV is as fit as my Cardio-Vascular system. I work out a bit.

Boz: Always good to do your workings-out on a piece of paper, I find; there’s often a piece about.

App: I don’t follow you.

Boz: That is as it should be – I could well do without a stalker.

App: Ha! What I meant was, I ‘don’t understand all that you are saying to me.’

Boz: Which is exactly right when it comes to the relationship between employer and ‘potential’ employee.

App: I have ‘potential?’

Boz: I think that there is more a ‘potential’ of a ‘potential.’

App: Thanks. I am now glowing in the almost warmth of a nearly compliment.

Boz: I have to put you through this wordplay; if you pass with your colours flying I shall be in a position to think about possibly short-listing you for the long-list.

App: It keeps getting better.

Boz: You would start at the bottom and gradually work sideways.

App: sounds reasonable.

Boz: Really? I was thinking you would insist on promotion within a reasonable time scale… and wages.

App: Well, yes; promotion in lieu of my inevitable experience and enthusia- did you mean there aren’t any wages.

Boz: It’s like an internship in that you do lots of work for me (if I give you the opportunity) and I pay you with experience and the prestige of having been associated with me. You might even get yourself a job with all the graft to help you on your way.

App: I’ve gone off the idea.

Boz: The ‘idea?’

App: Yes, the ‘idea’ that you were a company I could work for.

Boz: I will survive without you.

App: I dare say. And I can think of a hundred companies that would ‘love’ to have me as a CEO.

Boz: You can?

App: Yes. I am already fully qualified to be one – judging from you.

Boz: Charming!

App: No, I certainly wouldn’t have to be that.

Boz: In that case… you’re fired!

App: You haven’t even ‘hired’ me, yet. Idiot!

Boz: No, you are right. I seem to be getting some of this wrong.

App: Yes. Tell you what; I’ll be the boss now – you be the applicant.

Boz: Very well, Miss Long-Stopping. But, as your boss I do take these scenarios very seriously. I shall have to… well, consider your position in the company.

App: And, I, as your partner in ‘our’ relationship, shall have to consider ‘well’ what punishment I can give a naughty boss who has gone beyond her powers.

They stood there covered in a sheen of perspiration and nothing else. Then, after a quick recap, carried on their role-play / love-making.

Boz2: so, Miss Happenstance, I think that I can put you to work immediately.

App2: You can?

Boz2: Certainly. Let’s get down to some business.

App2: Yes, Boss.