Tag Archives: prose

Ashton on the Line (A Teddy Bear in Uncertain Situations).

“You’re a bear!”

“Obviously. Bears look like me, I look like a bear; the reason being… I am a bear.”

“But, you can talk!”

“As can you – fun isn’t it?”

“But, I’m ‘not’ a bear!”

“No, and that is your loss; there’s nothing much that I can do about your parentage, now that you’ve been born and raised by… humans!”

“But, you can talk!”

“Haven’t we established that? My, you are a weird one.”

“No. Well, yes; but, what I mean is… you are a talking bear.”

“We all talk.”

“In English?”

“Ah, I see where you are becoming confused. I am talking in ‘Bear’, you, on the other paw, are hearing in English. Life can be funny like that.”

“How… ?”

“And now you are talking in Native American, and I am hearing in Bear. Do you speak many languages?”

“A little of some, and not a lot of many.”

“Bon. Quelle jour est-il?”

“Um, Thursday, I think.”

“Figures.”

“Does it?”

“Oh, yes; I am a big fan of H2G2.”

“I quite like H2O.”

“I assumed you would. Do you travel this way often?”

“No. In fact, this is the first time I have been here.”

“And the last?”

“Sorry?”

“No apologies needed; but, it’s not good to meet a bear (albeit a talking one) in the woods, is it?”

“”No, I suppose not.”

There is a pause of some few seconds.

“Should I run?”

“Do you want to?”

“I feel that I must.”

“Okay, at least you could say that you made an effort to escape your fate.”

“To whom would I say that?”

“Oh I think you would have to have a soft, short conversation with yourself.”

“Right. Thanks.”

The traveller set of at a breakneck speed – which term gained considerable aptness as a twisted root is negotiated with all the elegance of a camel waterskiing.

“Oh, well, that’s a bit of a shame.” said Ashton the bear, returning to his perusal of the vegetation nearby.

The Giraffe in the Room

“We’re not talking about the giraffe in the room, we’re talking about the elephant in the room; the elephant that everybody has so conveniently chosen to ignore; the elephant that— the giraffe? There is a giraffe in the room? How high is the ceiling? And, more to the point, what’s the giraffe doing here?”

At The Moth Ball

The room was ablaze with the stellar light which emanated from the central chandelier, and the moths gaily danced in pairs around its aura; some moths, at the periphery, awaited their chance to join in the considered melee of the night, others were still arriving.

it was an Invitation Only event, but invites had been freely sent, and many, many RSVP’d, hence the hustle and bustle; some had arrived early, others were punctualness personified, then there were the stragglers, the latecomers, the ‘I had to wait for the babysitter!’ type, who were tardy to a lesser or greater fault.

However, there was a spaciousness to the room that allowed many to freely dance their dance, and many more to await their turn.

An entwined couple flew too close to the light of the chandelier, and had to be treated for their hurts, the Moth Paramedics treated them with great skill, until their wounds were wound with welcome wrappings.

The music of the night rose and fell, the dancers twisting and twirling, hurling caution to the wind as they lived for the moment; the flittering of wings added a swishing sound to the music, it was almost as if we could hear Cinderella happily sweeping the floor of her kitchen.

When the night was finally over, the moths having eventually danced until they could dance no more, the Dawn arose, and the new day brought a distinct ending to the Moth Ball.

“Here’s to the next one!” voiced one moth to another, as she flew back home to recover.

Thinking inside of the box

Cat would have liked to be thinking outside of the box for a change; thinking inside the box was not all that it had promised to be. But, the promise of a cardboard box to a cat is a wondrous thing – ask any cat.

However, when tired of the box, it should be an easy option for a cat to leave the box, and seek a warm spot in the house.

Not, as has happened to me, to be securely sealed into the box for the sake of a hypothetical experiment.

Who said that people should have pets? And, who said that people who have pets should look after them?

I know it’s not my place to complain (but, I will) but, I do not think that Mr. Schrödinger should have been allowed to keep pets.

I think therefore I am. I have needs and a desire to roam freely. My well-being is ‘not’ being helped by my incarceration in a cardboard box – and I am now well fed up with it.

The Proliferation of the Veneration of Alliteration in Moderation in this Generation… is Not a Thing.

The proliferation of the veneration of Alliteration…

blah blah

blah blah

blah

… is not a thing…

… and, do you want to know why?

No, I didn’t think you did.

Which leads me to write,

‘What sad state of affairs

has led to this sort of thing?’

And,

‘aren’t rhetorical questions annoying?’

No, you don’t have to answer that–

you really don’t.

LWG 10-minute exercise: The Bookshop Was Closed

‘LWG 10-minute exercise: The Bookshop Was Closed’

There was a note Blu-Tacked to the door, ‘Back in 10-minutes’, but, was that 10-minutes nearly up, or had that 10-minutes only recently started? Would 10-minutes see me inside the sanctuary of books, or would 10 become 20… or forever? I know that sometimes a note written to let people know when you’ll be back (in the case of Bookshop proprietors) should be literally the maximum time that you are going to be away – it should have a built-in allowance for delays and distractions – but, I am all too aware that life, being what it is, can put paid to the best laid plans of mice and people that run bookshops.

I made a decision. I would wait until twenty past (it being ten past now) based upon the premise that the note was freshly scribed and someone would be unlocking those doors any minute now.

People approached and passed me as I stood nervously upon the threshold of the haven of hallowed hardbacks (and, to be honest, a larger number of paperbacks) twiddling my thumbs (and flexing my index fingers – in the hope that they would be tracing down the spines all too soon).

There was a call from across the street, ‘I’ll be with you in a tick, sir.’ The lady from the bookshop! ‘Huzzah!’ I would soon be reunited with the papery stories and inky words.

I looked back at the note, ‘10-minutes!’ I had been right to wait.

There was a long screech of brakes. A thud. * A cry of pain.

I turned. ‘Oh, no!’ I howled dejectedly.

—//—

*This was where my 10-minutes ran out – which is quite ironic really.