Tag Archives: story

Yes – Linda G Hill’s SoC



All eyes were on the byes

as the last ever over-

yes, the last ever over,

upon the dryest of pitches,

was to be bowled.

Yes, one can imagine the last game ever of cricket. It probably has more meaning to those that like or play (or even like and play) cricket.

The bowler bowls, the batter 🦇 🦇- a visual pun there – and the fielder (Helen Fielding) pops a dot in her diary – or the score book as it is known in crocheting circles.

“Yes!” the crowd (and Vesuvius) erupts as Pompeii decides not to run between the wickets, and crawls instead.

Sent back – by a zealous batting companion – Pompeii assumes a foetal position and is captured for posterity as he helps to win the ashes. The ashes being quite ironic really.

Yesterday, the team had been advised to leave, but with one day left of a 5-day debacle they decided to see the match go out – as there wasn’t enough oxygen to keep it lit.

Pompeii stumped up (or coughed up) for the sandwiches at the interval, but, by then, all could see it was heading for a draw as rain (of sorts) was about to stop play – permanently.

“Yes?” asked the keeper of wickets when asked if burning could be smelt.

Correct, as it turns out – and the two teams that had been nicely turned out in their whites called it a day.

I found an old story of mine

I found an old story –

Jack an Ory –

it seemed to me



but there were spelling mistakes,

and the oceans were lakes,

and it wasn’t like Robin Hood.

I copied it out,

without a doubt

that I could mend the faults

make it good –

if not quite great –

a masterpiece – almost –

from the vaults.

Jack the Fruit – (a flash in under 500 words – not including the title)

Jack was a fruit.

Not a specific fruit,

like an Orange, Apple, or Pear;

or a rare fruit,

such as a Physalis, Durian

or the Mighty Horned Cucumber;

he wasn’t even a Tomato – which is a fruit.

Jack was ‘all’ fruits,

though not all at once,

for that would certainly be a fruit cocktail to confuse.

One Monday, last month, Jack had been a Lemon. The next day he was a Gooseberry; and this caused quite some confusion.

Jack the Lemon had had a lovely chat with Sally Strawberry; when he met Sally on Tuesday, she didn’t recognise him – for he was now Jack the Gooseberry. This caused problems for Jack and embarrassment all around.

Sometimes, when Jack was nervous, he would change fruits ‘during’ the day – and occasionally more than once – talking with Bella Banana had been the worst, Jack had changed into a Banana, and Bella had fallen for the unexpected stranger in her life, although she preferred Jack the Plum, but he had seemingly left the building – a Shoe Shop – and was never heard of again.

Finally, Jack was found close to tears, having lost the friendship of Bella Banana, Cindy Cherry, and Polly Peach all within a week.

Archie Apple saw a Lime in a corner that seemed to be crying and almost sobbing in despair.

“What is wrong, Friend Lime?” asked Archie.

Between sobs and tears, Jack the Lime answered, 

“I keep on changing from fruit to fruit, and I can’t keep a steady relationship. One day I’m a Prune Plum, the next day I’m a Manila Mango!”

The tears fell down Jack’s face and started pooling around him, creating himself as his own island.

“Listen… I didn’t catch your name?” said Archie.

“Jack.” said the woeful Lime.

“Listen, Jack; all I can say is be yourself, and perhaps wear this T-Shirt that I fortuitously found just over there.” he pointed. “It looks about your size.”

Archie handed the T-Shirt to Jack.

“It’s a magical T-Shirt that stops the wearer from changing into a different species, be it animal, mineral or vegetable. Or fruit.” 

Archie smiled benignly.

“Actually, Jack, I am your fairy godmother – I knitted you that T-Shirt myself.”

Jack popped the T-Shirt on and went to look at himself in a nearby mirror.

“Do I have to wear this always?” asked Jack.

“If you wear it three days running, it will be upon you forever, and you will stay as that fruit until the end of fruit days. So, this means that you can choose which fruit you’d like to be.” Archie disappeared in a puff of smoke – as fairy godmothers tend to do.

“Archie had stopped crying. He knew which fruit he would like to be. And all he had to do was put his magical T-Shirt on the next time that he became that fruit.

It couldn’t be that long before he was a lemon again, could it.

And Sally Strawberry might still be waiting for him.

The Dandelion and the lonely Mouse

One fine day,

towards the end of May,

Mouse was just wandering lonely,

‘like a cloud’ thought Mouse,

when all at once she spied

a Dandelion.

‘When is a lion

not a lion?’ asked Mouse,

of no-one in particular.

‘When it is a Dandelion.’

came a voice from above.

‘What is a ‘Dandelion?’

asked Mouse, ‘if it pleases you to tell me’ –

for Mouse was a very polite mouse.

‘I, am a dandelion.’ said the voice.

‘As any young mouse should know.’

Mouse looked up at the golden flower,

marvelling at the beauty.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mouse, ‘but I never went to Mouse School, and so I don’t know many things.’

‘Ah!’ said the Dandelion, ‘I never went to school, either; but, I talk to all the creatures

that pass by, and learn about the wide world from them.’

‘I don’t know any creatures, and nobody ever talks to me.’ said Mouse sadly – a tear in her eye..

‘I am talking to you’, said the Dandelion, ‘and I can be your friend. I will tell you of all the things that I have been told.’

Mouse looked up at Dandelion, with a different tear in her eye. ‘Could you? Would you? That would be so nice of you.’

Dandelion looked fondly at the Mouse, ‘I am only here for a short time – much shorter than your time will be – so I shall firstly tell you the names of all the birds and other creatures of flight, the insects, flowers, and the growing things that are nearby, then you can say hello to them by their names, and they will also talk to you.’

‘Thank you.’ said Mouse.

And the lesson began.

In the little Village of St. Well – Revisited.

St. Well’s Well was, well, it just was – what more could be said about it?

This. It had always been there. Well, that is for just about as long as anybody knew of the village of St. Well, there had been a St. Well’s Well – it’s almost as if the village had been named after the well itself; although some did say that there had been an ‘actual’ St. Well, who had lived in the village a long, long, long time ago – he was rumoured to be a saint, and, some do say, a man of the church.

Not that any sane person would consider taking a drink from the St. Well’s Well, it was barely of a standard to be used for washing clean the narrow lanes of Cornwall after the silage tractor had passed by.

But, as ancient monuments go, St. Well’s Well ticked all the boxes; barely accessible, situated well away from any parking, and a bit of a disappointment when you did eventually find somewhere to park, climb down to the hidden wellhead, and take the obligatory ‘selfie’.

At least St. Well had an ancient monument; some Cornish villages have to make do with a George VI postbox.

Create a new story form – a ‘68er!

Write a piece that is so long and no longer. Make it short enough to be read I. A single sitting, and yet long enough to require multiples of paragraphs.

Choose a simple format and avoid other existing ones – we don’t need another 99-worder or a ‘Drabble’.

Give it a funky name, something that people can remember. And then sit back and enjoy the acclaim.

Or, not.

The Mevagissiat

Perched on top of an unruly head of hair, and an even unrulier head, the Mevagissiat had a better view than most.

‘If only I had eyes!’ thought the Mevagissiat; and lo and behold the Mevagissiat had eyes.

‘I can see!’ said the Mevvagissiat, and saw all the things around: the seagulls,the boats, the people, the people on the boats, the seagulls looking down upon the people on the boats.

The Mevagissiat looked and looked and thought, ‘if only I had a mouth, I could sing about all the things I’ve seen!’ And lo and behold the Mevagissiat had a mouth.

And now the Mevagissiat could sing, and did – but not that well, the Mevvagossiat was ‘not’ a good singer.

As any that happened to cross it’s path would testify.

Stand up paddle-boarding

Giving a stand-up routine whilst paddle-boarding wasn’t the best idea that I’d ever had… but, it was actually a bit of a hoot.

Admittedly,not much room for an audience.

And even though I was going in at the deep end, I could depend upon the fishes and the sea birds to attend my passing remarks.

All in all, I think that this career move might wet suit me.

It has since been revealed…

It has, since, been revealed, that the sheep were in the large undulating field.

The cows were in an adjacent field to the one that the sheep were in.

And the three horses were currently tearing at some short-bladed shrub grass in the field beyond that.

There were no pigs in any of the fields.

Alpacas (or Llamas) might have been present in the triangular-shaped field near to the stream. but no one could confirm this.

Goats had been kept in the ‘Paddock’ as it was called, but they had eaten their way to freedom, and their current whereabouts were unknown – even to themselves.

That was all you could say about the inhabitants (or not) of the fields beyond Northleigh Ferrers.

Not that it was of any interest to anybody.

Reading the Leaves (Tasseography)

The leaves in my teacup were telling a story.

You had to listen quite hard, they were speaking very quietly, and slowly, and in leaf language; but, if you were patient, concentrated hard, and happened to know leaf language, you could just make out the outline of a tale about the coming of the Winter Winds.

Always the Winter Winds, never the Summer breezes – and perhaps an allegorical tale about talking field mice that was actually about something other than the mice of the fields.

Anyway, I had had to endure a cup of tea for this. I was a coffee drinker through and through (and through a bit more) and only tortured myself with the evil brew so as I could hear the stories of the leaves.

If only coffee beans could tell such tales.