Tag Archives: story

19:14 – LWG prompt

It was approaching a quarter past seven o’clock when the young men left their childhood’s behind and signed upon the dotted line for the reward of the King’s shilling and a muddy grave.

Dream Story – The Warm Yellow Custard Lake

… and they both dived eagerly into the lake of warm custard – for that is what it was.

Surfacing some distance apart, the two hollered to each other their joy at their instantaneous feelings of vitality, health, and well-being, for they were truly invigorated – which feelings can arise after a swim, even in warm custard, but this was different.

Small cuts, bruises, scars, and their, recently, ever-present sunburn, all disappeared – gone, and gone for good. The healing powers of the warm custard were, to put it lamely, amazing!

Fully rejuvenated, and feeling twenty years younger, the pair travelled on upon their quest, telling the tale of the yellow lake and its properties.

Thus, people began journeying from near, and then far, to bear witness by personal immersion into the healing warmth of yellowness.

As more and ever more people used the warm custard to heal small wounds, injuries and more serious ailments – even, in one instance, to replace a missing limb – the warm custard began to cool, and a shade of green tinged the golden yellow surface. The, until recently, sick and wounded also commented upon the slight sourness that they tasted when they inadvertently swallowed some of the warm custard.

But, the people came in their droves.

Until, soon, all the healing powers of the Yellow Custard Lake were exhausted. The lake had cooled, turned a murky green all over, and bubbled strangely in places. It had become a swamp.

In olden times, this was how swamps were formed. And if you ever now see a lake of warm custard on your travels…

…jump on in…

… before it becomes a foetid swamp –

for nobody wants to immerse themselves in one of those, do they?

A Story in Many Parts – which you can help to write (keep it light) please read and pop your continuation of the story in the comments – thank you.

No one really knows what is around the corner, and I certainly didn’t. Not, today, at any rate.

I had gone out in order to buy a packet of loose-leaf tea and a potato (I had three, I needed four), taking my usual route to the local ‘BuyStuff’ store. This required travelling up my street, turning the corner, and walking a further twenty paces to reach my destination.

It was when I turned the corner that my day took a strange turn.

‘The Chicken’

‘The Chicken’

Why did The Chicken cross the roadie off of the Backstage Pass list?

The Chicken were the biggest band to come out of Uttoxeter since… well, since ever. Never had a band come out of Uttoxter. Until The Chicken. The Chicken were the first, and they were big, really big… well, big for Uttoxeter, anyway.

Their first LP (Long Player) sold 45 copies (as very few people in Uttoxeter had record players – friends and families were the main purchasers) and that pushed ‘Pecking in the Dirt’ well in to the top 10 (on the Uttoxeter ‘hot’ 100).

Their single release ‘Cluckin’ Like Crazy’ (in coloured vinyl) was a collector’s item (being a limited edition… of 10) and, so, barely scraped into the Uttoxeter singles chart (at no. 97, for one week only).

Well, a tour was mooted in the band, then they suggested to their management (Edith, Barry the Drummer’s mum) that a countrywide venue-fest would be just the thing to sell their new CD (Compact Disc , which format was an actual step into the twentieth century – their idea for cassettes was, however, still on the back-burner) this CD they had cleverly (to their minds) entitled ‘Hen Will I See You Again?’

Along with the band (Barry, drums; Tiger, guitar and vocals; Tez, Bass and muted vocals; and Limpet, lead guitar and mob choruses) there was Mozzer (Tiger’s Mum, the tour manager, and Mullet, the roadie.

It was Mullet that caused all the problems;

Mullet was a throwback to the early 80s, he was likely to be thrown back as far as the late 70s.

Mullet forgot the cables, the leads, the microphones, and all the strings for the guitars. Having left them in a custom-built logo-clad black gig crate that he had purloined from behind the brewery.

But, as Mullet claimed to be able to drive the old Bedford van that they had been ‘given’ by the Uttoxeter Twinning Comittee, in the vain hope that on their travels they might be able to agree a twinning contract with some far off paradise – such as Lichfield to the south.

However, a promised gig in ‘The Bright Lights’ a pub in Longdon (not London, as they had thought) failed to materialise as the landlord had double-booked the band with a group of ladies from the WI – and he wasn’t going to tell them that their coffee morning was cancelled.

To finish it all off, Mullet was arrested for speeding on the B5014 at Abbots Bromley – not normally an a treatable offence, Mullet was very puppy to the policeman and then proceeded to throw up over the policeman’s shiny black boots.

Without a driver, the band (and their entourage) has to get a bus home and have a long hard think about the band’s future. The only decision made, was, that Mullet was sacked.

Mullet, released sober a day later, was not that fussed as he had received a better offer from a WPC at the station. Less on that story is to follow.

The butterfly and the duckling

Liskeard Writers Prompt for 21/01/2020: Picture prompt – the butterfly and the duckling.

When you think about reincarnation, as I’m sure you do from time to time, do you consider the possibility that you would come back as a long-living creature – such as an Aldabra Giant Tortoise or a Greenland Shark, or a creature with a short life-span, such as an adult Mayfly or a House Mouse

Well, this story involves two people that meet, fall in love, and die, all too young, in an airplane crash.

They are pure-hearted souls that qualified, without dispute, for reincarnation.

Jessica was transformed into a beautiful Blue Morpho butterfly; Leonides, strangely inappropriately, was reincarnated as a duckling, an ugly duckling, with feathers all stubby and brown.

As you know, or maybe you don’t, all animals, insects, mammals (apart from most humans) have the ability to converse with each other. They don’t always choose to; but, they can hold conversations in many ways apart from the spoken language that we expect of them.

So, Jessica and Leonides were able to find each other by a series of clicks, quacks, chirps, flutters, and a fair degree of luck.

They remained friends throughout their reincarnated lives, sadly Jessica’s was one of brevity, and Leonides grew to be an ugly swan, who used the brute strength of his wings to quell the dissatisfaction that he felt at not having also been brought back as a beautiful butterfly, where he could spend a brief, but exquisite, life with Jessica – as they had done when in human form.

The calendar that their picture adorns is a tribute to a moment in their second lives. And the picture was taken from an actual scene that caught the artist’s eye – so beautiful it was.

Keeping A Light On. (Revisited).

Keeping A Light On. (Revisited).

Every evening, the little old man climbed to the top of the spiral staircase to light the lamp; staying there, thinking upon life, until the dawn’s early light rose. He slept, during the day, in a cot near the base of the lighthouse; eating the food that the kind folk from the village left him.

For forty years he had tended to the flame that shone out for the mariners’ safety; like his father, and his grandfather, before him.

The mariners, whose sea had receded ten miles beyond the old coast line many, many years ago.

‘The Key’ #SoCS @LindaGHill

‘The Key’ #SoCS @LindaGHill – Linda’s Lovely site here.

I found a key, close by the door of an old boarded-up building. I thought that the key would fit the door, unlock it, and allow me to enter the boarded-up property, where I would find an old wooden chest which would contain a quantity of treasure that exceeded my imagination to imagine it.

The key did fit the door, and the door opened upon the most unlikely treasure chest location that I could think to encounter. There weren’t any floorboards remaining – due to the ravages of time – and the plaster that should have been hugging the walls was now filling the gaps between the floor joists around the edges of the room.

However, there was a large wooden chest, albeit slightly below flor level, and covered in a thick layer of dust – well dust that had become a veritable skin for the treasure container.

I carefully walked across to where it lay and found that the lid wasn’t locked shut. It opened easily, and without the expected creak that is probably usual from badly maintained hinges.

Now, this is where thing got a little strange.

The chest was very deep. In fact, it was much deeper than theoretically possible, being to a depth of six or seven feet; and there at the bottom of the chest was just one thing, a piece of parchment the size of an old white five-pound note (they were larger than the current five-pound notes, shall we say twice the size?

I was leaning down into the chest to try and reach the ancient paper, when I was pushed by unseen hands and toppled forward. Any light was quickly removed as the lid of the chest closed upon me and , having been winded by my fall, it was a few seconds before I could gather myself. I had a torch, which I retrieved from a pocket, and I gathered up the parchment.

The words upon it, although in an ancient script, were legible,

‘East is East,

And West is West,

Now You are interred

Within this Chest!’

It took me a long time to die. It took me a very short time before that happened to curse my finding of a key to a house that, to my knowledge, had never stood on the corner of Elim Street and Douglas Avenue before.

For a short while I was a kind of a Cause Célèbre in the neighbourhood; then like my earthly body, mentions of me faded away… to nothing.

The Thin King

The Thin King

The man was a rake –

well, as thin as a rake –

he was also a king.

He stood looking at the cuboid cardboard package that had been delivered to the palace;

he stood there,

thin king,

outside of the box.

No Repetition Story (WIP)

No Repetition Story (WIP)

(200 words without repetition.

Any comments gratefully received) – G:) )

“What are you doing?” shouted Lady Melanie Montmorency. “Get out of my brand new jacuzzi immediately!”

Brendan o’Briain leapt about three feet skywards into clear air at his landlady’s voice, unwillingly exposing a pale nakedness for her Ladyship’s unwanted delight.

“Sorry!” was heard uttered upon the Irish lumberjack’s sudden departure.

“Funny fellow; but, so well endowed.” sincere sounding approval soaked smoothly within those virtuously aristocratic words.

Disaster avoided, said water-filled garden feature, receiving some needed cleansing attention, soon returned to its former glory.

Later, ‘Dive-In Thursday’ commenced; all behaved impeccably; ubiquitous aperitifs were copiously imbibed, perky petit-fours neatly nibbled, clandestine conversation eloquently colluded.

Observing proceedings, Tangworthy Times’ lead reporter, Mrs. Fenella Finglewort, vividly reported: ‘absolute debauchery, total mayhem, flagrant philandering – so jealous!’ Pictures left nothing unimagined.

Friday’s headlines read: ‘Upper Class Street Theatre Brings Down Lasting Shame!’ which nobody understood – heavy editorial restraints meant little, as subsequent salaciousness could be experienced per highly detailed pictures printed within.

“The Cakes!”

“The Cakes!”

The Cakes were flying out of the door.

“Stop!” came the cry from the rear of the café.

The last few Victoria Sponge slices beat their wings all the more and reached the freedom of the open air.

“Come back here at once!” shouted Mrs. Flour.

The cakes, not having ears, turned a blind eye to the command.

Free of the café, where they had always waited for the slice of the cake knife with dread, the cakes swooped and glided along the air currents above the town.

“Crumbs!” said the first Herring gull that spotted them – and very soon they were.