Tag Archives: story

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.

Beehive Behaviour

“Children, children, children, children,

children, children, chil—‘ said the Queen bee.

‘What on earth is going on this morning?

I made up your sandwiches, filled you all a flask, and all I ask is a little peace and quiet – and it’s just chaos!

“It’s bedlam!” cried the Queen bee/

“Well, ma’am…” said one particularly brave worker bee, “it’s our beehive, you see.”

“And what is wrong with the beehive?”

“Well… it seems to be perched upon the top of somebody’s head!”

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?