We thank you for the air we breathe;
we thank you for the water that we drink;
all the food that we receive;
and for having the mind with which to think.
We thank you for the story
of a man disdaining glory,
who died for our sins;
that’s where a story begins.
Boxing Day 2018 #21 (20:00)
Or crash out in front of the cardboard box
(the one that Boxing Day
is named after)
Anyway, start with the After Eights
and we’ll take it from there.
A Boxing Day Story (Part 1) – Boxing Day 2018 #14 (13:00)
The Afternoon of the 26th was remarkable for one particular thing. Which was, that when one o’clock’s solitary chime had just about faded into the past, there was a curt knocking upon the front door of the mansion.. Not that we lived in the mansion, we were just passing by and by some strange trick of the acoustics, we heard the knocking from the mansion’s orchard where we were ‘borrowing’ apples.
As it sounded like a knock of desperation, we curtailed our apple-based activities and went to have a look-see.
The ‘knocking’ was coming from the ‘outside’ of the monumental front door – and it was a surprise to us that nobody inside had answered it’s call. Perhaps there ‘was’ nobody inside.
If that was the case, why did the knocker keep knocking?
We approached as closely as we could to the mansion’s entrance and looked across at a man who in-between knocking furiously at the door and cursing at the lack of response, was balancing an old and shoddy top-hat upon the crown of his head. Quite a sight, he was.
We watched from the rear of the hawthorn hedge and considered the occurrence.
The ‘we’ that I allude to are: myself, Robin Banks (real name Robert ‘Robbie’ Bankscombe, and my partner in crime was Tom (real name Thomasina) Boycott – but, never, repeat never, call her ‘Tomboy’ even though she was all of one and more.
In the late 21st Century April fell out of use. It was renamed Shower.
Soon after, all of the months were renamed to suit their most apt tempers.
Thus we ended up with Ice, Snow, Hail, Heat, Wind and the rest.
Strangely enough, the months acclimatised themselves to the new names and for a month at a time everybody knew exactly what the weather would be.
Herbert the Turbot
Herbert the Turbot
was very, very sad;
because he had never ever
been a character in a poem
or a story
until, one day…
Fu and Fa.
Between Fu and Fa there was a growing silence. Not that a silence can grow – what would it grow into without it becoming something other than a silence.
Anyway, I digress, as I do. And always have done. Even from an early age. When I was younger. Obviously.
However… on with the story.
Fu and Fa stood looking at each other.
Eyeball to eyeball. Mano a Mano . Face to face. Toe to toe. Who would be the first to blink?
So, silently, and motionlessly, the two statues continued their sparring.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #prose, #vss, story
LWG – 10-minute exercise 18/08/2018
Every second, once used, was carefully added to the waste heap; which was eternally teetering precariously above the town.
Jonathan Moment the Three Thousand and Thirty-Seventh checked the books. All seemed to be in order. The cumulative effect of the generations upon his stock-taking (which he liked to call his tick-tock-taking) had been a gradual thing; and, as his father used to say (and his father’s father had also said the same thing to his son and so on back through the ages) ‘time waits for no man!’ Which was highly unoriginal after thirty-seven generations of Moments had passed one second (which had carefully moved from the future to the present) along to the waste heap outside of the village boundary.
The fear the townspeople subconsciously had was that the gigantic heap of waste seconds would topple over and time would come crashing back down upon them; but, this never having done so in the past, why should it do so any time soon?
But, ‘time waits for no man’, and so Jonathan had to keep a constant watch upon the seconds as they were individually added to the mountainous structure, noting them down in his ledger as they were popped on to the top.
Jonathan’s wife was a patient lady. She didn’t see much of Jonathan because of his hereditary career; but, she spent her days working in her Herb Garden where she grew thyme. Her name was Rosemary.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #LWG, #vss, story, Time