Tag Archives: #vss

Rosa Brupptley

Rosa was a stand-up.

Her rise to stardom was meteoric.

Her fall from grace catastrophic;

one minute she was riding the heights,

the next, she was plumbing…

plumbing the depths, that is.

“It is a buoy, your grace!”

After 9 months of plain sailing,

the master and his attendant crew entered the area of storms.

In that vast place,

their tiny wooden craft was sea-tossed,

and thrown from wave peak to wave trough innumerable times.

When, eventually, the craft had miraculously reached beyond,

they found themselves becalmed upon a mirrored ocean,

where there was not even a breeze.

Like the ship of the Ancient Mariner,

there was grave concern amongst the sailors;

and the relief felt from passing through the storm

was replaced by a dread of another kind.

Water rations grew scant, food was turning away from being edible, and all seemed about to be lost.

Until the master’s wife gave birth; which was a bit of a surprise, as no one had known she was pregnant.

“It is a buoy, your grace!”

“I am not, ‘your grace’, I am just the master of this vessel; but, I think that Grace will be a good name for our child.”

“It’s a buoy! You can’t call him Grace.”

“We can call him what we wish – Grace is a name that shall befit his style and grace.

And so it was that Grace was named, and grew to be the son that his father, Muriel, had always wanted.

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.

It all started last Wednesday. (A LIskeard Writers Group Prompt).

It all started last Wednesday… at about… eleven o’clock in the morning, no later than eleven fifteen… at the latest. But, by twelve o’clock, it was all over. Done. Finished. Fi-into!

And, then, it started again.

This starting and stopping carried on for the rest of the day, finally stopping for good (or so I thought) at about half past ten late that evening.

It had been quite a difficult day, neither one thing or the other for long, and never both simultaneously – which, I think, was a bit of a Godsend (if that’s the right word).

I slept but little, and when I did, it was a fitful sleep full of the stuff that dreams are made on, if I may be so bold as to quote Prospero from ‘The Tempest’ by William Shakespeare here – if it isn’t alright to do so… I won’t, and please consider that last part… unsaid.

The next day was a Thursday, as much like a Wednesday as you can get without repeating the Wednesday in a Groundhog Day sort of fashion – if you haven’t seen the film Groundhog Day you might not get that reference, if you have… then you probably might.

So, Next day. Thursday. Started off as most Thursdays do, with the morning, followed by the afternoon, it proceeded to the evening and on into the night. No problems there, right?

Wrong! it kept on starting. And stopping. And starting up again. Sometimes it went on for quite a while, and you thought ‘hooray!’ and then it would stop.

When it stopped, it did it with no warning, no screech of brakes (which is just a motoring metaphor) and no— warning (have I already said ‘warning’? I do tend to say ‘warning’ too much, so that the word becomes almost a cliché, and if not a cliché how about… a hackneyed phrase, although I do know that one word upon its own is not really a phrase. I’m not that silly… well, I am, but let us not get into name-calling.

Rupert! Wendy! Nathaniel!

Sorry, I do so dislike it when I do that.; I still do it, but I do dislike it. Obviously not enough to stop doing it, but, hey, you know me. And if you don’t… ‘hello, my name is *insert own name here*

As you can tell, this is an unfinished piece at the time of its writing. That is until it ends, when it will be a finished piece… of sorts, after a fashion, possibly.

So, where were we? Or should I say ‘when?’

I should? Okay, ‘when’. ‘When! When.

I feel much better now, thank you for asking – and if you didn’t ask, thank you for not asking (I am nothing if not polite).

Thursday, that is when.

When it all started again.

When stop it was not,

and the starter’s gun was hot,

and off it went!

It ran, and ran, and ran, and ran, and ran…

until all it’s running was spent!

And then it stopped.

It did this a lot.

Not, that I minded a minuscule jot.

Because I was becoming used to it by now,

the unfamiliar was becoming familiar somehow,

the rare was becoming common,

the extinct did live again

(If that is possible)

and that is when…

… two of them started up.

Not just one… but two.

Which is double.

At this rate I shall soon be overrun

by the starting stopping things!

Do you see the trouble that a new day brings?

Do you?

I so wish it was Wednesday again,

before all this began to begin;

and that time would stop there,

and not start again.

It all started last Wednesday… at about… eleven o’clock in the morning, no later than eleven fifteen… at the latest. But, by twelve o’clock, it was all over. Done. Finished. Fi-into!

And, then, it started again.

This starting and stopping thing,

which I mentioned earlier.

Mock Tutorial Soup – (not a poem!)

We knew it was a Thursday,

by the listing of the menu

pinned upon the notice board.

We had Mock Tutorial on a Thursday.

‘Super!’ we thought, ironically.

Then, we realised that after MTS

we had Double Grumble and Custard –

our spirits dropped even lower;

Thursdays were supposed to be

a warm-up for Fridays,

when we could all wind down

in time for the weekend;

but, MTS for lunch,

and DG&C after,

always left us feeling like we had

little hope of Friday

(and the weekend)

ever arriving.

‘The’ Barney Stone (from Ireland… not)

So what is your name?

Barney

Barney. And, what is your surname?

It’s Stone.

Barney? Stone?

Yes!

Barney Stone? And, where are you from? Ireland?

Yes!

Barney Stone from Ireland?

No.

No?

No. ‘The’ Barney Stone from ‘The’ Ireland.

Oh. Well, that is alright then. Next question.

Yes?

Do you get kissed a lot?

Define ‘a lot!’

Well, more than twice a day. Once in the morning when you awake, and once at bedtime just before you go to sleep, usually by a person you live with, and love.

My flatmate, Sebastian?

Possibly.

No, he loves me not.

I see. No, I was talking about people that might travel to Ireland and kiss you.

Why would they do that?

Because of your name.

Because of my name?

Yes, many people, men and… ‘not men’, go to Ireland just to kiss ‘The’ Barney Stone.

And why would they do that?

It’s traditional. People have been doing it for thousands, maybe even ‘hundreds’, of years – it’s traditional – as I said before.

I’m not that old.

Well, you do look a bit on the young side.

Thank you. And, anyway, I’ve never been to Ireland.

Never been there! Weren’t you born there?

Oh, yes.

So, you must have been there!

No. I was ‘there’, then I left there, but I’ve have never ‘been’ to Ireland.

Oh. Well, that’s fine to be sure.

And I’m not even Irish.

No?

No. My mother ‘and’ my father were both——

Both, what?

Not Irish.

Not Irish?

No.

Oh. Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean you aren’t Irish – it can skip a generation.

Can it? Oh.

Yes. So, is ‘The’ Barney Stone your real name?

No. It’s Brian ‘sTown.

As in ‘Brianstown’ in Ireland.

Is there a Brian ‘sTown in Ireland?

Yes.

Well, that’s probably not me?

Yes. No.

No. It’s not at all like that, it’s spelt differently.

Oh. So, why are you calling yourself ‘The’ Barney Stone?

It’s after my dog. He’s called Barney, Barney ‘sTown. He’s an Irish wolfhound. Only a puppy – over thirty years old, and still only a puppy.

And does he get kissed a lot?

She. Oh, yes. And everybody’s talking ten, nineteen, or even ‘twenty’ to the dozen about that.

Figures.

Yes, they are.

SFX Cymbal.

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.

The Octogenarian’s Rusty Bicycling Club.

‘Grandad was the oldest, at 89, and ‘Nipper’ the newest member of the O.R.B.C. at 80 years, three months and two days – that’s if you didn’t take into count their trusty ‘steeds’, born of a time when Queen Victoria was still fondly remembered from her 1885 visit to Nottingham for the state opening of the Raleigh Bicycle Company.

They rode in single file along the country lanes in the colours of the lead cyclist of the Tour de France, their fluorescent yellow garb could be seen from space, and, on night-rides the crimson and white of their lights closely rivalled the Blackpool illuminations.

Often, you would hear their cycling songs long before they came into sight; one such is printed below,

‘Sturmey-Archer, Sturmey-Archer,

you can change gear when you like,

unless you are blessed

with a fixed wheel on your bike!’