Tag Archives: #vss

It’s 4:30 in the afternoon (well, it was).

It’s 4:30 in the afternoon (well, it was).

It’s 4:30 in the afternoon,

and, soon, it will be 4:31;

I only have less than a minute to write this…

but, sadly, it couldn’t be done.

It’s 4:32 in the afternoon…

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“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.

A Tale of Three…

A Tale of Three…

Aubrey the Strawberry, Salty the Peanut, and Banango the Weird – a mixed up one if there ever was – walked into Kind Café, one day.

It had been a very hot day, and the three of them were in search of an Ice-cream each to cool themselves down.

Aubrey, Salty, and Banango surveyed the ice-cream menu.

Aubrey looked on with dismay as she saw the options, Salty turned up his little peanut nose at the PB &J cone;

Banango ordered a Banana and Mango Chip Cornet (with sprinkles).

Aubrey and Salty looked at Banango with wonder – he was being really weird lately.

Banango paid and took his selection ‘to go’ and they all left the Kind Café.

Within two minutes a hungry Herring Gull had swooped down and the Banana, Mango Chips, Sprinkles and Banango the Weird had all been swiped by the hungry gull.

Aubrey and Salty were sad, but this was slightly relieved by the fact that Banango the Weird had gone as he had always said he had wanted to.

“Absent Friends!”

“Absent Friends!” – A Liskeard Writers Group prompt for a 15-minute exercise.

(LWG exercise 02-07-2019)

We gathered around the round table and took the register of names.

It was sad that every year the knights became fewer; this time Sir Lachrimae was absent (tears were shed for his loss) and Sir Hector de Maine was counted as being amongst the fallen at Caer Baden.

The spaces at the grand old table of Arthur were almost matching those places filled by the elderly knights.

That was another thing, there were three present that wouldn’t be lasting past Lammas-time, their ailing and failing bodies soon to succcumb to ‘la Morte’.

Arthur raised his chalice. The room hushed as the knights, standing strong around the circle, finished raising their armoured arms to place their own goblets to within a touch of their stubbled and bearded chins.

“Absent friends!” Quoth Arthur.

“Absent friends!” came the response from the room.

They drank, thinking of those who had taught them to bear arms, fought alongside them through quests and battles, and who had fallen in mortal conflict when their time to go had arrived.

It was soon after this meeting that many of the knights decided to go on individual quests in search of grails; to find saintly places lost to knowledge, or to take up hermit status in caves in the woods or the mountains.

The Holy realm of Logres was fading quickly and would soon become a legend that would inspire the hearts of many in the centuries and millennia to come.

Arthur, king, hero, knight of the round table, founder of Camelot, was to become the once and future king – if legends are to be trusted he will return at the time of England’s greatest need.

But, legends being what they are, he may never be seen by any, apart from in a few written documents and the many tales that were ignited by England’s need for a giant in history.

The legend is still growing, Camelot, Tintagel, Arthur’s Seat, Badon and Silbury Hills, Logres, Glastonbury, and the like have claimed his name throughout the centuries, and shall do so for many more.

Hic Jacet Arthurus. Here lies Arthur.

“Somewhere in Cornwall…”

“Somewhere in Cornwall…”

LWG Prompt for 02.07.2019

Somewhere in Cornwall; not a specific place; but, within the confines of the Tamar River, the English Channel, and the Atlantic Ocean; or, to be similarly imprecise, somewhere within the triangulation of Torpoint, Bude, Land’s End and back to Torpoint, to finish the scalene triangle – a distance of some… if not many… many miles, and an area of quite a few square, and even more triangular, miles.

Anyway, some might say, if they were that way inclined, ‘Anywhere in Cornwall’, as that is all that really matters; be it at any point along the almost three-hundred miles of coast (296.2 miles to be exact – at the last count), or inland, at one of the drier places; upon the moor; or stuck in a traffic jam upon the A30 or A38 on any Bank Holiday.

As long as you are within the previously mentioned boundaries, you are going to be okay.

As to ‘your’ particular choice of location, that would depend on your pre-existing favourites (for myself, Looe, the beautifully charming fishing town; Polperro – Porthpyra In Cornish, meaning Pyra’s Cove; The Minack Theatre, hewn from the rock by Rowena Cade; Tintagel – of Arthurian legend; or the like) and choosing one of them; or heading off for a different castle, out on the wiley, windy Moor of Bodmin, or one of the many other amazing places that Cornwall has to offer.

“That was an advertisement on behalf of the Cornish Tourist Board ‘Kernow a’gas dynergh!’ Welcome to Cornwall.”

However, somewhere in Cornwall, there is a place that only I know of.

And how is it that only I know of it?

Well, I shall tell you…

many years ago, I was wandering along a leafy lane, close to where I lived at that time, when I found an old stone cross at the side of the road. Not that unusual, you might think, Cornwall has numerous stone crosses; however, this ‘was’ unusual in that it had never been there before, yet it looked as if it had always been there.

Upon that cross were written the words – in Latin – that roughly translated as ‘One day in a million I shall appear, to show you the way, then I shall disappear.’ My Degree in Latin – although non-existent – has always been a help to me at those times when a roughly incorrect Latin translation is required.

Back to the message – ‘The way to what?’ you might ask. And, even if you don’t, I shall answer you thus, as if you had.

I don’t know. I was flummoxed and a little non-plussed, my nom-de-guerre had become all guerre-de-nom, if not with a little confusion added on the side.

I sought help – which is highly believable, if you know me – and found it in the shape of one Professor Tremaine Penholder – there not being two of him – a Cornish institution (such as the Cornish County Asylum at Bodmin) with a wealth of experience under his belt, and a pocket-knife, in his pocket.

He showed me his pocket-knife, but was rather blunt (as wqs his pocket-knife) about my lack of interest in it. Then he asked me what I knew about fourteenth century peasants – I admitted to knowing little, then after he questioned me upon what I knew, I admitted to knowing nothing apart from when they were likely to have been present in history – he was rather impressed with this and offered me his help with my Cornish Conundrum.

“Nine letters, you say?” he asked. I nodded.

“And we only have thirty seconds in which to decipher the hidden word?”

I nodded again.

“Okay!” he announced. “Let’s just do this!”

SFX Countdown Music

As the music started the strangely hidden word appeared and we stared at it.

Less than thirty seconds later we had it.

“GoonHavern!” We both shouted – we were wrong, GoonHavern has ten letters.

After a further week of due consideration we realised that the word wasn’t ‘Penzance’ or ‘Tintagel’ but ‘Merrymeet’.

[MEETMRRYE]

The riddle was solved.

Well, that one was.

We then turned back to our task of deciphering the meaning of the translated-into-English-Latin-message that we had received from the illusory cross.

Tremaine poured over some ancient texts – trying to see who was sending them to him; eventually, I persuaded him to put his phone away and get on with the job in hand.

We soon (also, eventually) realised that somewhere in Cornwall there was also a Brigadoon- type place that appeared once every two thousand, three hundred and eighty-seven years for the space of a day.

The cross was a marker. And we had missed the date of the appearance of Trebrigadoon.

“Oh, well, maybe next time.” said Tremaine calmly. “I shall put the date in my diary.”

So, somewhere in Cornwall, in two-thousand, three hundred and eighty-seven years time…

For / Four / Fore is the prompt for: #SoCS @LindaGHill

For / Four / Fore is the prompt for:

#SoCS @LindaGHill

See here for Linda’s blog – G:)

Fore Street was busy – for a Saturday – and all the funny footfallers, as I called them, were searching for a bargain. Four ladies individually saw it, in the window of Barnecutt’s, and collectively swarmed into the shop to become the proud owner.

Four pairs of hands grabbed it and it would have needed a photo-finish for anybody to declare a winner. Unfortunately, once clasped by four times ten fingers (including thumbs as fingers – as you must do nowadays) the prize became a battle for ownership. The outcome was foretold by an ancient goddess as ‘the one who keeps a hold when all the others have relinquished their claim shall be the victor’.

And so the battle for the spoils commenced – the rest of Fore Street focussed on Barnecutt’s and the four combatants. First, and foremost, to crumble was a Mrs. Fortuna Fumble who lost a single hand hold and slipped on the tiled floor, incidentally catching herself on the Formica work surface, and her claim was lost.

The trio left fought tooth and nail for the cup of wonder; Fortitude Trennewick had the upper hand; Felicity Forsyth the lower; Fenella Fudge the Fourth was betwixt and between them.

It was at this moment that Fenella Fudge the Fourth’s estranged (and strange) husband arrived upon the scene and Fenella’s fortitude left her, and she left the competition for better or for worse (as it was to be her case).

Felicity and Fortitude fought further.

The force used to retain their handholds on the trophy of tempestuous was fierce and no forgone conclusion. First Felicity, then Fortitude seemed to have the upper hand…

Until, finally, by a forefinger and a thumb the hard fought Battle of Fore Street (as it came to be known) was over.

Fortitude had claimed the day. She held aloft the last (and, now, very much reduced) cream horn of plenty in the shop.

It didn’t look much, all forlorn as it was.

The New Jacobite Revolution.

The New Jacobite Revolution.

A man stopped me in the street this morning and asked me if I’d like to be a Stuart; ‘well.’ I said, ‘I’m quite happy being a Graeme.’

‘No!’ he said. ‘I meant a steward!’

‘Oh!’ I said. ‘I understand now, not a Stuart; you don’t want me to take part in the new Jacobite revolution – do you?’ I asked hopefully