My tiny tent and I are in Yorkshire right now – camp sites don’t come much better than this
I should have posted a story yesterday but it was my birthday and Rosey’s too so I was otherwise engaged! Better late than never.
My phone rang. It was my friend Rosey, again!
‘I’ve got a ghost’ she panted.
‘You don’t need another pet’ I said, ‘you’ve already got two cats!’
‘It’s not funny,’ she whimpered.
‘Is it a friendly ghost?’ I asked.
‘No. It yanked the wire from its hole in my computer, and it stopped working’.
‘Plug it back in then’ I said.
‘You’re missing the point, I’ve… got… a… ghost!’
‘What’s it look like?’ I asked.
‘It’s invisible, duh’ she huffed. `Oh, hang on, the wire’s hooked around my chair leg, it may have pulled out when I did a bum-wiggle’.
‘So there’s no ghost?’
‘Probably not, bye’
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and Dale Rogerson for the picture.
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for Sunday Photo Fiction which is hosted by Donna McNicol
Try as you might sir, we are not fooled by your guise. ‘Tis you, as certain as ’tis day. For ‘twas you that laid the straw, that strewed the combustive liquid. You that set the fire this Spring past, was it not, sir? Was…it…not?
Poor Ned still bears the scars of that dreadful day. Though smitten by your jagged rock then gagged and bound, he writhed free. Champion though he be, he had not the means to quench the gambolling flames that cruelly robbed him of his dwelling place, his wife, and his beloved offspring.
You imagined we would not discern you, sir, did you not? How wrong could you have been? For you, despicable sir, the nethermost depths of your repugnant basket are reached. ‘Tis I who will strike the final blow, sir, ’tis I.
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This week’s photo…
for Foto Flash Fiction which is hosted by Donna B McNicol
“You are such a pessimist Brian,” said John, “ ‘We’re doomed, we’re doomed’ is all you say!”
A crowd of us were sitting around, drinks in hand, wondering what, if anything, would happen in a few minutes time. There had been a lot of speculation in the media about this, that and the other. Landlord Ted had kept the pub open later than usual in readiness for the big event.
“If’s Brian’s right, there’s no way I’ll get into trouble for serving drinks after-hours!” he chuckled “We won’t be here!”
“You can laugh,” said Brian, jumping to his feet. “The government hasn’t prepared us for what’s about to happen. Where are the soldiers, where are the peace-keeping forces, what about emergency supplies?”
He thumped the table sending John’s tankard of beer flying to the floor. “There’ll be riots and worse, mark my words”.
“There will be if you don’t get me another pint” shouted John.
“Calm down guys” pleaded Ted. He handed out a few candles, just in case, and switched on the television he’d placed on the bartop.
“You did back up your computer didn’t you?” asked Brian. “You know it’s going down soon don’t you?”
“Yes, Brian, I did, now don’t you worry”.
The TV was broadcasting a firework display. Music boomed, people were seen dancing, singing.
“Look at them, just look!” shouted Brian. “Idiots, all of them”.
“Shoosh,” said Ted, “It’s the countdown”.
Everyone but Brian raised their glasses.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…”
Brian covered his eyes.
“Four, three, two…”
Brian shouted “NO!”
The lights stayed on, so did the television, so did the computer. The world hadn’t ended!
“Welcome to the year two thousand” yelled Ted. “The drinks are on me. Brian mate, you look like you need one!”
Photo Source: https://morguefile.com/p/984414
In the middle of a fast-flowing river sat a little island. Often we’d hold hands, leap into the water and battle with the current as we swam to it. Doing foolish things is part of growing up, isn’t it?
One day she made a flag. We used a broken branch for a pole and claimed the island for ourselves.
The river was a torrent that day. I said no way. Coward, she said as she dived in, the last thing she ever said.
A year later I returned. The flag was still there. I surrounded it with a heart of stones. I’ve not been back since.
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle and J Hardy Carroll provided this week’s photo.
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Thanks so much, Donna McNicol for taking on our weekly challenge.
“Councillors, it’s my great pleasure to introduce you to our new Chair of Highways, Harold Bolton”.
His predecessor, Jackson Smythe had suddenly and unexpectedly left the post. He’d not been seen since. Not by his family, nor the Police.
It was just another day at the office until Bolton’s secretary rushed in.
“There’s an emergency in Park Street, an enormous hole’s appeared. The road’s closed and we need your authorisation to start repairs”.
“It’s just a backstreet”, said Bolton looking somewhat concerned. “We’ll do as little as necessary to level the surface”.
Within hours, work started. A rumbling digger clawed at the road whilst workmen bustled around with shovels and pickaxes.
From a distant bench in the park a man in a hooded anorak, supposedly reading a newspaper, looked on. Councillor Bolton.
“Stop, stop!” yelled the foreman frantically waving his arms. The machine fell silent as the men dropped their tools and gathered around the crater.
“Call the police, NOW!”
Harold Bolton broke into a sweat and began shaking uncontrollably. He stood, then staggered away.
‘Body of Jackson Smythe found buried beneath road’ said the headline in the local paper. ‘Chair of Highways Harold Bolton has yet to comment’.
This weeks picture is Pexels from Pixabay
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‘He’s put on weight’.
‘It’s all that beer he gets through’.
‘Yea, he comes here every day and never has a meal, just pints and pints of beer’.
‘Well, he says that beer is a food’.
‘What? Beer, a food?’
‘Yes. He says if eating makes you fat and beer makes you fat, then it must be’.
‘So he lives on a diet of beer?’
`If he carries on like that he’ll beer today and gone tomorrow!’
‘I see what you did there!’
‘Another pint then?
Our host is Donna B McNicol and the picture is courtesy of Wendy G.
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My friend Rosey and I went to London to see our thespian mate Gascoigne in his latest Shakespearian role.
The curtains swept back, and there he was, poised to deliver a scene-setting soliloquy. Rosey decided to offer encouragement by yelling “Cock a leg Gaza”. Everyone turned and stared.
“What’s wrong?” she mouthed.
“You shouldn’t shout and anyway, the phrase starts ‘break’ not ‘cock!’” I whispered which started her giggling.
Unfortunately, the play was rather boring. I kept yawning and Rosey nodded off, but at the end, the audience applauded – except Rosey who stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled!
I can’t take her anywhere!
There are loads more stories about My Friend Rosey HERE
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle and Ted Strutz provided the photo.
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“We’ll have a bottle of Chianti, that’s twelve,” said Howard indicating his choice on the wine list.
“With respect sir, Chianti is six. Number twelve is Liebfraumilch”
“Liebfraumilch is twenty-five my man” bellowed Howard.
The wine waiter appeared somewhat confused.
“Excuse my colleague,” said George. “We are celebrating Howard becoming this year’s Scrabble champion. Chianti scores twelve points!”
“Ah, now I understand sir. How about Oxyphenbutazone?” asked the wine waiter.
“What kind of wine is that?” asked Howard.
“No sir, the medication known as oxyphenbutazone is the highest scoring Scrabble word and it garners 1778 points”
With that, he shuffled off with a superior look on his face. The customarily lucid Howard was momentarily speechless!
The sommelier returned, a straw-clad bottle cradled in his white-gloved hands.
”Three four one one one one one sir,” he said pouring some Chianti into Howard’s glass.
For the penultimate time, Sunday Photo Fiction is being hosted by Susan Spaulding. Padre of Padre’s Ramblings provided the picture.
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