Keith's Ramblings

for Friday Fictioneers

.

‘

.

Michelle was a conchologist. That’s a shell collector by the way! 

She was also a concholojest, known for telling awful puns.… 

‘Why do mermaids wear seashells? Because B shells are too small’.

‘What do clams do on their birthday? They shellabrate’.

When she told me she’d joined a gym, I said was good for her mussels, you should have heard her laugh!

        

I’m sure she’d like to know we still laugh with her. Having a shellfish allergy, she should have known better than to eat that scallop.  Such a shame, for in her own words, the world was her oyster.

.

.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and for providing us with one of her lovely pieces of art as inspiration.

Click Froggie to join in the fun!

for Wordless Wednesday and bloghops various!

.

I live in the centre of my town and I’m surrounded by places to eat and drink. I took a walk around the block and snapped just some of the places I that have to choose from!

Click on the pics to enlarge

.

‘

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

And there’s nothing there you fancy, in the UK you are never far from a …

‘

Add your link to join in the fun!

for The Sunday Muse

.

.

 

I don’t know why I agreed to this. Apparently, all I had to do was bend my knees, address the ball, swing the thing, and watch it fly. Easier said than done, I can tell you.

‘Four’ they keep shouting, I’ve not even managed a five! I’ve lost a  bucket load of balls, and they are flippin’ expensive. What with that and the entry fee, I shelled out a small fortune. 

Okay, that last hit really was a disaster. But the stupid pigeon should have known better than to fly in front of me just as I was brandishing my bat or stick whatever it’s called. 

Mind you, the scattering of feathers down the fairway did make for quite a pretty sight! Amazingly, the poor creature did manage to continue its journey albeit in a somewhat drunken manner.

That’s it, I’ve had enough. I’m going for a well-earned rest in what golfies call the ‘nineteenth hole’. Nineteenth hole? I ask you! It’s just a friggin’ bar for goodness sake and an expensive one at that. Whatever next?

No, it’s darts and snookering for me from now on. Proper sport!

Note: No pigeons were harmed in the making of this yarn.



for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Dazzling.

.

.

.

She wandered ‘cross the meadow. Butterflies danced, birds whistled, dazzling crystals leapt from a tumbling waterfall.

“Reach for the sun, cast aside the clouds’ an unseen voice murmured. 

Warm sunrays caressed her palms.

“Reach far, and you’ll discover paradise”.

Then she tripped, landing in a smelly cow pat.

“Whoops,” the unseen voice chuckled.

.

.

for Six Sentence Stories where the given word is Space.

‘

.

There was never a space, not in his diary, not in his life, not in his heart but look at him now, over there at table fourteen staring mindlessly at an upturned menu, just him and a few empty chairs. 

It came as quite a surprise when he told us she’d gone, a silly argument that had got out of hand he said, she’s gone away he said, never to return, it made no sense.

Yes, she was meeting another man, one of his friends but no, not for that, they were planning a party for his special birthday, and yes, they whispered, exchanged knowing glances, the occasional wink of an eye, but like I said, not for that. 

When he confronted her, she said he’d spoiled the surprise but he didn’t believe her explanation, and the next surprise was hers.

*

She loved the vegetable plot at the bottom of the garden, she’d just cleared a space for growing beans, so a few days later he filled the space for her, but not with seeds.

He won’t say where she’s gone, ‘probably buried her in the vegetable plot’ someone said in jest, how we laughed!

.

.

Thanks to Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge for hosting.

 

for Friday Fictioneers

.

.

.

Why do people do it? 

I really don’t know, it’s so disrespectful.

Just look, someone’s left a plastic spoon on the ground.

Disgraceful, and over there, a cigarette end!

Shame on them. There’s even a bottle cap down there, unbelievable.

This table needs a bit of a clean too, look, some crumbs and there’s a coffee stain.

We’ve been here ages, where’s the waiter?

Doing his job, keeping us waiting!

Oh, very funny!

Are you sure this place is open?

Not sure.

Starbucks instead?

The local one’s a bit scruffy but at least we’ll get a coffee.

Come on then.

 

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and to Roger Bultot for the photo.

 

Click a Froggie to join in the fun!

 

for Wordless Wednesday and Bloghops various

‘

These are just a few of the sunsets I’ve witnessed on my travels.

 

The River Nile, Egypt.

‘

Lima, Peru.

.

The Zambezi River, South Africa.

.

Lake Fewa, Pokhara, Nepal.

‘

Kerala, India.

.

Fort Kochi, India.

‘

Loch Lomond, Scotland

‘

Closer to home now, Eastbourne pier before the devastating fire.

F.

Five miles from me at Pevensey Castle!

.

…and finally one I took from my window!

.

Add your link to join in the fun!

for The Sunday Muse

 

‘

ou’ve got no friends’ my father said. ‘You need a proper job’. There was no point in arguing. But my fingers were my tools, ivory keys my colleagues and composers my friends. As a pianist I earned little, but it paid the bills.

I cannot describe the feeling I had whilst sitting at my piano upon a stage, notes flying, gliding, hovering, diving. My audience flew with me. They smiled; sometimes they wept. I wept. Such is the power of music.

I played in smoky jazz bars too, a tot of whisky and a cigarette to hand. It was so different. There, my music competed with chattering crowds. I played loudly they spoke loudly; in quiet pieces, they murmured. I stopped and they stopped! But I loved it.

Time took its toll on my overworked hands. I play little now. My piano sits ‘neath a dusty cover in the corner of my room. I occasionally play for old folk and sometimes stand in for the organist at my church. But music remains my constant companion, though now I consume rather than create. It will never desert me, never.

‘

 

 Khatia Buniatishvili at the piano.

Thanks to Carrie for being our host.

.

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt where the given word is Sibilance and the limit, 28 words.

.

.

She sells seashells on the sea shore.

Who does?

Shirley Shelley

Are you sure?

Yesh, I mean yes.

Who are you?

The nam’sh Bond, Jamesh… 

Shut up!

.

For Six Sentence Stories where the given word is Path

‘

.

Crouching in a deep hollow with a perfect view of the path, the atmosphere was tense and their nerves were on edge for soon their foe would be approaching.

Their arsenal of carefully picked weapons was close to hand and after days of practice and preparation, they were ready for anything, breathe deeply lads, breathe deeply.

The attack came suddenly, the enemy charging towards them, bombarding them with missiles. 

A shower of soggy sprouts and squidgy squash was followed by a riot of rotten cabbage cannonballs.

They retaliated with a cascade of stale cupcakes and a barrage of mouldy bread rolls, but things did not go their way and twenty minutes later they emerged from the ditch defeated, hands held high.

Their punishment was to clean up the battlefield and return the spent weapons to the garbage bins behind the supermarket from whence they came.

.

Thanks to Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge for hosting